The Fallen One (The Brothers of Destiny) Book Two

By J C Pereira

Forcefully dragged from the obscure wilderness where he was existing in isolation, hiding from the guilt of his past violent, vindictive actions, an unusual and gifted young man is plunged into the sophisticated schemes of an ambitious, powerful and unscrupulous ruler. He experiences love for the first time, heart-wrenching loss, betrayal, and the total rejection of mankind. He calls out for his talented, mystic brother, whom he knows will come without fail. But will he arrive in time to save him from his wild, dark and unpredictable nature? And who will help his brother as he struggles with his own troubled conscience? They are both beset by their own demons within and are laced with uncertainties as they strive to come to terms with their aggressive martial tendencies and to make sense of and fulfil their intertwined destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J C Pereira
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463485965

J C Pereira

With a long journey of years and distance behind him, the author decided to follow his heart. He turned his hand again to what he loved most and brought him solace and joy in his youth – books. With his son grown and a new family around him, he graduated from reading into writing – an unimaginable step. His first attempt was ‘A Place to Belong To’. He has just completed and published number nine, ‘Dying Under an Empty Blue Sky’, a dystopian novel about the last remnants of humanity hanging on after the fall due to the Climate Crisis. Have we learnt anything from our misguided priorities? Will we survive or fade away from a world that has already dismissed us? We live through the stories we create. Let’s hope we can learn from them. The future remains unwritten.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

They stood reviled, and they knew it. In truth, the reality of wholesale negative regard by all outsiders suited them and their spurious purposes perfectly. It justified them to operate in secrecy, to do things others were afraid to do or found unacceptable with which to dirty their hands. They saw themselves as middlemen, supplying the market with that which was in demand. No matter how respectable they thought themselves to be, men would always fall victim to their singular pleasures. The supplying of these sometimes questionable indulgencies was their business. No, more than that, it was their way of life.

The long line of bawdily painted covered wagons snaked slowly along the rutted, poorly kept road, cut like a scar along the steep flanks of a lush, mist-shrouded mountain range. The only sound heard was the steady, rolling crunch of the iron-clad wheels on gravel and the occasional snap of a rawhide whip as it cracked in the damp air over the nodding heads of the striving double-teamed horses and echoed up along the mountain slopes. The drivers' and guards' grim, watchful faces contrasted heavily with their brightly coloured choice of clothes, and all kept their hands hovering close to their easily reached weapons. No one else was in sight.

Winding upwards with the wagon wheels, sometimes passing mere inches away from a sheer drop to a crashing, foaming sea over a hundred meters below, they laboriously approached a remote border gateway, hewed out of the hard rock of a natural pass. Cut from these massive sentinel posts, two roughly fashioned carvings of guardian demons heaved themselves, snarling from the wet stone, hands held out ominously in a warning to stop. From the frigid mists, two dark-cloaked soldiers emerged and walked confidently up to the front wagon. The lead soldier with the red stripe of a sergeant on his chest lifted his chin. His gaze was direct as he addressed the driver and his ageing companion riding next to him on the wagon’s perch.

‘The travelling folk are no longer welcome beyond these gates. Our domain is at war, and since you and your kin pay no allegiance to any lord, your loyalty remains in question. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn your wagons as best you can and return the way you’ve come.’

There was no anger in the soldier’s voice, only a statement of fact.

The elder of the waggoneers, a grey-bearded, patriarchal-looking man, leant over the driver’s box and replied in a deep, musical tone.

‘All the lands are at war, sergeant. We’ve come only by the invitation of your First Citizen. Here is his letter of summons with his mark on it.’

With a sword-calloused hand, the sergeant reached up and took the offered paper. After a moment's scrutiny, he handed it back and said.

‘Very well, but you’ll have to submit to the inspection of each of your wagons and their contents. If everything is not in order, bidden or not, you’re on your way back from whence you came.’

‘Of course, sergeant. Fair enough,’ replied the old man evenly and nodded to his driver. On cue, the man called to the horses, shook the reins, and set off with a lurch. The wagon trundled ponderously through the intimidating gateway and onto the flat parade ground beyond, followed slowly by the rest of the people.

The wagon train didn’t take long to form up in a well-practised manoeuvre. With this crucial chore done, the Patriarch climbed down from his wagon on stiff limbs and handed a concealed packet to the sergeant.

‘Thank you for your kind consideration, sergeant, and here is a little something for your troubles. May we be permitted to stretch our travel-weary and cramped legs and perhaps prepare a meal before you start your work?’

The sergeant slipped the packet away swiftly without looking at it and shook his head regretfully.

‘I’m afraid not. The inspection will have to begin immediately.’

‘Of course, sergeant, as you say. Please, follow me. Let’s start with my wagon.’

He climbed the bright yellow stairs at the back of the first wagon and opened the beautifully decorated and ornate double doors. Inside, the space was surprisingly voluminous and roomy. The layout spread before his eyes, exquisitely painted in primary colours with intricate vine-like patterns running throughout. Sitting at an open side window was a matronly figure with her head covered by a bright red shawl, her visage a hard map of the journeys in her life. Lounging at the back on a sumptuously covered bed was a tall, long-legged beauty. Her face, striking and held proudly, was framed by a raven veil of lustrous, full hair. She wore dark green pantaloons, contrasting with a starched, white blouse cut off at the mid-rift, revealing an arresting and eye-catching figure.

‘Sergeant, this is my dear wife and granddaughter. As you can see, we have nothing to hide. Would you like to see anything more?’

‘That won’t be necessary. Good day to you, ladies. Let’s move on, if you will,’ replied the sergeant briskly, a brief cloud of discomfort passing over his features.

The rest of the wagons were a variant of the first, hiding in them tightly knit families, all quiet and watchful. Finally, the old wagon master guided the sergeant and his men to the rear wagons designed in a much simpler style and covered by rough canvasses. Imprisoned behind iron bars, ferocious animals of all types, from bears to savage, snarling cats to exotic apes, paced restlessly in confined spaces.

‘Everything from here on is very much of the same, sergeant. Would you and your men care to join us for a meal?’ offered the wagon leader, seemingly a bit nervously.

The sergeant began to turn away, satisfied with the routine inspection, when suddenly, a storm-driven emotion of raw fear hit him as a hammer blow deep inside his stomach. He fell to one knee, vomiting into the dew-covered grass. His men, he noticed from the corner of his eyes, were not faring any better, and the old patriarch was sitting on his thin backsides gasping like a fish, his eyes rolled up into his head with only the whites showing and sweat running down his sallow face into his beard.

‘By the gods!’ grunted the sergeant. With a herculean effort, he used all his strength of will to stagger upright. Swaying noticeably, he fumbled his sword into shaking hands.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the inexplicable assault lifted, leaving the small group exhausted and bewildered, staring around them for some explanation.

The sergeant’s eyes focused on the older man as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

‘You had better tell me what has just happened here, old man, and fast!’ he gritted through his teeth, trying to keep the memory of the terror from his voice.

‘I...I am not sure what you mean, sergeant,’ stammered the old man, his eyes sliding away from any contact with the sergeant’s gaze. ‘I am at a loss myself.’

‘Don’t play games with me, wagon master,’ said the sergeant angrily, stalking forwards threateningly.

‘We found him! He was sick! We did not know what to do,’ shouted the old man, his voice rising in naked anguish.

‘Found who?’ asked the sergeant, his voice low and hostile.

‘We stand sworn to secrecy,’ was the mumbled response.

‘Found who? Show me now!’

The sergeant could now see dark figures descending from the wagons and congregating towards them through the swirling mists. He instinctively checked his signal horn hanging at his side and gripped tighter onto his sword. His men moved closer to him.

The wagon master followed his movement and held his open palms up placatingly.

‘Alright, sergeant, I will show you.’

Making his way very reluctantly to the last wagon in line, the wagon master, with trembling hands, pulled back the heavy, tarred hemp canvass from the wagon frame, revealing what lay concealed within. The sergeant and his men stared silently, and deep frowns etched onto their foreheads. They were trying to connect the past event with what they were now looking at.

An exceptionally tall, long-limbed youth between eighteen and twenty years lay supine on the iron-caged wagon's bare wooden floorboards. The lad’s head lay covered with thick, coarse, curling chestnut hair that hung below his broad, powerfully built shoulders. In reality, fine hair faintly covered almost all of his body except for his unusually long, angular face, which was hairless, barring a feathery goatee on his square chin. His chest, which seemed to be labouring to breathe in precious air, was deep and overly massive for his frame. The boy did not move as the sudden light fell on him, but his eyes watched the men with malevolence, black, deep pools that pulled on your mind, sucking you inwards.

‘What are you trying to say here, wagon master, that this boy is the source of this black sorcery?’ angrily muttered the sergeant with some confusion in his doubting eyes.

‘That’s exactly it, sergeant,’ said the patriarch stepping back from the cage in an attempt to distance himself from its occupant.

‘Nonsense, I admit he is a somewhat strange bastard to look upon, but he is just a boy! And why do you have him caged and shackled like an animal? We tend to treat slavers with short thrift when we catch them, wagon master, you stand warned.’

‘You don’t understand, sergeant. We did this for our protection. We found him lying in the middle of nowhere. We thought him dead, but when we tried to see to his body, he suddenly came to like a demon from the darkest pits of hell. He broke the arm of one of our brethren and three ribs from another, after which he fell into another dead faint. We have not seen anything like this before and have decided to take him to your First Citizen for advice; his wisdom has found fame far and wide.’

‘I take it that you’ve witnessed this...this mind attack before?’

‘Yes, unfortunately. Two days after we found him, he regained consciousness again and sowed our company with wild panic and despair. Thank the high gods. We had already secured him by then. He possesses strange dark powers, sergeant.’

The veteran sergeant studied the older man for a long moment, his expression still showing some doubt. However, before he could say anything more, the youth bolted upright in a blur of incredible speed. He grabbed the iron bars with his large hands and unbelievably prodigious strength and shook the wagon, tearing free two of them. Alarmed, the watching men scuttled backwards, but before danger could descend upon them, the strange, young man’s body contorted into corded rigidity, his eyes rolling up into his head. With a strangled groan, froth bubbled out from the corners of his mouth, and he collapsed once again onto the wagon floor.

‘Shit! Is he possessed!’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘Have your meal and get you gone on your way, wagon master. I’ve seen enough of this madness for one day.’

With an accusing glare at the travellers' leader, the sergeant turned and stomped off with his men.

‘Do you think he believed your story, Vardos captain?’ whispered a thin, gaunt-looking man wearing a large red, green, floppy hat.

‘He is just a good, simple soldier doing his job, Caleb. And yes, enough truth lies sprinkled into his mind to grow into the tale I planted. We need to get this thing to the First Citizen as soon as possible; even drugged as he is, he is becoming unmanageable.’

As he moved forward to drop the stiff canvass back in place, the eyes of the seemingly paralysed youth bore into him, sucking on his essence, sucking on his soul. With a visible shiver and a tremor of fear, the old patriarch dropped the tarred canvass, shutting the devil back into his darkness.

CHAPTER II

‘I know what I felt.’

‘I don’t question your instincts, young man. I am more perplexed about what event could have fired them than anything else.’

‘If you were to think less and move faster, maybe we could get our hands on those evasive answers.’

‘Less haste, more speed, young brother.’

Without taking his eyes off of the unfolding scene below him on the rolling, dusty plain, the young man in question, raven-haired and with a coiled stillness about him that marked him out as someone to be wary of, replied smoothly but with a hint of humorous dismissiveness.

‘I don’t recall asking you to bestir yourself from contemplating the deep meaning of existence. In fact, to my eyes, you seemed to be dozing in clear daylight, rocking happily in your chair.’

‘You’re impertinent, and it shows you have learnt nothing of my teachings. Besides, I am his father, just as you are his brother. We are a family.’

The sun-browned youth, his smooth, flawless skin displaying an odd reddish hew, glanced at the tall, blue-robed man standing by his side with calm, fathomless, deep, chestnut eyes, then returned his attention to the frenetic activity surrounding the small, sturdily built walled town.

‘This land is tearing itself apart, day by day,’ dryly commented the ebony, shaven-headed, blue-robed figure, seemingly mirroring the young man’s silent thoughts.

The younger man did not respond but continued studying the soldiers in the distance as they threw themselves at the town walls. They appeared careless to the casualties they suffered as the defenders rebuffed them time and time again, dashing their storming ladders to the hard earth.

‘A futile waste to the energies of mankind,’ muttered the older man.

‘We should go. My brother’s calls are growing more erratic.’

Without waiting to see if the old monk was following him, but knowing that he would, the youth moved swiftly and sure-footed along the narrow, hillside track. This path allowed them to skirt the senseless conflict below. City-states that once lived side by side peacefully for generations were now intent on tearing out their neighbours’ throats, caught in the madness to covet each other’s goods and wives. Men of dark ambition were seizing this opportunity to lead this chaos to advance and realise their goals. He contemplated the words of his old teacher, ‘We are family.’ Did he have the right to claim such a thing? Indeed, it was without doubt that he and his brother were unique. Despite their disagreements about their destiny, they had none in the world but themselves. Now through a nasty quirk of fate, this old man was voicing kinship—his order destroyed in a conflagration of fire and brimstone, sundering their carefully crafted plans to nothing. There was only one survivor, and he now claimed to be family; how cosy.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Yes, Master, you always do,’ was the sarcastic reply.

He heard the genuinely amused chuckle gurgling up from deep within the old monk’s chest. His fondness for this remarkable man was a real and natural thing. Despite his age, he moved behind him silently and agilely, his feet whispering over the rough, rocky terrain regardless of his old injury, never slipping, never faltering. His personality had changed since his rescue over a year and a half ago. It was as if he walked freed from the broken ruins of the life that once bound him—transformed from being aloof and enigmatic to being a man of humour and mischief. In some ways, he appeared liberated from the prison of circumstance. A place he had wandered into and become trapped by duty and the beliefs of others.

‘You’ve grown into a rebellious pup, young Morgan, but that’s my genes, you see; a bit of me floats around in you two young scallywags. So despite what you think, I have the right to claim the two of you as my sons.’

As he spoke, his breath remained even despite the physical demands of the sometimes steep, stony, and uneven trackway. Morgan did not respond but listened to his teacher and mentor, a slight smile playing on his lips. He had never inquired as to what it had taken to create him and his twin. It always had inexplicably made him feel slightly ashamed, even dirty. He made a silent vow to find out more before it was too late, but for now, he felt a warm, pleasing sensation at the thought of the blood of this irrepressible old Limp-foot flowing through his veins; he didn’t feel so much alone, or alien for want of a better word, anymore.

‘I was born with a peculiar set of skills, you see - most of them martial. The Brotherhood wanted you to have them. I think you received more than they bargained for,’ continued the old monk, chuckling softly to himself.

‘Since when have you become such a chatterbox, Master? You are using up well-needed air to speed our chase along.’

‘Impertinent pup,’ grumbled old Limp-foot.

From then on, they fell into silence and covered the miles one after the other at a ground-eating pace, breaking into a stamina-testing dog trot when they finally descended onto the rolling flat plains.

They came upon another town on the third day of travelling at this gruelling tempo. This one, too, had had its recent share of violence. Its circling walls lay broken in many places, and smoke rose dirtily into the air from within its confines. When they came into sight, a group of hostile-looking riders galloped out to investigate them. They gathered in a semi-circle around the two quietly waiting men and stared at them balefully, hollow-eyed and unwelcoming. Old Limp-foot stepped forward and bowed to them.

‘Good day to you, gentlemen. My name is Brother Dragonet, and this young man here is my apprentice Morgan. We are the last surviving members of a now-dead order, and we feel and understand the pain and anguish you are now suffering. We do not wish to burden you over much in these hard times but seek only rest and shelter for the night, a bit of food if you can spare it, and maybe some information. All we are willing to pay for.’

At first, this gentle speech lay greeted with an unfriendly silence, and Morgan felt his mind entering the void, a place of openness from which deadly action can burst out in any direction. His heartbeat slowed, and his senses expanded, surrounding and flowing through the encircling men. He felt rather than saw Limp-foot’s signal to be patient and knew that his old mentor had somehow touched his mind. He had been utterly unaware of this ability as he believed that only he and his brother could communicate in such a manner. ‘This old man sits filled with surprises,’ was the unbidden thought at the back of his head.

Eventually, a heavy-shouldered, sad-eyed rider in a thick leather jerkin edged his horse forward and stopped in front of Limp-foot.

‘Please, excuse our suspicions. This period is not a good time to come visiting.’

‘In this day and age, such a time no longer exists, it seems,’ the old monk responded with genuine regret in his voice.

‘You have the truth of it, brother. Come, please, follow us. Being in the open makes us nervous.’

The riders fell in on either side of the two men, shepherding them towards the smoking town. Morgan remained wary and alert, wondering if they were escorting them towards presumed safety or subtle entrapment. Limp-foot appeared unconcerned.

The town folk were busily working at repairing and rebuilding the damage wrecked on their town. All looked tired but appeared well-fed and seemed to be in good spirits. Passing through the still broken gates, cleverly accessed from the sides and protected by an imposing triangular walled platform which jutted out like the brow of a ship, many paused in their labours to nod to the sad-eyed man. Some even duffed their hats and called out, ‘guv,’ in sombre tones. He always responded and, in most cases, by name.

‘Young Tomas here will show you where to find the Soldier’s Nightcap. Despite its name, it’s quiet, serves good food, and sleeps clean and comfortably. I’ll come over later this evening to check on your welfare. Until then.’

He turned his horse away and trotted off with his men leaving behind a tall, gangly, red-headed lad of about seventeen summers who beckoned for them to follow him with a good-natured grin on his freckled face.

‘The towns-folk well regards your leader,’ commented Limp-foot to the redhead.

‘He is our Sacrifice,’ the lad replied simply, ‘he stands first in line when there is a danger, last in line when there are famine and plenty.’

As the boy said these words, the old monk glanced at Morgan with a meaningful look, the same one he always used when he thought his student should take note of something special.

The town was sitting on a natural mound. It stood cleverly designed so that water could drain away or collect in the many varied cisterns fed directly via clay pipes into the stone houses or the several public basins. The streets were narrow initially, then grew more comprehensive as they followed a circuitous route to the highest central point, where a sturdy citadel stood within the second curtain of defensive walls. Here and there were dotted public squares, which gave the little town a feeling of space and air. Everything was stone-clad, from the streets spreading to every building. Morgan noted the creative joining of civic need and the military, with defensive strength running throughout. There was a lot of hidden knowledge behind these seemingly quiet and respectful people. He was intrigued, and he could tell so was Limp-foot.

‘Who lives in yon citadel, young Tomas; your leader, your Sacrifice?’

‘No one lives there. It would be unthinkable. It’s open to all.’

The monk nodded and did not comment further, nor did he ask any more questions, appearing to be lost in thought, the rest of the journey covered in silence.

After a short time, they arrived at a reasonably large square that overlooked the outer walls where repair work was still in full flow. At the far end of the court was a reasonably sized building but otherwise no different to the others in the town except for a big, flamboyant sign depicting a round-bellied, armoured soldier in recline with a large pewter tankard clasped in his hand with the bold words, ‘The Soldier’s Nightcap’ floating above his head.

‘Ah, a gentleman after my own heart,’ piped up Limp-foot, patting his non-existent stomach as if it were the twin to the figure on the sign.

Tomas grinned even more boyishly and led them towards the glass-beaded entrance.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘Nancy will see you settled.’

Nancy turned out to be a grey-haired, shrewd-eyed, middle-aged lady whose direct gaze seemed to bore right through them and assess the value of the contents of their pockets in one glance.

‘Mistress Nancy, the Sacrifice ask that you see to our guests. He will come and visit you in person later this evening.’

‘More stray cats to feed,’ muttered Nancy. ‘Tell that good for nothing that I’m not running a charity house.’

With a broad, toothy grin and a twinkle in his eye that seemed to say, ’ You’re on your own, mate,’ Tomas dashed for the door with a teasing farewell, ‘Good luck.’

Switching on a welcoming smile from which glinted a gold-capped front tooth, Nancy turned to the two slightly frowning guests, leaned on the polished bar, and said.

‘What can I start you off with, gentlemen?’

That evening having completed a period of tough negotiations with Nancy concerning a room and bath, a task that Morgan left entirely in the hands of Limp-foot, the two men sat at a small table in a crowded, noisy common room, eating a hearty meal. At least, Brother Dragonet was. Morgan was itching with what he perceived as an unwarranted delay. He wanted to get going on the road as soon as possible.

‘Listen, Morgan, what has happened to your brother was not an off chance. Some persons unknown came hunting for him, hunting for both of you. The two of you are special, and my old order's actions, careful as we were with them, were closely watched by powerful people. There are too many unanswered questions here, and we need to get some background information before we rush in swords slashing. Your brother, like you, is a survivor. We need to combine care with speed.’

Morgan studied his mentor with an unreadable and expressionless face for a drawn-out moment, and then he nodded.

‘Your words make sense as always, Master, but I feel his anguish, and he calls for my help; we are one.’

The old monk nodded in turn and patted his hand.

‘We will find your brother, we will find these bastards, and then together, we will make them pay.’

As he finished these fiery words, the two noted the appearance at the entrance of the Sacrifice. He stood for a moment, his sad-looking eyes slowly surveying the room, then as he spotted them, he moved in their direction, weaving his path between the packed tables, quietly acknowledging the townspeople as he encountered them on the way.

‘You look dead on your feet and as hungry as a starving mongoose, Sacrifice, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Limp-foot, studying the man through narrowed eyes.

‘You have the right of it, brother, but I haven’t the time to do all the things that must be done.’

‘Take it from an old man, Sacrifice, time spent well gives bountiful dividends in the period of need. Please give us the honour of buying you a delicious, hot dinner. Join us for a while.’

Frowning down at the monk, the Sacrifice paused in deep introspection.

‘Again, you have the right of it, brother. I think I shall accept your offer.’

Saying this, he hooked a spare chair with his foot and sat down to join them.

‘So, what makes a monk of a certain age and a young lad shy of his first beard take to wandering around in a land of broken hope? And unarmed at that?’

‘There you have it, dear Sacrifice - that word hope. We seek that which someone stole from us.’

‘Stolen, you say, and by whom?’

‘That’s what we are trying to find out. You haven’t, by chance, noticed anything unusual in the past few weeks, have you? Maybe strange comings and goings?’

The Sacrifice rubbed his craggy face with one hand and looked blankly around the buzzing room for a moment or two. Then slightly signalling to a passing waitress who nodded and continued on her way, he turned back to the two men and said.

‘Nothing unusual, but I have seen something usual in these very unusual times.’

‘Please explain, Sacrifice. My brain isn’t what it used to be.’

‘During the good years, music, singing, dancing, poetry, and illicit joy would visit us every season, rolled in on the back of wandering rainbow wagons. Then with the coming of conflict and chaos, the merry carousel stopped.’

Both Morgan and Limp-foot became as still as a post’s shadow; their eyes focussed on the Sacrifice.

‘Two weeks ago, the travelling folk turned up at our gates. In memory of good times past, we granted them entrance, for our people were sorely in need of a distraction. Some of the folk took to walking our walls every afternoon before sunset; others asked off-hand questions concerning the whereabouts of a shadowy fraternity, who kept themselves apart and had knowledge of things that should have remained buried. Innocently some answers were given when they were not ours to give. Hindsight is a humbling thing, brother.’

‘Let me guess, Sacrifice, not long after your guests left, men of war attacked the most vulnerable points of your wall.’

‘Caught by surprise, we were; barely kept them at bay. They knew things they should not have known.’

‘Betrayal holds hands with these sad times, Sacrifice. Trust is no longer a thing given easily. Did you happen to notice from which direction the travelling folk came, and do you recall who led them?’

The Sacrifice paused as the waitress wandered over with a clay plate laden with steaming meat and potatoes. With a smile, she placed it before him, curtsied prettily, and flounced off. He shook his head slightly in bemusement, cut a thin slice of his meat, put it gently in his mouth, and chewed slowly. It was only then that he chose to answer.

‘You have many questions, brother. They came from a westerly direction, led by Daniel, an old, wily patriarch. More than that, I do not know.’

Limb-foot pursed his full lips but did not comment.

The Sacrifice studied his face briefly, then returned to his meal, eating slowly, savouring each mouthful.

After another twenty minutes of small talk and pleasantries in which Morgan took little part, Limp-foot patted his stomach, pushed back his chair, and said.

‘Please excuse us, Sacrifice, for as much as I’m enjoying our chat, we must be to bed as tomorrow we plan to leave at first light to continue our journey.’

‘Of course, brother, but I cannot remember you saying what it is that sat stolen from you.’

‘No, Sacrifice, we didn’t say, but sometimes certain things should be left unsaid.’

The weary, sad-eyed man nodded and spoke no more, seemingly oblivious, as the two took their leave from the table and headed up to their room.

As they got ready for bed, the old monk observed thoughtfully.

‘That man does everything with the utmost control; he should have been a monk. He even ate his meal as if it were his last supper. He intrigues me.’

‘He is certainly no man’s fool,’ commented Morgan, ‘I sensed an aura around him of deep calm, almost separate and unnatural, despite the responsibilities that are his to carry.’

‘Yes, I wish I knew more about him or had the time to find out.’

‘Be that as it may, you certainly know something about the travelling folk’s leader. Would you care to share it, Master?’

‘Patriarch Daniel is a man, dark of spirit and covered by smoke. He does not understand normal limits and is prepared to do unspeakable things solely for profit and gain yet remains smooth of conscience. Under the guise of a friendly grandfather, he is a venomous serpent.’

‘You have had dealings with him in the past, I take it,’ Morgan ventured, not bothering to form it as a question.

‘Not personally, but the brotherhood, through third parties, have used him to obtain certain necessary items,’ replied Limp-foot, a brief look of disgust drifting across his face like an unwelcome rain cloud on a picnic day.

‘I see. I don’t think I want to know any more now. I may hold you to account later, though. Good night, Master.’

The two slept a sleep haunted by dreams of the past and the future until, while still false dawn, the clamouring clangour of bells bolted them upright from fretfulness.

‘That’s a city alarm,’ said Morgan calmly, gliding over to the window to peer into the darkness.

‘Aye, we should go and take a look.’

They unerringly navigated the wooden stairway to the ground floor without bothering to light a candle, finding a swirling and tense activity below. Mistress Nancy, on seeing them, coldly bit out the words.

‘The bastards are back with reinforcements. They are throwing themselves at our walls, like swallows at a cliff.’

‘Then excuse us, madam,’ replied Limp-foot, ‘for that’s where we’re heading. Maybe we can lend a hand.’

‘You can lend a hand here, you old fool, by helping me prepare bandages!’ she shouted, but they had already gone.

Morgan and Limp-foot joined the scampering citizens as they climbed the steep stairs to the parapets, both men and women hastily