Abruptly the Lonak reached for his weapons and rose to his feet, fixing Vaelin with a hostile glare. “We’ve talked long enough, Merim Her. I’ll soil myself no longer with your company.”

“Vaelin Al Sorna,” Vaelin said.

The Lonak squinted at him suspiciously. “What?”

“My name. Do you have one?”

The Lonak regarded him in silence for a long time, the hostility fading from his gaze. Eventually he shook his head. “That is not your name.”

Then he was gone, into the blackness beyond the fire without a sound.

The tower must have stood over two hundred feet high and Vaelin could only imagine how impressive it once looked; an arrow of red marble and grey granite pointing straight to the heavens. Now it was a broken and cracked road of weed dotted rock leading him to the heart of the fallen city. Looking closer he noticed the rubble was adorned with fine relief carvings showing a myriad collection of beasts and frolicking naked humans. The stone friezes which decorated the older buildings of the capital were all martial in character, warriors fighting forgotten battles with archaic weaponry. But there were no battles here, the carvings seemed joyous, often carnal, but never violent.

The morning sun had dawned behind a thick layer of cloud bringing flurries of snow driven by a stiff wind he knew would only gain in strength as the day wore on. He closed his cloak against the chill and urged Spit onwards. Although less fractious than usual there was a tension in the animal he hadn’t sensed before, his eyes were wide and he nickered nervously at the slightest sound. It was the city, he knew. The Lonak and Brother Artin hadn’t exaggerated the oppression in the air. It thickened as he drew closer to the jagged outline of the ruins ahead, a dull ache building at the base of his skull. The blood-song was different too, less constant in its tone, more urgent in its warning.

He began to guide Spit towards a central archway near to where the fallen tower appeared to have had its base. They had only gone a few paces when Spit began to tremble, his eyes widening further, rearing and casting his head about in alarm.

“Easy!” Vaelin tried to calm him with a soft stroke to the neck but the horse was uncontrollable with fear, giving a shrill whinny and tipping Vaelin from his back with a sudden lurch then thundering away before Vaelin could grab at the reins.

“Come back you bloody nag!” he raged. The only answer was the distant drum of hooves. “Should’ve cut his throat years ago,” Vaelin muttered.

“Don’t move, brother.”

Nortah stood beneath the part collapsed archway. His blond hair was longer, reaching nearly to his shoulders, and the beginnings of a youthful beard showed on his chin. Instead of his brother’s garb he wore a set of buckskin trews and a leather jerkin. Apart from the hunting knife in his belt he was unarmed. Vaelin had expected defiance, plus a modicum of the usual scorn and mockery, so was surprised that Nortah’s expression was one of grave concern.

“Brother,” he addressed Nortah formally, “Aspect Arlyn commands your immediate return…”

Nortah barely seemed to hear him, edging closer with his hands raised, and Vaelin noticed how his eyes kept flicking to the side, focusing on something to the rear…

Vealin whirled, his sword coming free from the scabbard in a blur.

“DON’T!” Nortah’s shout coming too late as something large and immensely strong slammed into Vaelin’s side, the force of the charge jarring his sword from his grip and sending him into the air to land a good ten feet away, his breath forced from his lungs by the impact.

He scrabbled for the dagger in his boot, dragging air into his lungs and trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest which told of at least one broken rib. He pushed himself upright, shouting with pain, and promptly fell again as a wave of nausea blurred his vision and tipped the ground beneath his feet. More than just a broken rib. He struggled, waving his dagger wildly, trying to rise and finding Nortah standing over him. Vaelin drew back expecting an attack, reversing his hold on the dagger to parry a thrust…

Nortah had his back to him, standing with his hands raised above his head, waving frantically. “NO! No! Leave him!”

There was a sound, like a snarl mixed with a growl. But it was not a sound any dog would ever make.

Vaelin had seen wild cats in the Urlish and the Martishe but the beast that confronted him now was so different in size and shape he almost concluded it was from another species altogether. It stood over four feet tall at the shoulder, its lean, powerful frame covered in snow white fur shot through with dark black stripes. Massive paws scraped at the ground with claws more than two inches long, and its eyes, bright green and shining out from the complex striped mask of its face, seemed to glow with malevolent intent. Meeting his gaze it hissed, bearing fangs like ivory daggers.

“NO!” Nortah yelled, placing himself between the cat and Vaelin. “No!”

The cat snarled again, raising a paw to slash the air in annoyance then shifted to the left, seeking to edge past Nortah. Vaelin was amazed. Does it fear him?

A hand clap sounded, loud and sharp in the chilled mountain air. Vaelin tore his gaze from the snarling cat and saw a young woman standing a short distance away, a slender young woman with auburn hair and a familiar and very pretty oval face.

“Sella?” he said, wincing as a fresh wave of pain swept through him, his vision swimming. When it cleared he found her standing over him, smiling warmly, the cat was at her side now, nuzzling her leg as she played a hand through its fur. Behind her he could see other figures emerging from the ruins, dozens of people, young and old, men and women.

“Brother?” Nortah was kneeling next to him, his face pale with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“I…” Meeting Nortah’s gaze and seeing the worry in his eyes he felt a great swell of shame in his breast. I came here to kill you, my friend. What kind of man am I? “I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself upright and promptly passing out from the savage flare of agony in his chest.

Chapter 8

He was woken by voices, softly spoken but tense with conflict.

“…a danger to us all,” a man was whispering heatedly.

“No more than I,” answered a familiar voice.

“You are as much a fugitive as we are, brother. He is a member of an order that kills our kind.”

“This man is under my protection. No harm will come to him.”

“I’m not talking about harming him. There are other ways, we can keep him sleeping…”

“A bit late for that,” Vaelin said, opening his eyes.

He lay on a bed of furs in a large bare room, the walls and the ceiling richly decorated with faded paintings of animals and strange sea creatures he couldn’t name. The floor was covered in an elaborate mosaic showing a pear tree laden with fruit surrounded by unfamiliar symbols and intricate swirling patterns. Nortah stood near the door accompanied by a slightly built man with greying hair and wary eyes.

“Brother,” Nortah said with a smile. “You are well?”

Vaelin felt at his side, expecting to find it tender to the touch but there was no pain. Pulling down the furs he saw the livid bruise he expected was absent, his flesh smooth and unmarked. “It appears so. Thought that beast had broken a rib at least.”