The Vorrh

and I believe you have been changed by her forever.’
    He finished speaking and slumped a little, fear and fatigue mining his strength.
    Williams was very still; he looked perplexed.
    ‘If this is true, why would you try so hard to kill me?’
    ‘I did not know it was you until it was too late. I was working for your old masters; they thought you long dead. Then it was said that you were returning through the coastal lands. They wanted you gone, not coming back. Walking freely through desertion after all this time and relighting old fires.’
    Williams could not make images for the words, but the depth of his understanding knew them to be true.
    ‘Do you intend to continue your quest?’
    Tsungali shook his head wearily.
    Williams got up and slowly walked over to Ishmael, who had been woken by their conversation. His hearing, which had been hiding in a constantly ringing place ever since the pistol fired next to his head, had almost returned.
    ‘I don’t know which of the three of us is the biggest freak,’ Williams said, retrieving his bow and quiver. ‘I will be back in an hour. Don’t worry about him. He is going nowhere.’
    He walked out of the camp, a trio of eyes fixed on his disappearing form.
    Long, indecisive minutes passed. Eventually, Ishmael called a greeting to the wounded man.
    ‘I am coming to speak with you, do not be alarmed!’
    The black man waved feebly at him to signal understanding and agreement.
    The cyclops sat at his side, so that his face would not shock and he would be able to watch the other man’s moves. He had no fear of the wounded man – he had been the cause of his downfall and the preserver of his life. He had purchased him, between life and death, and now the power was all his, unfamiliar and thriving, from a source unknown to him but nonetheless evident: he owned this man. He had stared down the track with Este in his hands, and this man had slipped and faltered. There had been a reaction between the bow and his eye that saved their lives. Now, something told him to spare or rather save this man’s life; there was a purpose in it.
    ‘Why do you pursue me?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘I was not hunting you; I sought only the Bowman.’
    ‘But you would have killed me, if I hadn’t stopped you?’
    Tsungali glanced tentatively at his interrogator’s profile and gave a small nod.
    ‘So you do know that I stopped you?’
    Tsungali nodded again and began to tremble.
    ‘Do you also know that I saved your worthless life?’
    Again he nodded, tears forming and a great weight growing over his heart.
    The cyclops lowered his face and looked into his subordinate’s eyes; a great passion rose in him and swelled up, out of his chest.
    ‘You are mine!’ he boomed. His voice was commanding and alien to him, bred out of certainty and spite; the hunter shrivelled under its command, triggering some other instinct in Ishmael; he softened his tone a fraction. ‘What will you do for me?’ he asked.
    Tsungali directed a nod across the camp, indicating the pile of confiscated possessions; he seemed to have lost his power of speech. Ishmael stood and crossed the space to the small heap. He lifted each item, one at a time, until Tsungali signalled that he had reached the right one. In his hands was a bulky, brown leather belt, strung with pouches and bulging pockets. He inspected it suspiciously before returning to the prone man. Holding it up for a moment, he looked down into the man’s soul, then dropped it callously across his body. The buckle caught the end of his stump, and Tsungali jounced into spasm. Ishmael watched silently, waiting for the writhing to subside as some developing part of him sipped at the agony.
    Eventually, once the throb in his shoulder had returned to an almost bearable rhythm, Tsungali fumbled into the pouches with his only hand. He pulled out a small, unseen item and held it in his loosely bunched fist. Ishmael watched for signs of betrayal, but knew there would be none. The shaking hand slowly opened, palm up, cupping the small grass ball. From inside its woven cage, the eye stared out, focusing intently on its new owner.
    Williams shot the arrow vertically, up through the green shadows and into the bright sky; he did it to consult her in a way that sought no direction, at least not in the physical realm. She had changed, and his memory of her had shifted; they were no longer one body. There was no pain in the separation; it was as if they had simply worn