Waylander

12

When Karnak entered the council chamber, the twenty officers stood and saluted. Waving them to their seats, the general moved to the head of the table and removed his cloak, draping it over the chair behind him.

'Purdol is ready to fall,' he declared, his blue eyes scanning the grim faces around the table. 'Gan Degas is old, tired and ready to crack. There are no Source priests at Purdol and the Gan has received no news for more than a month. He believes he is alone.'

Karnak waited, allowing the news to sink in and gauging the rising tension. He watched Gellan, noting the sustained absence of emotion. Not so young Sarvaj, who had leaned back with disappointment etched into his features. Jonat was whispering to Gellan, and Karnak knew what he was saying; he was harping on past mistakes. Young Dundas waited expectantly, his belief in Karnak total. The general glanced around the table. He knew every man present, their weaknesses and their strengths – the officers prone to melancholy and those whose reckless courage was more dangerous than cowardice.

'I am going to Purdol,' he said, judging the moment. A gasp went up from the men and he lifted his hand for silence. 'There are three armies ranged against us, with Purdol taking the lion's share. If the fortress falls it will release 40,000 men to invade Skultik. We cannot stand against such a force. So I am going there.'

'You will never get in,' said one officer, a bearded Legion warrior named Emden. 'The gates are sealed.'

'There is another way,' said Karnak. 'Over the mountains.'

'Sathuli lands,' muttered Jonat. 'I've been there. Treacherous passes, ice-covered ledges – it is impassable.'

'No,' said Dundas, rising to his feet. 'Not impassable – we have more than fifty men working to clear the way.'

'But the mountains do not lead into the fortress,' protested Gellan. There is a sheer cliff rising from the back of Purdol. It would be impossible to climb down.'

'We are not going over the mountain,' said Karnak. 'We are going through it. There is a deep honeycomb of caves and tunnels and one tunnel leads through to the dungeons below the main Keep; at the moment it is blocked, but we will clear it. Jonat is right: the way is difficult and there will be no room for horses. I intend to take a thousand men, each bearing sixty pounds of supplies. Then we will hold until Egel breaks out of Skultik …'

'But what if he doesn't?' demanded Jonat.

'Then we retreat through the mountains and disperse into small raiding groups.'

Sarvaj raised his hand. 'One question only, general. According to the fortress specifications, Purdol should be manned by 10,000 men. Even if we get through, we will only raise the defenders to a sixty-per-cent complement. Can we thus hold?'

'Only architects and bureaucrats work in numbers, Sarvaj. The first wall at Purdol has already fallen, which means that the harbour and the docks are already held by the Vagrians and allowing them to ship in supplies and troops. The second wall has only two gates and they are holding firm. The third wall has but one gate – and after that there is the Keep. A strong force could hold Purdol for at least three months; we will not need more than that.'

Gellan cleared his throat. 'Have we any idea,' he said, 'as to losses at Purdol?'

Karnak nodded. 'Eight hundred men. Six hundred dead, the rest too badly wounded to fight.'

'And what of Skarta?' asked Jonat. 'There are Drenai families here depending on us for protection.'

Karnak rubbed at his eyes and let the silence grow. This was the question he had feared.

'There is a time for hard decisions, and we have reached it. Our presence here may give the people hope, but it is false hope. Skarta is indefensible. Egel knows it, I know it – and that is why he raids the west, to keep the Vagrians on the move, to disconcert them and hopefully to prevent a large-scale invasion here. But we are pinning down troops desperately needed elsewhere. We will leave a token force of some 200 men … but that is all.'

'The people will be wiped out,' said Jonat, rising to his feet, his face flushed and angry.

'They will be wiped out anyway,' started Karnak, 'should the Vagrians attack. At the moment the enemy waits for Purdol to fall and they won't risk entering the forest. Holding Purdol is the best chance for Skarta and the other Skultik towns. Egel will be left with just under 4,000 men, but there are others coming in from the mountains of Skoda. We must win him time.'

'I know what you are thinking: that it is madness. I agree with you! But the Vagrians have all the advantages. Every major port is in their hands. The Lentrian army is being pushed back. Drenan has fallen and the routes to Mashrapur are closed. Purdol alone holds against them. If it falls before Egel breaks clear, we are finished and the Drenai will be wiped out. The Vagrian farmers are being offered choice Drenai lands, merchants are planning for the day when all of our lands will be part of Greater Vagria. We are doomed people unless we take our fate in our hands and risk everything.

'Quite simply, my friends, there is no more room for manoeuvre. Bereft of choices, we must hold the tiger by the throat and hope that he weakens before we tire. Tomorrow we ride for Purdol.'

Deep down Gellan knew the venture was perilous, moreover a tiny spark of doubt told him that Karnak's real reason for wanting to aid Purdol owed more to personal ambition than to strategic sanity. And yet …

Was it not better to follow a charismatic leader to the gates of Hell, rather than a mediocre general to a dull defeat?

The meeting ended at dusk and Gellan wandered to his tiny room to pack his few possessions into canvas and leather saddlebags. There were three shirts, two sets of woollen leggings, a battered leather-covered hand-written Legion manual, a jewelled dagger and an oval wooden painting of a blonde woman and two young children. He sat down on the bed, removed his helmet and studied the portrait. When it had been presented to him he had disliked it, feeling it failed to capture the reality of their smiles, the joy of their lives. Now he saw it as a work of rare genius. Carefully he wrapped the painting in oilskin and placed it in a saddlebag between the shirts. Lifting the dagger, he slid it from its scabbard; he had won it two years before when he became the first man to win the Silver Sword six times.

His children had been so proud of him at the banquet. Dressed in their best clothes, they had sat like tiny adults, their eyes wide and their smiles huge. And Karys had spilt not one drop of soup on her white dress, a fact she pointed out to him all evening. But his wife, Ania, had not attended the banquet; the noise, she had said, would only make her head ache.

Now they were dead, their souls lost to the Void. It had been hard when the children died, bitter hard. And Gellan had retreated into himself, having nothing left with which to comfort Ania. Alone she had been unable to cope and eighteen days after the tragedy she had hung herself with a silken scarf … Gellan had found the body. Plague had claimed his children. Suicide took his wife.

Now all he had was the Legion.

And tomorrow it would head for Purdol and the gates of Hell.

Dardalion waited silently for his visitor. An hour ago the Drenai general Karnak had arrived at the meadow, and had sat outlining his plan to aid Purdol. He had asked if Dardalion could help him, by keeping at bay the spirits of the Dark Brotherhood. 'It is vital we arrive unnoticed,' said Karnak. 'If there is the merest whisper of my movements, the Vagrians will be waiting for us.'

'I will do what I can, Lord Karnak.'

'Do better than that, Dardalion. Kill the whoresons.'

After he had gone, Dardalion knelt on the grass before his tent and bowed his head in prayer. He had stayed thus for more than an hour when the Abbot came and knelt before him.

Dardalion sensed his presence and opened his eyes. The old man looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed and sorrowful.

'Welcome, Lord Abbot,' said Dardalion.

'What have you done?' asked the old man.

'My Lord, I am sorry for the pain you feel, but I can only do what I feel is right.'

'You have sundered my brotherhood. Twenty-nine priests are now preparing for war and death. It cannot be right.'

'If it is wrong, we will pay for it, for the Source is righteous and will suffer no evil.'

'Dardalion, I came to plead with you. Leave this place, find a far monastery in another land and return to your studies. The Source will show you the path.'

'He has shown me the path, my lord.'

The old man bowed his head and tears fell to the grass.

'I am powerless, then, against you?'

'Yes, my lord. Whereas I am not against you at all.'

'You are now a leader, chosen by those who would follow you. What title will you carry, Dardalion. The Abbot of Death?'

'No, I am not an abbot. We will fight without hate and we will find no joy in the battle. And when it is won – or lost – we will return to what we were.'

'Can you not see the folly in your words? You will fight evil on its own ground, with its own weapons. You will defeat it. But will that end the war? It may stop the Brotherhood, but there are other brotherhoods and other evils. Evil does not die, Dardalion. It is a weed in the garden of life. Cut it, burn it, uproot it, yet will it return the stronger. This path of yours has no ending – the war merely changes.'

Dardalion said nothing, the truth of the Abbot's words hammering home to him.

'In this you are right, my lord. I see that. And I see also that you are correct when you name me "Abbot". We cannot merely become Soul Warriors. There must be order and our mission must be finite. I will consider your words carefully.'

'But you will not change your immediate course?'

'It is set. What I have done, I have done in faith and I will not go back on it, any more than you will break your own faith.'

'Why not, Dardalion? You have already broken faith once. You took an oath that all human life –all life, indeed – would be sacred to you. Now you have slain several men and have eaten meat. Why should one more act of "faith" concern you?'

'I cannot argue with that, my lord,' said Dardalion. 'The truth of it grieves me.'

The Abbot pushed himself to his feet. 'I hope that history does not recall you and your Thirty, Dardalion, though I fear that it will. Men are always impressed by acts of violence. Build your legend carefully, lest it destroy all we stand for.'

The Abbot walked away into the darkening dusk where Astila and the other priests waited in silence. They bowed as he passed, but he ignored them.

The priests gathered in a ring around Dardalion and waited while he concluded his prayers. Then he looked up.

'Welcome, my friends. Tonight we must aid Lord Karnak, but above this we must learn about ourselves. There is more than a chance that the path we follow is the road to perdition, for it may be that everything we do is against the will of the Source. So we must hold in our hearts the strength of our faith and the belief in our cause. Tonight some of us may die. Let us not travel to the Source with hate in us. We will begin now by joining in prayer. We will pray for our enemies, and we will forgive them in our hearts.'

'How can we forgive them and then slay them?' asked a young priest.

'If we do not forgive, then hate will flower. But think on this: if you had a dog that became rabid, you would slay it with regret. You would not hate it. That is what I ask. Let us pray.'

As darkness closed in around them they concluded their communion, and their spirits rose into the night sky.

Dardalion glanced about him. All the priests were clothed in silver armour, shining shields upon their arms and swords of fire in their hands. The stars shone like gems in a blaze, and the mountains of the moon cast sharp shadows as The Thirty waited for the Brotherhood. All was silence.

Dardalion could feel the tension among the priests, for their minds were still linked. Doubts and uncertainties flickered and faded. The night was clear and calm, the forest below them bathed in silver light.

The hours stretched on, impossibly long, and fear ebbed and flowed among the priests to touch each of them with icy fingers.

The night grew more menacing and to the west sombre clouds gathered, staining the moonlight.

'They are coming!' pulsed Astila. 'I can sense it.'

'Be calm,' urged Dardalion.

The dark clouds drew nearer and Dardalion's sword flickered into his hand, the blade burning with white fire.

The clouds loomed and disgorged black-cloaked warriors who swept down on a wave of hatred that engulfed The Thirty. The dark emotion closed over Dardalion, but he shook himself free and soared to meet the attackers. His blade cut and sliced into their mass and his shield rang with returned blows. The Thirty flew to his aid and the battle was joined.

There were more than fifty black warriors, but they could not match the silver-armoured priests and their fiery swords, and they fell back towards the clouds. The Thirty gave chase.

Suddenly Astila screamed a mind warning and Dardalion, about to enter the clouds, veered away.

The cloud bunched in on itself – forming a bloated body, scaled and dark. Huge wings unfurled and a gaping red maw opened at the front of the beast. The Brotherhood were absorbed into its mass and it grew yet more solid.

'Back!' pulsed Dardalion, and The Thirty fled over the forest.

The beast pursued them and Dardalion halted in his flight, his mind racing. Somehow the combined forces of the Brotherhood had created this thing. Was it real? Instinctively he knew that it was.

'To me!' he pulsed. The Thirty gathered around him. 'One warrior. One mind. One mission,' he intoned, and The Thirty merged. Dardalion was swamped and his mind swam as his power multiplied.

Where there had been Thirty, now there was One whose eyes blazed with fire and whose sword was jagged like frozen lightning.

With a roar of rage, the One hurled himself at the beast. The creature reared and taloned arms raked out at the warrior, but the One hammered his lightning blade across its body, severing one limb at a stroke. The beast bellowed in pain and with jaws opened wide it plunged towards its attacker. The One looked up into the giant maw, seeing row upon row of teeth, shaped like the dark swords of the Brotherhood. Hefting his blade, he threw it like a thunderbolt into the cavern of the mouth. As the weapon speared home the One created another and another, hurling them deep into the monster. The beast drew back, its form shifting and changing as the lightning blades lanced its body.

Small dark shapes fled from its mass and it shrank. Then the One spread his hands and flew like an arrow into the heart of the cloud, tearing at the astral flesh. His mind was full of screams and pain as the Brotherhood died one by one. When the cloud broke up and the surviving warriors fled for the safety of their bodies, the One hurled bolts of light at them as they went, then hovered under the stars, seeing them for the first time.

How beautiful, he thought. His far-seeing eyes scanned the planets, the shifting of colours, the swirling of distant clouds over dried-out oceans, and far off he spied a comet arcing through the galaxy. So much to see.

Within the One, Dardalion struggled for identity; his name was a lost thing to him and he fell asleep in the mass. Astila fought on, his thoughts things of mist ebbing and flowing. One. The One. More than One. Numbers. A wave of joy suffused him as he fought, and his vision was blanked by the sight of a meteor shower exploding in rainbow colours through the atmosphere. The One was mightily pleased with the display.

Astila clung to his task. Numbers. A number. No … not One. Slowly he forced himself to count, searching what was left of his memory for thoughts that were his alone. Then a name struck him. Dardalion. Was it his name? No. Another. He called out weakly, but there was no response. A number.

Thirty. That was the number of power. Thirty . The One shivered and Astila burst clear.

'Who are you?' asked the One.

'Astila.'

'Why have you withdrawn from me? We are One.'

'I seek Dardalion within you.'

'Dardalion?' said the One, and deep within him the young priest stirred to life. One by one Astila called the names of The Thirty and the priests came to themselves, drawing away confused and uncertain.

Dawn was near when Astila led the group home.

Once more in their bodies, they slept for several hours.

Dardalion was the first to wake. He roused the others and called Astila to him.

'Last night you saved us,' said Dardalion. 'You have a gift for seeing through deceptions.'

'But you created the One,' said Astila. 'Without that we would not have survived.'

'We almost did not survive. The One was as great a danger to us as the Cloudbeast and you saved us a second time. Yesterday the Abbot gave me a warning and I said I would think on his words. We need form, Astila … discipline. I shall be the Abbot of The Thirty. But you must have a senior part. I shall be the Voice and you will be the Eyes. Together we will find the path to the will of the Source.