Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

1. Exiles

THE SKULL STARED up at him with just one empty eye socket, the other having been shattered, along with much of the surrounding bone, the natural consequence of colliding with bare rock after a prolonged fall. Angling his head, Shamil couldn’t escape the sense that it was grinning at him, the oddly perfect half set of teeth gleaming as it caught the midday sun. He wondered if this unfortunate had actually laughed as they plummeted to their death, reflecting on the grim notion that, should the same fate befall him, he may also find some humour in it, or possibly just relief.

“I thought it might be a myth.”

Shamil tensed at the sound of an unexpected voice, one hand instinctively reaching for his quiver whilst the other unslung the strongbow from his shoulder. The man who had spoken was perched on a flat-topped boulder a dozen yards away, wrapped in a plain grey cloak that matched the surrounding rock. Shamil blamed this for his failure to spot him sooner, and the fact that the wind was at his back, sweeping away any betraying scent of sweat. Such excuses, he knew, would have availed him little in the Doctrinate, and this particular failure likely would have earned him at best a hard cuff to the head or at worst a full beating. But the Doctrinate was far away, and the fact that he was no longer bound by its strictures one of the few crumbs of comfort Shamil could cling to during his recent sojourn.

“The leap, I mean,” the man in grey said, gesturing to the half-shattered skeleton as he climbed down from his perch. He took a long gulp from a leather flask as he approached, his gait and posture lacking a threat. As he neared, Shamil saw that he was perhaps twice his own age, stocky of frame, and sparse of hair, his broad features showing several days’ worth of stubble. He bore no weapon, and his accoutrements consisted of just a leather satchel bulging with unseen contents and a small emerald pendant that hung around his neck on a copper chain.

The gem was small, but the slight glimmer of light within it provoked Shamil to step back and lower his bow, eyes averted in respect, something this unshaven grey-cloak seemed to find amusing.

“Your people still cling to the old servile ways, I see,” he said, voice rich with mirth. He took another drink from his flask, and Shamil’s nostrils caught the sting of strong liquor. The man’s eyes tracked over Shamil, taking in his hardy leather boots, the long-bladed dagger in his belt alongside his raptorile-tail whip, and the strongbow fashioned from ram’s horn and ash. “What are you? Strivante? No, skin’s too dark for that. Oskilna maybe?”

“Vilantre,” Shamil said, still not daring to look at the stranger’s face. “I bid you greeting, Master Mage . . .”

“Oh, don’t.” The mirth in the stocky man’s voice slipped into weary disdain as he waved his flask dismissively. “Just . . . don’t. Please.” He waited for Shamil to raise his gaze before extending his hand. “Rignar Banlufsson, late of . . . well, too many places to mention but most recently the Crucible Kingdom. Yourself?”

“Shamil L’Estalt.” He hesitated before grasping the proffered hand, finding it strong and the palm unexpectedly callused. This mage, it seemed, had not spent his days locked away in a tower poring over ancient texts. “Late of Anverest.”