“So,” Vaelin ventured carefully, “this oaf left her cell open and she walked out?”
Makril laughed, a hard unpleasant sound. “Not quite. He gave her the keys to the front gate, took his axe down from the wall of his quarters and started killing the other brothers on watch. Cut down ten men before one of the archers put enough shafts in him to slow him down. Even then he killed two more before they gutted him. Weird thing, he died with a smile on his face, and before he died he said something: ‘She touched me.’”
Vaelin realised his fingers were playing on the subtle weave of Sella’s scarf. “She touched him?” he asked, auburn curls and elfin features looming large in his head.
Makril took another long gulp from his flask. “So they say. Didn’t know the nature of her Dark affliction, see? If she touches you, you’re hers forever.”
Vaelin was feverishly engaged in recalling his every encounter with Sella. I pushed her into the shelter, did I touch her then? No, she was well clothed… She reached to me though... I felt her, in my head. Was that how she touched me? Is that why I helped her? He felt an urge to ask Makril for more information but knew it would be folly. The tracker was suspicious enough already. Drunk as he was it would be unwise to question him further.
“Tendris and me’ve been hunting her ever since,” Makril continued. “Four weeks now. This is the closest we’ve got. It’s that bastard she’s with, swear I’m gonna make him squeal good and long before I kill him.” He cackled and drank some more.
Vaelin found his hand inching closer to his knife. He was forming a deep dislike of brother Makril, he reminded him too much of the assassins in the forest. And who knew what conclusions he had drawn. “He told me his name was Erlin,” he said.
“Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names.”
“So who is he really?”
Makril gave an extravagant shrug. “Who knows? He helps Deniers. Helps them hide, helps them run. Did he tell you about his travels? From the Alpiran Empire to the Leandren Temples.”
The knife hilt was tight in Vaelin’s grasp. “He told me.”
“Impressed were you?” Makril belched, a long rumble of escaping gas. “I’ve travelled, y’know. I’ve bloody travelled. Meldenean Islands, Cumbrael, Renfael. Killed rebels, heretics and outlaws all over this great land, I have. Men, women, children…”
Vaelin’s knife was halfway out of its sheath. He’s drunk, won’t be too difficult.
“One time, me and Tendris found a whole sect, families, bowing to one of their gods in a barn in the Martishe. Tendris got angry, it’s best not to argue with him when he gets like that. He ordered us to lock the doors and douse the place in lamp oil, then he struck a flint… Wouldn’t have thought children could scream so loud.”
The knife was almost clear of its sheath when Vaelin saw something that made him stop: beads of silver were shining in Makril’s beard. He was crying.
“They screamed for such a long time.” He lifted his flask to his mouth but found it was empty. “Shit!” Grumbling he got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled off into the darkness, a short while later came the distinctive sound of piss hissing into snow.
Vaelin knew if he was going to do it now was the time. Slit the bastard’s throat when he’s having a piss. A fitting end for such a vile man. How many more children will he kill if I let him live? But the tears were troubling, tears that told him Makril was a man who hated what he did. And he was a brother of the Order. It seemed wrong to kill a man whose fate he might be sharing in years to come. A sudden conviction rose in him then, fierce and implacable: I’ll fight but I won’t murder. I’ll kill men who face me in battle but I won’t take the sword to innocents. I won’t kill children.
“Is Hutril still there?” Makril slurred, stumbling back to collapse onto his bedroll. “Still teaching you little shits how to track?”
“He’s still there. We are grateful for his wisdom.”
“Fuck his wisdom. Was supposed to be my job, y’know. Commander Lilden said I was the finest tracker in the Order. Said when he got made Aspect he’d bring me back to the House to be master of the wild. Then the silly bastard got a Meldenean sabre through his guts and Arlyn was chosen. Never liked me, the sanctimonious shit. Chose Hutril, legendary silent hunter of the Martishe forest. Sent me off to hunt heretics with Tendris.” He slumped onto his back, his eyes half lidded, his voice softening to a whisper. “Never asked for this. I just wanted to learn how to track… Like my old man could… Just wanted to track…”