Chapter 1: Unbinding

  Lyrian gritted his teeth in anticipation of the blow. The thug grasped him by the collar and swept him off the flagstone in one clean motion, smashing the smaller man against the crumbling wall. A lungful of air that Lyrian had not even realised was trapped in his lungs erupted from his lips and withered into a pathetic little squeak. The goon’s face contorted into a wide, looming grin, a silver tooth gleaming in the torch-light.

  ‘Take a look at this, lads! The rat squeals!’ growled a brusque voice from the shadows.

  The speaker was a broad, piggish man named Forsyth, the ringleader of a vast web of shady business ventures all throughout Mihora. He was criminal overlord to countless corrupt lenders, smugglers and ranin-powder dealers and had strong ties to high-ups in the Thieves’ Guild and several powerful ranin-powder rings. There were rumours of connections to darker business as well, such as the demon-cults that brooded in the black mountains of Kadinyen and had began to migrate northwards.

  Needless to say Forsyth was not a man to dabble in the punishment of petty thieves; he had an army of brutes for the dirty work. But very few men had managed to infuriate him more than one Mister Lyrian Dodge, and for him he had made a special exception. Lyrian had plagued Forsyth’s business for too long, borrowing more than he could ever pay back, and what he could pay back he never did. When the money-lenders had had enough and blacklisted the man he began to steal, first from unsuspecting, lawful citizens and then daring to swindle the criminal gangs as well. He had become hated by almost anything that breathed, but by some miracle of Ramun had evaded vengeance until now.

  ‘Listen up now, rat, I is a fair man. Eye-fer-an’-eye kind of man, I is. Now listen up. Yer’ve been thievin’ from me fer a long while now, yer have. Yer thievin’ and yer lies have been hurtin’ me business, and when me business is hurt I is hurt too. So I thinks some revenge’s in order, aye?’

  Forsyth swaggered forward into the flickering light and motioned at the rest of brutes, who began to close in on Lyrian, readying their clubs, swinging them around or stroking them as if they were heavy, murderous pets. The goon pinning the prisoner up against the wall moved a huge, spade-like hand to his belt, where a falchion gleamed threateningly. Lyrian felt a choking lump forming in his throat, but even now, backed into a corner, he was glancing around for an escape exit.

  The lackey pressing Lyrian against the wall had inadvertently provided him with a great vantage point; the whole room, except from the distant parts that were cloaked in shadow, was clearly visible. It was the interior of some ancient structure, perhaps a temple, that after spending many Ages lost in a wood untouched by man had been discovered by Forsyth and his gang and converted into a hide-out. The room was circular, with a conical roof that had collapsed in places, allowing sorrowful blue moonlight to creep in. Wild vines spilled out of deep blacks cracks in the stone. The criminals had amassed a huge stock of goods, most undoubtedly stolen, which was spread out over several piles of chests, trunks and sacks – towering so high in places that they grazed the ceiling. A large lantern was set on the floor, casting a jaundiced glow over the pale grey masonry and illuminating a pattern of ruts that were carved into the floor. They emanated from the gutter that ran along the wall and converged in the very centre of the room, where a white altar rose from the half-light.

  ‘This’ll be a night to remember, lads!’ Forsyth barked with sickening cheer. ‘Make this shite suffer, long and slow. Dyr, have at it!’

  The thug named Dyr, the one suspending Lyrian, suddenly dropped the thief and pulled out his falchion, running a grubby thumb along the blade and lifting the digit for Lyrian to see, a fat bead of blood gathering in the cut. A harsh wave of panic struck the weaker man. Dyr approached slowly, holding the blade ahead of him as he crept forward. All of a sudden he flicked the sword forward and Lyrian’s arm exploded in burning pain. He gasped and stumbled backwards, catching himself with his good arm. A small stream of crimson dripped down into a rut and began to flow towards the altar, dark and shining against the dull grey stone.

  A gruff chorus of laughter burst from the crowd of thugs.

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  ‘Careful, me boy! I says slow. Doncher get ahead of yerself.’

  The blood trickled, pooling at the foot of the altar.

  Lyrian gulped and squirmed away until his back met the wall. Dyr flourished his falchion, the silver blade slicing through the air with a clean swish, then moved forwards again, looming over Lyrian like a storm. The huge goon stooped over and dragged Lyrian up by the collar yet again, pulling him to his feet. Leisurely, Dyr raised the falchion again, twirling it through the air, the end of his wet pink tongue poking through his lips, considering where to strike next. The onlookers gave an encouraging cheer.

  Behind the group, faintly illuminated by the golden lantern, the red river began to flow upwards, settling into subtle engravings in the in the altar stone.

  Dyr paused, muscles tensing in preparation for a slash. Lyrian squeezed his eyes shut and remembered Elwyn, sick and alone, trapped in a tiny hut leagues and leagues away. He balled his fists. I will take this as long as I can, he thought, and hope that by some miracle of Ramun I can find a way to come home alive.

  The scarlet stream snaked further upwards, and the design hidden in the engravings slowly emerged – two thin crescents facing each other, and surrounding them, a sea of writhing lines curling all over the altar.

  Lyrian forced his eyes open just as the glistening sword rushed towards him. He ducked and Dyr cursed as his attack swung wide.

  Suddenly, the earth shook and the lantern went out. The moon and stars seemed to extinguish with it, throwing the hide-out into an impossible black. Something much more powerful than any sword-blow pushed Lyrian face-forward flat against the ground, and a terrible roar, like all the winds of a thousand storms, ripped through the chamber. Whatever it was, it was immensely cold and heavy and trapped him against the floor, pressing all of the breath out of him. Desperate, he pulled himself forward, searching for even a particle of air to suck in to his starving lungs, but he was smothered by the new-come darkness. His bad hand hit something soft and squirming, a lightning-bolt of pain firing up his arm. His consciousness began to spin; the lack of air was finally getting to him, then suddenly the whirling noise above him quieted, the pressure lifted, and his thoughts slipped into oblivion.

  ***

  The salty sea air was calm and cool, lit up by the rosy sunset. Lyrian stuck out his tongue, savouring the sharp ocean taste that wafted through the window. He sprawled out on the bed of an upstairs bedroom in the Temple of Ramun, a sprawling set of white buildings that perched on the cliffs overlooking Mern’av and its bay. A woman in wrinkled priestess’s garb sat slumped in a rickety wooden chair in the corner, gazing longingly out of the window with one arm folded protectively over her belly.

  He was fourteen in this memory, young and carefree like the albatrosses that wheeled over the grey ocean. His mother was singing softly to herself, but not so softly that the sweet words did not carry across the room to Lyrian’s ears.

  Larere birn,

  aelfe-roen e asten,

  tia min ne gales yaran’ kadirn

  nai do lomes arasin iren

  e tia min dores den karan mien

  nai miti opreim kaderes kaden.

  (Dearest child,

  elf-spirited and free,

  leave me not in the dark wild

  as you bound among the trees

  and pull me from my plight

  as we fight the blackest night.)

  ***

  Lyrian woke up sharply, face down on the temple floor. Sunlight flooded in through the gaps in the ceiling. He stumbled to his feet, fighting his aching joints, and surveyed the damage.

  The thing that had torn through the temple the night before — whatever it was — was gone, and had left a wake of destruction. The towers of loot had all been toppled and the contents of the chests were spilling out like intestines, vomiting up coins and a rainbow of fat jewels. The lantern lay on its side, panes smashed, and beside it were spread the remains of Forsyth’s gang. One was propped up against the wall, the side of his head a mess of blood and bone. The others were piled up on the floor, limbs bent back at unnatural angles and clothes bloodied. Forsyth himself was spread-eagled a few steps away from his men, watching the sky with unseeing eyes. Dyr and his falchion were no-where to be seen.

  Lyrian fought back vomit as shuffled away from them and perched on the lip of the altar, turning his back on the bodies and studying the wound on his forearm. The falchion had cut through his coat and tunic like butter, but had lost momentum by the time it had reached his flesh, and the gash was not as deep as he had originally assumed. The blood had coagulated already, but he still took the time to rip off a strip from the bottom of his tunic and wrap it tightly around his arm, just to be cautious. By some miracle the encounter with the mysterious force had left him with nothing worse than a few bruises.

  He rested for an hour or so until his throat became parched. The thugs were bound to have water-skins, but he couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the corpses. In the late spring heat the temple felt like an oven; any longer and the bodies would begin to stink. Lyrian picked himself up and, deciding that now was not the time to count his blessings, shovelled as much of the scattered treasure as he could into the deep, worn pockets of his coat. For Elwyn, he reminded himself as he set off into the woods.