stopped him,’ Vesna said firmly. ‘His mind was made up.’
‘What if I helped him make it? What if he made those choices ’cos of advice I gave him?’ There was a waver to Carel’s voice that betrayed the guilt hanging over him like a leaden cloud.
‘When did you ever know him to do anything but what he wanted?’
The old man looked down. ‘I told him to face what he feared — an’ if he feared anythin’, it were those dreams of death. He knew they weren’t just dreams.’
‘Carel, he wanted to strike at his enemies before they were ready, he wanted to take his destiny in his own hands and not let others dictate to him. The only fault to bear is mine and Lahk’s, for not seeing how the battle was going to unfold.’
‘Then maybe I blame you too!’ Carel roared suddenly, his voice loud enough in the enclosed space to stop the smiths mid-stroke. ‘You left that field greater than you were, as blessed by the Gods as he once was! Isak was barely grown, for all his size, alive for fewer years than you been a professional soldier. Aye, he were a wilful shit at times, but he always wanted to be more than the colour o’ his eyes. He trusted us to keep him so!’
He turned away, staring into the wincing heat of the furnace, and Vesna could see Carel’s whole body shaking. The only sound was the scrape of steel on the anvil’s surface.
‘We failed him,’ the veteran continued in a much quieter voice. ‘We din’t stand in his way when he needed us. His blood’s on our hands.’
Carel looked at his palm as though looking for blood, and seemed to notice for the first time how hard his hand was shaking.
‘Leave me be, Vesna,’ he muttered, ‘I got work to do here an’ I can’t do it like this. Go find your bride. She needs you, not me.’
Karkarn’s Iron General stared at the ageing Ghost and felt the words dry in his throat. It was nothing he’d not said to himself on the long journey home, but to hear it from the mouth of another was completely different. To hear it from someone who’d loved Isak so deeply cut through his armour like a burning shard of light, scorching the hardened soldier’s heart with frightening ease.
He felt himself stumble as he retreated, the weight on his shoulders even heavier now, hot shame gripping him as he fled outside. Only then could he breathe again, but it did nothing to ease the guilt rekindled inside him.
Mihn stopped in the woods and looked around. The gentle clatter of rain on leaves surrounded him, drowning other sounds — but for a moment he thought he had heard something, a faint noise ... something out of place that set his palms prickling. After a while he realised he was holding his breath and relaxed, a wry smile on his face.
‘I’m getting jumpy in my old age,’ he muttered, starting off down the rabbit-run again. Hanging from his belt was a young hen pheasant, the fruit of a good morning’s hunting. It felt good to be fending for himself again, brushing the dust off skills he hadn’t used in a while and becoming less dependent on the locals.
What little silver he had brought with him had been enough to buy fowl for egg-laying. The witch appropriated half of everything he trapped as payment for the food she brought — just as well, now rumours of the ragged man had spread throughout Llehden. Few would come near the lake now.
Mihn wound his slow way back to the lake, checking each of his snares as he went. As he came out from the trees he saw Isak standing at the shore, staring over the water, Eolis drawn and by his side. He wore a long patchwork fur cloak the witch had brought, old and ragged enough to frighten Chera if she ever returned, but still serviceable.
The white-eye stooped badly, his left shoulder dipping as though the lightning-scarred arm was a lead weight, and his head was permanently hunched forward. The damage done to him in Ghenna had turned him old before his time: as old as the hollow look in his eyes.
Mihn hurried over, but he saw nothing at Isak’s feet, nor any blood on his blade. The sky had remained dull all day, though the rain had lessened to a desultory smattering. ‘Isak? Is all well?’ he asked anxiously.