Eventually the two soldiers emerged from the cave carrying the huge charred limb between them. The reek caused even the strongest stomach to weaken and the Governor backed his mount off slightly, holding up his hand. ‘Stay,’ he instructed.
From his distant vantage point he could see the top of a thigh covered in burned hair, down to the foot with its three massive toes ending in razor-sharp claws. Whatever it might be, it was not of this world, and at last satisfied, the Governor nodded. ‘We had word from the Maharajah’s Court of charlatans preying on the gullible, promising to rid outlying villages of non-existent demons, dark spirits, and other malefactions. Had you been such, we would have hanged you from that tree,’ he said, pointing to a stout elm a few yards away. ‘As this is without doubt a demonic limb, I am now convinced that your timely arrival so soon after word reached us of this demon, is but a lucky coincidence, and shall convey my opinion to my lords and masters in the city of Maharta.’
Amirantha bowed his most courtly bow, and Brandos followed suit. ‘We thank His Excellency,’ said the Warlock.
As the Governor began to turn his mount,’ Amirantha said, ‘Excellency, as to the matter of payment?’
Over his shoulder, the Governor said, ‘Come to my palace and see my seneschal. He will pay you.’ With that, he rode off, followed closely by his men-at-arms.
‘Well, at least it’s on the way home,’ the Warlock said.
Shrugging, the warrior picked up his companion’s shoulder bag. ‘There are times one must settle for small benefits, my friend. At least this time we get paid.
‘Maybe it was a good thing that new demon showed up. Kreegrom is fairly hideous, but for a demon he’s about as menacing as a puppy. If that Governor had caught on that he was only playing "chase me" and not really trying to kill you . . . well, I don’t particularly relish ending my days hanging from an elm.’ He glanced at the tree as they walked past it. ‘Though, I must confess it’s a handsome enough tree.’
‘You do always see the good in a situation, don’t you?’
‘Someone must,’ said Brandos, ‘given the usual nature of our trade.’
‘There is that,’ agreed Amirantha as they started down the road that would take them to the Governor’s Palace in Lanada, and then on to their distant home.
The village had been the only home Amirantha had known in the last thirty years. For about five months each year, he resided in a stone tower on top of a tor a mile north of the village. The rest of the time he and Brandos would travel.
His tower was on top of an ancient hill, Gashen Tor, highest of the hills overlooking the village of Talumba, two days’ ride east of the city of Maharta. The small farming community had come to appreciate the presence of such a powerful magic user, even in his area of mastery was considered to border on evil by most people. They believed that the warlock had wandered to Talumha from another land, and had come to his lonely hill to avoid persecution. It had been said that he built the single tower in which he resided using demons for the labour, and that he had placed wards about the tor to prevent intruders from troubling him.
The truth was far more prosaic; Amirantha had used magic, though not his own, to build the simple tower. A pair of magicians, masters of geomancy, had used their arts to manoeuvre rocks in such a design that when they were done, Amirantha had only to employ a local carpenter to install the two wooden floors, hang doors, and build some furniture; including the large table now before the magician and the heavy chair in which he sat.
He examined an old text he had written nearly a century before, letting out a long sigh of regret as he pushed it aside. Looking out of the window of his study, at the village below, now caught in the reddish glow of sunset, he considered how almost idyllic his life had become during the last twenty years - if he didn’t give too much thought to the occasional mishap like the one three days ago, near Lanada.
He remembered when he had first come here, with a young Brandos and his wife, and how he had decided, almost on a whim, to take up residence. He looked above the village at the distant sunset and wondered how much of his decision came from his affection for these views. A sunset was, he thought, an odd thing to be drawn to, but then so much of his life had been a series of choices that seemed arbitrary, even capricious, at times; such as giving a home to an uncouth street boy who had tried to rob him more than thirty years ago.