‘I just left him,’ Rint said. ‘There was no one about — he was alone up here. I swear it.’
‘She’s there!’ Feren cried, pointing with her sword. ‘I see her!’
‘There is nothing there,’ Ville said in a growl. ‘No woman, at least. Feren-’
‘Azathanai! Witch, come down and meet my sword! You so liked my blood — give me some of yours!’ Feren marched up to the tree and swung her sword at the tree’s gnarled bole. The edge rebounded with a metallic shout and the blade was a flash of dull silver flying out from Feren’s hand. The weapon spun past Rint and then landed, burying its point in the earth — where Raskan’s head would have been had it remained. Feren staggered back as if she had been the one struck, and Rint moved to take her in his arms.
She thrashed in his grip, glaring up at the tree. ‘Murderer! Olar Ethil, hear me! I curse you! In the name of an innocent man, I curse you! By the blood you took from me, I curse you!’
Rint dragged her back. He shot a glare at Ville and Galak. ‘Wrap up the body and throw it on the horse! We need to leave!’
The woman in his arms fought savagely, her nails raking deep gashes across his forearms. All at once he remembered a child, thrashing in blind fury, and how he had to hold her until her rage was spent in exhaustion. She’d clawed him. She’d bitten him. She’d been terrible in righteousness. A cry broke from his throat, filled with anguish at all that was lost, and for all that never changed.
His cry stilled her sudden as a breath, and then she was twisting round in his arms and embracing him, and now it was her strength that he felt, and his weakness that he gave in return.
‘But where’s the head?’ Ville shouted, half panicked.
‘It’s gone!’ Feren snapped.
Brother and sister held each other tight, and all at once Rint knew that they were doomed, that their lives were now wrapped round this moment, this wretched hill and these haunted trees — the headless body of an innocent man. Awaiting them he saw only blood and murder, cascading down like rain. He saw fires and could taste the bite of smoke in his throat.
He heard Ville and Galak carrying the body to the horse, and then Ville cursed when he saw that the mount had yet to be saddled. ‘Set him down! Set him down, Galak!’
Feren pulled herself free. Rint stood, arms hanging as if life had been torn from his embrace, and now only empty death remained, watching dully as his sister stumbled over to her sword. She tugged it free and sheathed it, every motion febrile, moving like a woman who knew eyes were fixed upon her — but in chilling hunger, not admiration. His chest ached to see her this way again.
When she had found her husband — his body and his useless, pathetic escape from the hardships of grief — when that man had simply left her alone and with staring eyes and open mouth shouted out his cowardice in a voice that never came and would never come again — she had moved as she did now, busying herself with tasks, with necessities.
He felt tears filling the beard on his cheeks.
Something sailed down from the tree’s black canopy and thumped on the ground almost at Rint’s feet. He looked down to see a clay figurine, slick with fresh blood. And from the impenetrable tangle overhead he heard a soft laugh.
Rint straightened. Ville and Galak had saddled the mount and were heaving the corpse over it. They took up leather strings to tie Raskan’s hands to his feet, one man to either side of the animal as they passed the string ends under the horse’s belly. They tied the strings to the laces from the moccasins — Lord Draconus’s own — and cinched tight the knots.
Rint stared at the heels, at how the thick hide was unevenly worn. Just like his boots.
‘Feren,’ he said, ‘lead them down the hill.’
‘Rint?’
‘Take them, sister. I won’t be long.’
But she drew close, her eyes wide with fear. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Something meaningless.’
Whatever she saw in his face seemed to answer her needs and after a moment she turned away, hurrying back to her horse.
Rint went to his own horse and rummaged in the saddle bags. As his friends mounted up and rode away, Ville leading Raskan’s horse with its lifeless burden, Rint drew out a flask of oil. They would have dry whetstones for the rest of this journey and would have to be mindful of rust and dulled edges, but there was nothing to be done about it.
He walked up to the tree, collecting wood, grasses and dried leaves along the way.
‘I know,’ he said as he built up the tinder round the base of the tree. ‘I know I but send you back into the flames. And in fire there is doubtless no pain for one such as you.’ He splashed oil against the bole of the tree, emptied the flask. ‘Unless… the desire behind the fire has power. I think it does. I think that is why a raider’s firing a house is a crime, an affront. Burning to death — malicious hands touching the flame to life — I think this has meaning. I think it stains the fire itself.’