The animation in the face, the definite movements when he used his hands, and the way he stroked the top of his head and on down the back of his skull to his neck, as if smoothing out a crease. It was all there. Where Sol had been now sat The Unknown. No mask, no emotionless eyes, no double-bladed axe.
‘By all the Gods, it is you.’ His voice cracked and a tear was in his eye. He wiped it away as he strode forwards. The Unknown walked around the table and the two men met and hugged, Hirad clapping the big man’s back. ‘How do you feel?’
The Unknown stepped back. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I know it’s me.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew it before . . . you recognised me. When I was Sol. But I couldn’t speak to you. Something inside me forbade me recognise you in return, though my eyes gave me away. Hirad, I should be dead.’
‘But you’re not and I don’t care how. It’s you. Gods, it’s you!’
‘Would you say the same if you returned to Septern’s barn?’
‘I—’ Hirad paused, confused. ‘Yes, why not?’
‘Because I’m still beneath the soil too. Where’s Denser?’ The Unknown looked past him.
‘Outside,’ said Hirad vaguely. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I should see to him.’ He walked away from Hirad, who made to follow.
‘Leave him,’ said Ilkar. ‘Come and have a drink and something to eat. You must be starving.’
Hirad watched The Unknown until he’d left the Marquee. ‘And knackered,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’ He walked to the table. Ilkar poured him a goblet of wine and pushed platters of meat and bread in his direction.
‘Sit down,’ said Ilkar. ‘You’ve got to understand how difficult this is for him to accept.’
Hirad stared at him, plainly not understanding at all.
‘Look, Hirad, to us it’s just the same Unknown. The way he looks, acts, talks, everything. The scars on his back and thigh are there, that lump on his knee, and his little toe is missing. It is him, in every way - his soul is there, his mind is there, his memories, all of it. But he has a knowledge none of us can conceive of having. He knows he can go and physically dig up his own corpse. Think about it.’
Hirad did so but briefly. ‘So what does it mean, and why is he so bothered about Denser?’
‘Right now, I think he’s in a state of total confusion. Erienne will agree with me that not everything he says makes much sense.’ Erienne nodded. ‘And so he’s suppressing what he can’t handle and that manifests itself in his desire to protect Denser. Don’t forget what he was just yesterday, Hirad. He certainly hasn’t. He may never be able to. The fact is, we just don’t know.’
‘So is it him?’ asked Hirad.
‘Yes. Gods, yes.’ Ilkar leant forwards. ‘But he’s got some unique problems only he can sort out. You’ll have to give him time.’
‘I knew it was too good to be true.’
‘Hirad, calm down. He thought he was dead, awoke as a Protector and then again as himself. Give him time.’ Ilkar held Hirad’s stare, seeing the disappointment reflected there. ‘All right?’ Hirad twitched his head in what Ilkar decided was the closest to a nod he was likely to get. ‘Good. Now eat. We’ve much to discuss after you’ve rested.’
Selyn awoke to the sound of shouts all around her. Startled alert, she lay flat, listening. Dawn had risen perhaps an hour before, not long enough for her reserves of mana stamina, but it gave her some ammunition.
A search was in progress, and with the accents and language she could hear, Wesmen were trawling the streets of Parve. Presumably they had found the body of the Shaman. Selyn frowned and took the cover from her eyes, opening them gently as they watered in response to sudden light.
She considered herself a little unlucky that the dead man had been found quite so soon. Judging by the organisation she could hear about her, the body had been located well before dawn.
Staying prone, she inched her way to the parapet, ears pricking as each gave her more information about the scale of the search. Below her, she knew, there was no one. Behind and towards the square, the shouts were loud and regular, the thuds of doors, the splinter of wood, the clearing of buildings. Very methodical, very. Particularly for Wesmen. Only it wasn’t just Wesmen, it was Wytch Lord acolytes, and one thing they were was efficient.
She formed the mana shape for a CloakedWalk, spoke the command word, dropped to the ground and moved back towards the Torn Wastes. She walked quickly but carefully past the last building; there was no pursuit. Breasting a large pile of rubble, her heart missed a beat and she slowed to a crawl. The eastern periphery of Parve was ringed with Wesmen, shoulder to shoulder. She turned and ran back into the City.
Just inside the borders of the buildings, she saw the line. Wesmen and Shamen on every street, covering the cobbles, walking, looking, searching. Inside and out of buildings, basements and roofs. She was in a net, the mesh was fine and the strings were drawing tight.
She trotted left, towards the main street, keeping an eye to her right, watching the Wesmen advancing, just two blocks away and closing. As she neared, the main street was filled with a line of Wesmen, a Shaman in their midst. They knew she was here, they realised she’d likely be invisible and they could sense her mana emanations.
Fear edged into her mind, the tendrils of doubt chipping at her confidence. And Styliann had been so proud of her the night before, talking of her triumphal return to Xetesk, the part she would play in the victory to come, and the place at his side for ever. Her heart surged. She about-turned, never coming to a standstill, and walked quickly back. She was in an area three blocks by two and shrinking, and it seemed the Wesmen had all the ways out covered.
All except one. She looked into the sky. A thousand feet up she would be swallowed by the cloud and lost to sight. Not ideal, but the only option would always be the best one. Moving quickly now, Selyn scanned the rooftops for a launch point, finding it on a building close to the edge of the City.
She climbed the wall of the flat building and ran to the chimney stack at the Parve end, the Wesmen less than one hundred yards from her. Across the street, half a dozen Wesmen clambered on to a roof and spread themselves, arms outstretched. For a moment, she wondered whether she might try to dodge through the thin barrier when they reached her roof. But then she saw the Shaman climb up behind them. It had to be now.
Pressing herself against the lee of the chimneys, she dropped the CloakedWalk and began to prepare the mana shape for ShadowWings. Almost at once, a shout went up. She opened her eyes. She had been seen from the boundary, and men were running and pointing. She gathered her concentration and re-formed the mana shape. In seconds, it was done.
‘Deploy,’ she said. At her back, wings formed, shifting in the daylight and barely visible to the naked eye. She took a pace forwards and lifted off, moving quickly out and upwards towards the Wastes. Below her, commands were barked and projectiles whistled into the air. Nothing came close. She smiled. Not the way she wanted to get out, but good enough. She could almost smell the fire in Styliann’s tower.
Something slammed into her back, driving the wind from her and sending her tumbling downwards. She barely kept hold of the wings as she fought to right herself and regain lost height, but she felt weighted with lead. She glanced over her shoulder. A thin beam of white light connected her body to a Shaman. Below her, Wesmen were jeering and shouting, faces upturned, teeth bared.
She drove the wings harder, inching away, but a second blow, this time at the base of her neck, sent her crashing side first into a building. She hit the ground, dazed, the ShadowWings gone.
‘Damn.’ She shook her head, hearing delighted whoops and running feet. She struggled to rise, pushing her back up the wall, head throbbing but vision clearing. From the left and right they came, it seemed like hundreds of them. She drew the sword from her back-mounted scabbard and stood ready. One of them laughed, unhitching an axe. On a signal, the others dropped back a pace to give him room to fight alone.