“You are holding something back. What is it?â€
Pierre Glaisyer asked his question in a quiet tone of voice, and at that inquiry Ortolf Forgehands went very, very still.
He glanced across the rooftop from which they monitored Sarangerel’s latest trip through the Ul’dahn bazaar, glanced at his erstwhile comrade in arms. A good sign, that the bastard had asked his question aloud. Had the accusation been made across the mental connection that the Crows shared, the psychic web that allowed them to share thoughts and sensations, words and sights, the others would have had cause to report Pierre’s suspicions to the captain. Then the Voice would command him, and he’d have no choice but to reveal all that he knew.
For insubordination, Rotunda Crow would sentence him to oblivion. His soul would be lost forever, never to attain Rhaglr’s presence.
The honest truth was that he cared little for the gods now. What he wanted was Mindclaw broken before him. The bairn knew where the traitor was hiding, whereas the captain did not. He had seen his own impotence in Melkire’s eyes. Beneath the desperation, there’d been a resignation… a readiness to embrace death rather than yield what leverage the whelp possessed. He could have worked the bairn over, treated the lad to every known cruelty under the sun and it would not have mattered. Melkire would not have given up Mindclaw.
Nymeia, at least, had been kind, though he still despised the bitch for her role in the downfall of his order. The captain was wont to reminisce about his past lives, even going so far as to regale his servants and subordinates with tales from his stint as a Crow of the First Murder. Such talk bored his brethren, but Ortolf listened closely to those stories. He suspected that, in this regard at least, the captain had erred, for from those tales Forgehands had learned much: how to conceal his thoughts from the Crows, how to shut them out so that they would not hear what he heard, see what he saw
The irony was not lost on him, that he hid secrets from the Voice of Now as Rotunda once hid secrets from the Voice of Then.
“Aren’t we all holding something back?†He eyed the Wildwood. “The captain owes each of us a debt, he does. That debt is a private matter between each Crow and the Voice.â€
“That is true,†said Pierre as they began traversing the rooftops of Sapphire Avenue to follow Sarangerel as she moved through the Exchange below, “yet that does not account for your distance as of late. You have been far more reserved than I have come to expect from you.â€
Ortolf scowled. “I stand disgraced.â€
“You’ve addressed the matter. You stand in the captain’s good graces once more. Your station is restored.â€
“The stain remains. I failed once. I can fail again.â€
“You would have me believe that this churlish solitude you’ve imposed upon yourself is some form of penance? No man is perfect, Forgehands.â€
He balled his burly hands into fists. His fingers clenched tight and his nails dug into his palms. The lack of sensation mattered little; some instincts, he’d learned, outlive the mortal coil.
“I once strove for perfection, dalcop, as did kith and kin. Leave me be.â€
Glaisyer shrugged. "As you wish."
Ortolf Forgehands snorted and shouldered his way past his fellow Crow.
I should've strewn the bairn's guts across the mountainside.
Pierre Glaisyer asked his question in a quiet tone of voice, and at that inquiry Ortolf Forgehands went very, very still.
He glanced across the rooftop from which they monitored Sarangerel’s latest trip through the Ul’dahn bazaar, glanced at his erstwhile comrade in arms. A good sign, that the bastard had asked his question aloud. Had the accusation been made across the mental connection that the Crows shared, the psychic web that allowed them to share thoughts and sensations, words and sights, the others would have had cause to report Pierre’s suspicions to the captain. Then the Voice would command him, and he’d have no choice but to reveal all that he knew.
For insubordination, Rotunda Crow would sentence him to oblivion. His soul would be lost forever, never to attain Rhaglr’s presence.
The honest truth was that he cared little for the gods now. What he wanted was Mindclaw broken before him. The bairn knew where the traitor was hiding, whereas the captain did not. He had seen his own impotence in Melkire’s eyes. Beneath the desperation, there’d been a resignation… a readiness to embrace death rather than yield what leverage the whelp possessed. He could have worked the bairn over, treated the lad to every known cruelty under the sun and it would not have mattered. Melkire would not have given up Mindclaw.
Nymeia, at least, had been kind, though he still despised the bitch for her role in the downfall of his order. The captain was wont to reminisce about his past lives, even going so far as to regale his servants and subordinates with tales from his stint as a Crow of the First Murder. Such talk bored his brethren, but Ortolf listened closely to those stories. He suspected that, in this regard at least, the captain had erred, for from those tales Forgehands had learned much: how to conceal his thoughts from the Crows, how to shut them out so that they would not hear what he heard, see what he saw
The irony was not lost on him, that he hid secrets from the Voice of Now as Rotunda once hid secrets from the Voice of Then.
“Aren’t we all holding something back?†He eyed the Wildwood. “The captain owes each of us a debt, he does. That debt is a private matter between each Crow and the Voice.â€
“That is true,†said Pierre as they began traversing the rooftops of Sapphire Avenue to follow Sarangerel as she moved through the Exchange below, “yet that does not account for your distance as of late. You have been far more reserved than I have come to expect from you.â€
Ortolf scowled. “I stand disgraced.â€
“You’ve addressed the matter. You stand in the captain’s good graces once more. Your station is restored.â€
“The stain remains. I failed once. I can fail again.â€
“You would have me believe that this churlish solitude you’ve imposed upon yourself is some form of penance? No man is perfect, Forgehands.â€
He balled his burly hands into fists. His fingers clenched tight and his nails dug into his palms. The lack of sensation mattered little; some instincts, he’d learned, outlive the mortal coil.
“I once strove for perfection, dalcop, as did kith and kin. Leave me be.â€
Glaisyer shrugged. "As you wish."
Ortolf Forgehands snorted and shouldered his way past his fellow Crow.
I should've strewn the bairn's guts across the mountainside.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
