The Burnt Man

And so - it is done. The course is set, and even the loss of my fine horse cannot dampen my elation. The stone winnows as it will, but winnows not I.

I return triumphant to my men, alive, exultant. My blood taken and accepted. No taint of madness behind my eyes, not driven wild by the raging powers within the stone like a lesser man. My own men congratulate me while they look on sidelong. What may I yet become unsettles them, warring with the tantalising question... how high will they fly, in my train? Confident that my rise must now be assured.

The horses powerful haunches bunch beneath them as they attempt the steep descent. The loose grey slates and scree slither beneath their hooves, clattering together as the unstable hillside slowly begins to slide.

My men are tense, alert to the shifting rocks. Words are short and pointed. This descent tries even a skilled horseman. It is well that my men are almost as assured a-horse as I, the presence of the northmen in their  bolt-hole forcing us in this wide arc around them, onto this difficult mountainous route.

The last hours before dawn, when even the night is dead. My Hound pushes into the tent the shambling near-wreck of the filth's sport. Dark haired, broad chested; a great bull brought down by the merciless taunting of the pack.

His swollen eyes slit further, wincing in the comparative brightness of the tent as he stumbles before me, hands bound tight behind him. My Poppinjay gasps unwittingly at the sight - orc tooth and claw evident in the frenzied rips and shreds of his skin - noisome bites that will fester ... should he live.

His chair stands empty in the corner of my prison.

I see the high back, covered in tooled red leather. A suggestion of his form remains firmly pressed into the cured skin - thigh, muscled back, a shoulder. The graceful arcs of the wooden arms are covered in a  rich pattina from long use, polished by the repeated caress of his dark skin.

How many days in this chamber?

I watch the thin golden sliver of sunlight move as slow as honey across the walls. Each moment an age, watch the tiny motes of dust caught in its light, dancing as innocent and ephemeral as may-flies in a summer evening. Gold gives way to silver, and the dimmer light of the moon traces time over the same tracks. The same and same and same.

He is gone.

The very stones of this place sigh out in weary relief. The imperceptable lightening of the burden of the few captives in chambers far below me. I feel them, the endless, endless misery ... like a thread of smoke rising forever in some darkling tribute.

I watched him depart in the dawn, looking down from this dizzying perch set amongst the high towers. That I could do so ... I hate that I am so piteously grateful. To be so reduced by my own need - or as he would have it - by my own desire unfulfilled.

Tavern - voices rumble up through the floorboards. The indistinct muffle pierced again and again by a bellowing laugh, some snatches of a merry fiddle-tune, friendly cat-calls.

The heavy canvas flap is lifted aside. Without announcement or preamble the bulk of my Hound appears inside my great tent. I permit this honour to no other than him.

heh.

That went better than i could have hoped for.

Duresen't start out well, though. Master Oldgrove brings me ter the Bridgetown... an' up pops more of them grim northerners ... and then... that old bastard hisself, the helm-giffer. I realises master Oldgrove is an even better liar than me.

'You be safe with me lass' he says.

I hold the gobbit of nameless flesh between my fingers. The foetid carrion bird hops eagerly, a feathered jerking excitement on the leafless branch. I wait, its reward soiling my fingers, until it finishes its harsh cawing. My men sit astride their horses, impassive, the guttural sound of the craban no more than a chattering bird call. But to those who have the blood or the power – there are words in the calls of birds.