Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 19

Old Wounds Reopen

The commander had changed much in the twelve years since the slaughter. His oily black hair sat in a topknot, and he had grown a beard to try and hide his ruined face. The armor that he now wore at all times was ornate and polished. His memory of that day had not faded or softened. The dead monks upon the mountaintop were silent and forgotten by most, but the figure of the last spectral monk still haunted the general. Hatred had taken root in the darkness of his soul and grown like a twisted leafless tree.

The sentry entered the hall of the commander and dropped in servitude like a stone. He moved forward on hand and knee, face to ground, grateful at least not to look at the grotesquely slashed features of the commander’s face. He made his factual report of all that he had seen from his hiding place seven days before. He spoke of monk, woman, and wagon, the collecting of bones and the building of their resting place. He spoke of the prayers for the dead. Still prone, he finished his monotone and waited to be dismissed.

He did not hear the sound of the Supreme Commander’s sword being drawn or the sound of his own severed head hitting the cold stone floor. He heard only the thud of a fated rock, dropped on the ashes of a distant and dying night fire many miles away.

The execution was justified by sighting cowardice, lack of initiative, and for not knowing the exact direction of travel. In truth, however, the commander was undone. To hear the monk still lived, and was indeed a mortal man, exhumed the buried demons of his past, and hatred had driven him. He felt the pain again as if his wounds were fresh. His right hand squeezed the razor sharp sword tip that hung like a jewel from a chain around his neck. He stared back into the darkness of events long past, oblivious to the blood dripping from hand to floor and joining the dark pool forming around the sentry’s headless body.

For every two eyes there is one mouth, and three full seasons would pass before a tale found its way to the ears of the commander. He listened intently to the story of a monk of great stature and a fair young woman far to the west claiming and transporting the human refuse of war’s far-flung campaign. This thieving monk from first meeting had come away the victor. He had stolen his place as aspiring novice, robbed him of his greatest victory, and now purloined the spoils of war. The commander sat, a hollow disfigured leader in a command that he had not earned by deed or merit.

He waited impatiently over the next season for more information, but none came. Here the trail would grow cold, not a whisper not a rumor, as if the earth itself had swallowed them up. The commander found this silence deafening. He knew by instinct that where this monk rested the scrolls of the lost library would be found, and that his redemption in the eyes of his emperor lay in their recovery.