Dagorian did not answer. The lorassium did not merely increase visual powers, but also enhanced perception and cognitive skills. As the effects faded he fought to hold to the impressions he had gained, even during his panicked flight.
The demons were not sentient – at least not in a way any human could understand. They were .. . the word ‘Feeders’ came to his mind. Yes, that was it. Like a hungry pack they sought to devour . .. what? What was the source of his pain? It was not physical, and yet it would have killed him. The lorassium was almost gone now, and he struggled to hold to the knowledge he had gained.
Though not sentient the creatures had a purpose that was beyond their own desires. Their violence was directed.
The sun was setting behind the mountains. Soon the dark would come. Fear rose again in Dagorian. ‘We must get away from here,’ he said.
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Chapter Five
Moonlight glistened on the outer skin of the White Wolf’s tent, turning its flanks to silver. Inside the old man opened the map casket, and began searching through it. A brazier full of hot coals filled the tent with warmth, and two glowing lanterns cast flickering shadows on the inner walls.
Finding the map he was looking for the old man straightened. His lower back ached, and he stretched his arms high, trying to loosen his muscles. The cold struck him then, bitter as a winter blizzard. With a groan he turned towards the brazier of coals. No heat came from them now. He sat on the pallet bed, suddenly weary, dropped the map upon the thin mattress and reached out his hands towards the fire. The hands were old and liver spotted, the knuckles large with rheumatism.
Depression grew in him. Once I was young, he thought. He remembered his first battle in the old king’s re-formed army. He had fought all day, with never a hint of fatigue. And that night he had bedded two of the camp women, one after the other. He glanced down at his thin, wrinkled legs, the loose skin slack over withered muscles. You should have died years ago, he said to himself.
The cold grew more intense, but he had ceased to feel it.
The depression deepened into a bleak despair, formed
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of regret for what had passed, and a chilling fear of all that was to come; incontinence and senility. What would he do back in Drenan? Hire servants to change his soiled bed linen, and to wipe away the drool that dripped from his mouth. Perhaps he would not see the disgust on their faces. Then again, perhaps in moments of clarity, he would.
The old man drew his dagger and laid the blade upon his wrist. Clenching his fist he saw the arteries stand out. Swiftly he sliced the dagger blade across them. Even the blood that flowed was weak and thin, pumping out to stain the leather cavalry kilt, flowing on over his thighs and down into his boots.
He sat very still, remembering the glory days, until at last he toppled from the bed.
The fire flared, and heat began once more to permeate the tent.
After some minutes the tent flap was opened and two men stepped inside.
The first man ran to the body and knelt beside it. ‘Sweet Heaven,’ he whispered. ‘Why? He was in good spirits when you sent him for the map, my lord. And he won heavily on the king’s birthday. He was talking about his home near Dros Corteswain, and his plans for the farm. This makes no sense.’
The White Wolf stood silently, his pale gaze scanning the interior of the tent. Upon the folding table was a goblet and a jug, that had contained water. Now it was filled with melting ice. Condensation had also created a sheen of ice on the tent walls.
Banelion masked his anger. The possibility of a sor-cerous attack had not occurred to him, and he cursed himself for his stupidity.
T don’t understand,’ said the grey-bearded officer,
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kneeling by the corpse. ‘Why would he kill himself?’
‘Why does anyone kill themselves?’ countered Banelion. ‘Have the body removed.’