‘At last I tired of travel. I came into the port of Callas, and being somewhat skilled in the arts of war I decided to make my fortune as a mercenary soldier. I was accepted into the garrison by the captain there.’
Heavy chain links clinked inside Lotan’s robe as he finished.
‘It would have been a fool of a captain who turned you down,’ Will said, aware of the man’s powerful frame.
Lotan shrugged. ‘I am what I am.’
‘Lord Warrewyk. Is it not he who has been Captain of Callas these five years?’ Will said, unable to resist probing after loyalties.
The hood turned. ‘The time about which I speak was long before Earl Warrewyk’s day. I served three dukes who were captains before he – the Dukes of Gloustre then Southfolk, and latterly Duke Edgar of Mells, who was my last commander. That was six years ago.’
Will showed no reaction, but the information was sound. Duke Edgar had been killed at Verlamion – hacked to death by Lord Warrewyk’s men. Edgar had been a staunch supporter of the queen, and his cruel son was her chief supporter now.
The big man continued speaking, and soon Will heard a burr in his voice that spoke of fond recollections. ‘Strife and easy living were mine in equal measure during my time in Callas. I ate two good meals every day. I lived a manly life. I fought alongside men I trusted, men who trusted me. But the life of a man-at-arms is, at its end, always hard to bear, for a soldier feels more sharply than others the passing of his prime. As the first grey hairs grow he feels the aches begin in his flesh. There came a day when I began to think of retirement, of using what little gold I had gleaned to open an alehouse. I wanted no more than to pass my remaining days in quiet kind, but my plans were overtaken by greater events.
‘Five summers ago, in the last month of my service, war threatened, and I was sent with the bodyguard of my Lord of Mells to a new place. We took ship across the Narrow Seas and came into this Realm to prosecute war.’
‘Did you go to Verlamion?’
The hood stirred again. ‘You know of that place?’
‘I went there…once.’
‘It has a rich chapter house. But it was in the streets of the town that spreads around the chapter house that the battle was fought. In truth it was not much of a battle, but it was the one fight in which my luck failed me. Duke Edgar became trapped. His bodyguard were slain around him, and though I tried to protect him, I took for my troubles an axe blow – here. It cut through the steel brow-strap of my helm and robbed me of half my face. The blow was given to me by one of Lord Warrewyk’s men. It has been my ruination.’
Will winced, echoing the reaction of those who not long before had stared at Lotan and screwed up their faces at the sight of him.
‘When the battle at Verlamion was over, I was left for dead. But then a Wise Woman found me and bound up my head and stayed with me, thinking that I would soon die. She could not heal me beyond the laying on of gentle herbs, but even so I did not die for there was something about her ministering that lifted me up. Instead I lived on for three years, begging in the streets of Trinovant in a red cloud of torment. At last I could bear the suffering no more. I gave myself into the keeping of the Sightless Ones who, to have me, plucked out my eyes.’
Will heard the rumble of Lotan’s regret, and looked up at the blank walls of the chapter house, which for all their impressive size and strength seemed also inhuman and cold-hearted in their proportions.
‘At first, the losing of my eyes felt like a mercy, for all pain leaves a man who surrenders himself. Forgetfulness enfolds him like a blanket and for some that is a powerful comfort. But not for me. The longer I remained within the chapter house, the more doubts came to plague me. I was sure I had made the biggest mistake by going there, for though my head had been deeply cloven and now I was blinded also, still I remained whole in spirit. I have never been one who runs with a flock. My thoughts are my own. How could I surrender myself to that which I did not truly believe?’
Will’s brow creased as he tried to understand. ‘Surrender yourself? To what? To the service of the Fellowship?’
The big man seemed to struggle with the idea. ‘Not to the Fellowship exactly, but to that power which they would make all men bow down before.’
‘What’s that?’ Will asked, horrified. ‘A monster?’
‘It is an invisible power, one that all other Fellows swear they can feel in the world. But try as I might, I could never feel it. That is why I could not progress.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. They have a name for it, but that name may not be spoken.’
‘I’ve often wondered what could be at the heart of the Fellowship,’ Will said, still unable to grasp what he was being told. ‘Do they mean a power of magic? I know the Sightless Ones use a form of sorcery, and I can tell you for a certainty that natural magic is real, but—’
‘Oh, it is not natural magic they revere, but something else. An ancient invention, a great piece of wickedness…it did not originate with the Fellowship – they have come about because of it. But they have used it ruthlessly.’
‘But what is it?’
A gurgling laugh escaped the big man. ‘Only an idea. But one so powerful that it has made slaves of all those who were rash enough to open their minds to it.’
And Will suddenly recalled what Gwydion had said about the Great Lie. That too was only an idea, but the wizard had said that it was immensely dangerous – an idea that, in a manner of speaking, had the power to turn other ideas to stone. It worked upon men, women and children, not by shackling their bodies as the Slavers had done, but by imprisoning their minds.
Lotan turned. ‘The axe that made me so terrible to look upon has left me good for little beyond the terrifying of mobs, or perhaps the begging of pennies from those who desire to buy a glimpse of horror, but I remain my own man. I can do no other.’
Will heard no self-pity in Lotan’s voice, rather a wry humour that spoke of inner strength. ‘Friend Lotan,’ he said, ‘you still haven’t told me why you chose to save an old beggarman from the mob.’
‘Because you decided to be kind to me.’
‘I?’ Will peered hard at the dark shadow that lay beneath Lotan’s hood. ‘How was I kind?’
‘You gave me an apple.’
Will froze. ‘That…was you?’
‘I sensed your magic, even then, and so I followed you. I have no eyes, but in consequence I can feel much that was once hidden from me. I was drawn towards the Spire when you went there. And when I heard the hue and cry, I came here to make your acquaintance. I have hunted down many a man before, though few throw off the sparks that you do. It was not difficult to direct you here.’
Will was astonished. ‘You knew about me all the time?’
‘I was here when you entered this yard. I witnessed your change of form. I knew what you were, and—’ he grasped Will’s wrist,’—I chose to help you.’
‘But…what do you want from me?’
‘I want you to help me.’
Lotan suddenly threw back his hood and showed his ruined face. Empty sockets yawned, and Will saw what work the axe-blade had done – livid flesh ran from ear to chin and his cheek was sunken where an entire upper row of teeth had been smashed away. ‘Please, I beg you, sorcerer – give me back my sight!’
The word sorcerer made Will recoil, but a spasm of sympathetic pain flashed through him.
‘I am no sorcerer,’