he realised the agonised sob came from Isak. The white-eye’s huge bulk had risen to the surface too, and like Mihn he was gripping the side of the boat for all he was worth. His cries were shaking the entire boat.
‘What happened to Xeliath?’ demanded the witch of Llehden, standing in the prow of the boat, a rare look of concern on her face.
Mihn was summoning the strength to reply when he saw Xeliath slumped in the bottom of the boat, still and apparently unbreathing.
‘How — ?’ he began, as Xeliath gave a sudden, violent jerk, but his immense relief was short-lived as the girl lifted her shoulders and coughed up gouts of blood over her stomach. She started to convulse and her eyes opened, reflecting not victory but agony.
He threw himself into the boat to hold her, but she twisted out of his grip and screamed in pain before vomiting more blood.
‘Mihn, see to Isak,’ the witch commanded, though there was little he could do for the white-eye, who remained clinging to the side of the boat with all his Gods-granted strength, keening piteously.
‘No!’ shouted the witch, who lifted the girl’s head as Xeliath’s struggles lessened. She held Xeliath close and began to mutter an invocation, but as far as Mihn could see the only effect she was having was to make the blood flow faster.
Xeliath twisted her head towards Isak and at last she seemed to focus, the pain receding in her eyes for a moment. Her damaged features twisted into a small smile.
‘Free,’ she whispered, almost too feebly for Mihn to hear. She coughed again and the smile vanished, followed a moment later by the bright spark in her white eyes,
‘Xeliath,’ the witch cried, but quietly now, the voice of mourning. Mihn felt a familiar presence suddenly descend, shrouding the boat to darken the night even further. Something hard clattered on the bottom of the boat and Mihn’s heart sank. The cold of the lake filled his bones as Mihn watched the Crystal Skull roll to a stop in front of him, freed at last from her grip.
CHAPTER 4
The biting wind gusted through Byora’s streets. The sky had been a uniform grey for days now, but there had been little more than a smattering of rain this morning and as midday approached Luerce decided it would stay dry and settled down for the day on the cobbled ground. The disciple of Azaer arranged a white blanket around his shoulders like a tent, keeping out the chilly air, and set to playing the mystic.
He didn’t mind; it was easy enough to sit there motionless all day, watching his flock, though he saw no reason to endure a soaking too. From all around him came the keening of the faithful. The cant of liturgy had devolved into meaningless sounds, but interspersed within the drone were new prayers that Luerce had instilled in the minds of the weakest. It was a modest start, but fear would provide fertile soil, especially with him there to tend it and a dragon’s shadow cast over the quarter.
Luerce looked around. The crowd had grown again today; hundreds were clustered around the gates to the Ruby Tower compound. Many were beggars but already there were others, lurking on the fringes, seeking something, though they did not yet realise that. He saw grief in their eyes, and loneliness. Some were consumed by petty hatreds or avarice, and Luerce took especial note of those: the bullies and the cowards, those with a lifetime of identifying the vulnerable, they’d be ideal to swell the ranks of Ruhen’s preachers.
Luerce occupied an honoured position within the crowd of devotees, and even the newcomers could see he was special. Most of the disciples sat in tight circles of five or six, with Luerce alone in the middle of them all, with his back against the compound wall. From there the Litse could survey his small kingdom: the desperate and the mad, all huddled pathetically in the shadow of the Ruby Tower where Ruhen lived, hoping for salvation from the Circle City’s latest terror.
On Luerce’s left a craftsman, still wearing his tool-belt, approached the wall, a reverent look on his face. He picked his way carefully past the mumbling, white-swathed bundles, hunched over as though apologetic about being upright while everyone else was sitting. The man sank to his knees as soon as he was within reach of the wall and looked up at the fluttering strips of prayer-inscribed cloth adorning it.