Waylander

14

Danyal and Waylander made love in a sheltered hollow away from the wagons, and the experience shook Waylander. He could not recall the moment of penetration, nor any sense of passion. He had been filled with a desire to be closer to Danyal, to somehow absorb her body into his own – or perhaps lose his own within hers. And for the first time in many years he had ceased to be aware of movement around him. He had been lost within the lovemaking.

Now alone, fear tugged at him.

What if Cadoras had crept upon them?

What if the Nadir had returned?

What if the Brotherhood … ?

What if?

Hewla was right. Love was a greater enemy at this time.

'You are getting old,' he told himself. 'Old and tired.'

He knew he was no longer as swift or as strong and the silver hairs were multiplying. Somewhere out in the vast blackness of the world was a young killer more swift, more deadly than the legendary Waylander. Was it Cadoras? Or one of the Brotherhood?

The moment of drama with the Nadir had been telling. Waylander had survived it on experience and bluff, for with Danyal beside him he had not wanted to die. His greatest strength had always been his lack of fear but now – when he needed all his talents –the fear was returning.

He rubbed at his eyes, aware of the need for sleep yet reluctant to give in. Sleep is the brother of Death, said the song. But it is gentle and kind. Weariness eased its warmth into his muscles, and the rock against which he sat seemed soft and welcoming. Too tired to pull his blankets over himself, he laid his head back on the rock and slept. As he fell into darkness he saw the face of Dardalion; the priest was calling to him, but he could not hear the words.

Durmast was sleeping beneath the lead wagon when the dream came to him. He saw a man in silver armour: a handsome young man, clean-cut and strong. Durmast was dreaming of a woman with hair of shining chestnut brown – and of a child, sturdy and strong. He pushed away the image of the warrior, but it returned again and again.

'What do you want?' shouted the giant, as the woman and the child shimmered and disappeared. 'Leave me!'

'Your profits are dust unless you wake,' said the warrior.

'Wake? I am awake.'

'You are dreaming. You are Durmast and you lead the wagons to Gulgothir.'

'Wagons?'

'Wake up, man! The hunters of the night are upon you!'

The giant groaned and rolled over; he sat up, rapping his head sharply against the base of the wagon, and cursed loudly. Rolling clear, he straightened – the dream had gone, but a lingering doubt remained.

Taking up a short double-headed axe, he moved towards the west.

Danyal awoke with a start. The dream had been powerful and in it Dardalion had urged her to seek Waylander. Easing herself past the sleeping baker and his family, she slid the sabre clear of its scabbard and leapt forward from the tailboard.

Durmast swung round as she appeared beside him.

'Don't do that!' he snapped. 'I might have taken your head off.'

Then he noticed the sword. 'Where do you think you are going with that?'

'I had a dream,' answered Danyal lamely.

'Stay close to me,' he ordered, moving away from the wagons.

The night was clear, but clouds drifted across the moon and Durmast spat out an oath as he strained to see into the darkness. A hint of movement to the left! His arm swept out, knocking Danyal from her feet. Arrows hissed by him as he dived for the ground. Then a dark shadow lunged at him and the axe swept up to cleave into the man's side, smashing his ribs to shards before exiting in a bloody swathe. Danyal rolled to her feet as the clouds suddenly cleared to show two men in black armour running towards her with swords raised. She dived forward, rolling on her shoulder, and the men cannoned into her and fell headlong into the dust. Danyal came up, fast spearing the point of the sabre into the back of one man's neck; the second man swung round and lunged at her, but Durmast's axe buried itself in his back. His eyes opened wide, but he was dead before a scream could sound.

'Waylander!' bellowed Durmast as more black shapes came from the darkness.

At the boulder Waylander stirred, his eyes drifting open but his body heavy with deep sleep. Above him a man crouched, a wickedly curved blade in his hand.

'Now you die,' said the man and Waylander was powerless to stop him. But suddenly the man froze and his jaw dropped. Sleep fell from the assassin and his hand whipped out to punch his assailant from his feet. As he fell, Waylander saw that a long goose-feathered shaft had pierced the base of his skull.

Rolling to his left, Waylander lunged upright with knives in his hands as a dark figure leapt at him, He blocked the downward sweep of the sword, catching it on the hilt-guard of his left-hand knife. Dropping his shoulder, he stabbed his attacker low in the groin; the man twisted as he fell, tearing the knife from Waylander's hand.

The clouds closed in once more and Waylander threw himself to the ground, rolled several yards and lay still.

There was no movement around him.

For several minutes he strained to hear, closing his eyes and calming his mind.

Satisfied that his attackers had fled, he slowly raised himself to his feet. The clouds cleared …

Waylander spun on his heel, his hand whipping out. The black-bladed knife thudded into the shoulder of a kneeling archer. Waylander ran forward as the man lunged to his feet, but his opponent side-stepped and ran off into the darkness.

Weaponless, Waylander dropped to one knee and waited.

A scream sounded from the direction the wounded man had taken. Then a voice drifted to the kneeling assassin:

'You had best be more careful, Waylander.' A dark object sailed into the air to land with a thud beside him. It was his knife.

'Why did you save me?'

'Because you are mine,' replied Cadoras.

'I will be ready.'

'I hope so.'

Durmast and Danyal ran to him.

'Who were you speaking to?' asked the giant.

'Cadoras. But it doesn't matter – let's go back to the wagons.'

Together the trio moved back into the relative sanctuary of the camp, where Durmast stoked a dying fire to life and then cleaned the blood from his axe.

'That is some woman you have there,' he said. 'She killed three of the swine! And you had me thinking she was a casual bedmate! You are a subtle devil, Waylander.'

'They were Brotherhood warriors,' said the assassin, 'and they used some kind of sorcery to push me into sleep. I should have guessed.'

'Dardalion saved you,' said Danyal. 'He came to me in a dream.'

'A silver warrior with fair hair?' asked Durmast.

Danyal nodded.

'He came to me also. You have powerful friends – a she-devil and a sorcerer.'

'And a giant with a battleaxe,' said Danyal.

'Do not confuse business with friendship,' muttered Durmast. 'And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some sleep to catch up on.'

The old man gazed with weary eyes at the Vagrian warriors seated before him in what had once been the Palace of Purdol. Their faces shone with the arrogance born of victory, and he knew only too well how he appeared to them: old, tired and weak.

Gan Degas removed his helm and laid it on the table.

Stone-faced, Kaem sat opposite him.

'I take it you are ready to surrender,' said Kaem.

'Yes. If certain conditions are met.'

'Name them.'

'My men are not to be harmed – they are to be released to return to their homes.'

'Agreed … once they have laid down their weapons and the fortress is ours.'

'Many citizens fled to the fortress; they also must be allowed to go free and reclaim the homes your men took from them.'

'Petty bureaucracy,' said Kaem. 'It will cause us no problems.'

'What guarantees of faith can you give me?' asked Degas.

Kaem smiled. 'What guarantees can any man give? You have my word – that should be enough between generals. If it is not, you have only to keep the gates barred and fight on.'

Degas dropped his eyes. 'Very well. I have your word, then?'

'Of course, Degas.'

'The gates will be opened at dawn.'

The old warrior pushed himself to his feet and turned to leave.

'Do not forget your helm,' mocked Kaem.

Laughter echoed in the corridor as Degas was led from the hall, flanked by two men in black cloaks. Out in the night air he walked along the docks and up towards the eastern gate. There a rope was lowered from the gate tower; Degas looped his wrist around it and was hauled up into the fortress.

Back at the palace, Kaem silenced his officers and turned to Dalnor.

'There are some four thousand men in the fortress. Killing them all will take some planning – I don't want a mountain of rotting corpses spreading plague and disease. I suggest you split the prisoners into twenty groups, then take them down to the harbour group by group. There are a score of empty warehouses. Kill them and cart their bodies into the discharged grain ships. Then they can be dumped at sea.

'Yes, my lord. It will take some time.'

'We have time. We will leave a thousand men to man the fortress and push west into Skultik. The war is almost over, Dalnor.'

'Indeed it is – thanks to you, my lord.'

Kaem swung round to a dark-bearded officer on his right.

'What news of Waylander?'

'He still lives, Lord Kaem. Last night he and his friends fought off an attack by my Brothers. But more are on their way.'

'I must have the Armour.'

'You will have it, my lord. The Emperor has commissioned the assassin Cadoras to hunt Waylander. And twenty of my Brothers are closing in. Added to this, we have received word from the robber Durmast; he asks 20,000 silver pieces for the Armour.'

'Of course you agreed?'

'No, my lord, we beat him down to 15,000. He would have been suspicious had we met his original request without argument. Now we have his trust.'

'Be careful of Durmast,' warned Kaem. 'He is like a rogue lion – he will turn on anyone.'

'Several of his men are in our employ, my lord; we have anticipated all eventualities. The Armour is ours. Waylander is ours – just as the Drenai are ours.'

'Beware of over-confidence, Nemodes. Do not count the lion's teeth until you see flies on his tongue.'

'But surely, my lord, the issue is no longer in doubt?'

'I had a horse once, the fastest beast I ever owned. It could not lose and I wagered a fortune on it. But a bee stung it in the eye just before the start. The issue is always in doubt.'

'Yet you said the war was almost over,' protested Nemodes.

'So it is. And until it is, we will remain wary.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'There are three men who must die. Karnak is one. Egel is the second. But most of all I want to see Waylander's head on a lance.'

'Why Karnak?' asked Dalnor. 'One battle is not sufficient to judge him dangerous.'

'Because he is reckless and ambitious. We cannot plan for him,' answered Kaem.

'There are some men who are good swordsmen, archers or strategists. There are others, seemingly gifted by the Gods, who are masters of all they touch. Karnak is one of these – I cannot read him and that disturbs me.'

'He is said to be in Skarta, serving under Egel,' said Dalnor. 'We will have him soon.'

'Perhaps,' said Kaem doubtfully.

Kaem fought to control his tension as he stood at the head of the Second Legion in the shadow of the eastern gate. Dawn was now minutes old, but still there was no movement from beyond the gates. He was acutely aware of the hostile stares from the archers on the battlements of the gate tower as he stood in full red and bronze battle gear with the sweat trickling between his shoulder-blades.

Dalnor stood behind him, flanked by swordsmen: dark-eyed warriors of the First Elite, the most deadly fighting men of the Second Legion of the Hounds of Chaos.

The sound of tightening ropes and the groaning of rusty ratchets ended Kaem's tension – beyond the gates of oak and iron, the huge bronze reinforced bar was being lifted. Minutes passed and then the gates creaked open. A swelling sense of triumph grew within Kaem, but he swallowed it back, angry at the power of his emotions.

Behind him men began shuffling their feet, anxious to end the long siege and enter the hated fortress.

The gates widened.

Kaem walked into the shadows of the portcullis and out into the bright sunlight of the courtyard …

And there stopped so suddenly that Dalnor walked into him knocking him forward; his helmet tipped over his eyes and he straightened it. The courtyard was ringed with fighting men, swords drawn. At the centre, leaning on a double-headed battleaxe, stood a huge warrior, barbarously ill-clad. The man handed the axe to a companion and strolled forward.

'Who is that fat clown?' whispered Dalnor.

'Be silent!' ordered Kaem, his brain working at furious pace.

'Welcome to Dros Purdol,' said the man, smiling.

'Who are you, and where is Gan Degas?'

'The Gan is resting. He asked me to discuss your surrender.'

'What nonsense is this?'

'Nonsense, my dear general?' What can you mean?'

'Gan Degas agreed to surrender to me today after his conditions were met.' Kaem licked his lips nervously as the huge warrior grinned down at him.

'Ah, the conditions,' he said. 'I think there was a misunderstanding. When Gan Degas asked for safety for his men, he didn't quite mean taking them in groups of twenty to the warehouse dock and killing them.' The man's eyes narrowed and the humour vanished from his smile. 'I opened the gates to you, Kaem, so that you could see me. Know me … Understand me. There will be no surrender. I have brought with me three thousand men,' lied Karnak, 'and I command this fortress.'

'Who are you?'

'Karnak. Bear the name in mind, Vagrian, for it will be the death of you.'

'You make loud noises, Karnak, but few men fear a yapping dog.'

'True, but you fear me, little man,' said Karnak equably. 'Now – you have twenty seconds to clear your men from the gate. After that the air will be thick with arrows and death. Go !'

Kaem turned on his heel to find himself staring at several hundred warriors – the cream of his force – and the full humiliation struck him like a blow. He was inside the fortress with the gates open, yet he could not order the attack for every archer had his bow bent and the shaft aimed at himself. And to save himself – and save himself he must – he had to order them to withdraw. His stock would sink among the men and morale would be severely dented.

He swung back, his face purple with fury. 'Enjoy your moment, Drenai! There will be few such highlights from now on.'

'Fifteen seconds,' said Karnak.

'Back!' shouted Kaem. 'Back through the gates.'

The sound of mocking laughter followed the Vagrian general as he shouldered his way through his troops.

'Close the gates,' yelled Karnak, 'and then get ready for the whoresons!'

Gellan moved alongside Karnak. 'What did you mean about warehouses and killing?'

'Dardalion told me that was the plan. Kaem had promised Degas that the men would be unharmed; it was a foul lie and exactly what you would expect from Kaem, but Degas was too weary to see it.'

'Speaking of weariness,' said Gellan, 'having spent more than ten hours burrowing through rock below the dungeons, I am feeling a little weary myself.'

Karnak thumped him hard between the shoulder-blades. 'Your men worked well, Gellan. The Gods only know what would have happened had we arrived an hour later. Still, it is good to know we are riding a lucky horse, eh?'

'Lucky, general? We have burrowed our way into a besieged fortress and have angered the most powerful general on the continent. Tell me what's lucky.'

Karnak chuckled. 'He was the most powerful general on the continent, but he suffered today. He was humiliated. That won't help him; it will open a little tear in his cloak of invincibility.'

Jonat stalked the wall shouting at the fifty men under his command. They had been disgraced that morning, breaking in panic as the Vagrians cleared the wall beside the gate tower. With ten swordsmen, Jonat had rushed in to plug the gap and by some miracle the rangy, black-bearded Legion rider had escaped injury though six of his comrades had died beside him. Karnak had seen the danger and run to Jonat's aid, swinging a huge double-headed battle-axe, followed by a hundred fighting men. The battle by the gate tower was brief and bloody, and by the end of it the men of Jonat's section had returned to the fighting.

Now, with dusk upon them and the sun sinking in fire, Jonat lashed them with his tongue. Beyond his anger the tall warrior knew the cause of their panic, even understood it. Half the men were Legion warriors, half were conscripted farmers and merchants. The warriors did not trust the farmers to stand firm, while the farmers felt out of their depth and lost within the mad hell of slashing swords and frenzied screams.

What was worse, it had been the warriors who had broken.

'Look around you,' shouted Jonat, aware that other soldiers were watching the scene. 'What do you see? A fortress of stone? It is not as it appears – it is a castle built of sand and the Vagrians lash at it like an angry sea. It stands only so long as the sand binds together. You understand that, you dolts? Today you fled in terror and the Vagrians breached the wall. Had it not been retaken swiftly they would have flowed into the courtyard behind the gates and the fortress would have become a giant tomb.

'Can you not get it through your heads that there is nowhere to run? We fight or we die.

'Six men died beside me today. Good men – better men than you. You think of them tomorrow when you want to run.'

One of the men, a young merchant, hawked and spat. 'I did not ask to be here,' he said bitterly.

'Did you say something, rabbit?' hissed Jonat.

'You heard me.'

'Yes, I heard you. And I watched you today, sprinting away from the wall like your backside was on fire.'

'I was trying to catch up with your Legion soldiers,' snapped the man. 'They were leading the retreat.' An angry murmur greeted his words, but this fell to silence as a tall man moved along the battlements. He placed his hand on Jonat's shoulder and smiled apologetically.

'May I say a few words, Jonat?'

'Of course, sir.'

The officer squatted down amongst the men and removed his helm. His eyes were grey-blue and showed the weariness of six days and nights of bitter struggle. He rubbed at them wearily, then looked up at the young merchant.

'What is your name, my friend?'

'Andric,' replied the man suspiciously.

'I am Gellan. What Jonat said about a castle of sand was a truth to remember and was well put. Each one of you here is vital. Panic is a plague which can turn a battle, but so is courage. When Jonat led that suicidal counter-charge with only ten men, you all responded. You came back – I think you are the stronger for it. Beyond these walls is an enemy of true malevolence, who has butchered his way across Drenai lands slaying rnen, women and children. He is like rabid animal. But he stops here, for Dros Purdol is the leash around the mad dog's neck and Egel will be the lance that destroys him. Now I am not one for speeches, as Jonat here will testify, but I would like us all to be brothers here, for we are all Drenai and, in reality, we are the last hope of the Drenai race. If we cannot stand together on these walls, then we do not deserve to survive.

'Now look around you and if you see a face you do not recognise, ask a name. You have a few hours before the next attack. Use them to get to know your brothers.'

Gellan pushed himself to his feet, replaced his helm and moved away into the gathering darkness, taking Jonat with him.

'That there is a gentleman,' said Vanek, leaning his back to the wall and loosening the chin-strap of his helm. One of the ten to fight beside Jonat, he too had come through without a scratch, though his helm had been dented in two places and now sat awkwardly on his head. 'You listen to what he said – you take it in like it was written on tablets of stone. For those of you "brothers" who don't know me –my name is Vanek. Now I am a lucky bastard and anyone who feels like living ought to stay close to me. Anyone who feels like running tomorrow can run in my direction, because I am not going through those two speeches again.'

'You think we can really hold this place, Vanek?' asked Andric, moving over to sit beside him. 'All day ships have been arriving, bringing more Vagrians, and now they're building a siege tower.'

'I suppose it keeps them busy,' answered Vanek. 'As for the men, where do you think they are coming from? The more we face here, the less there are of them elsewhere. In short, brother Andric, we are bringing them together like pus in a boil. You think Karnak would have come here if he thought we could lose? The man's a political whoreson. Purdol is a stepping-stone to glory.'

'That's a little unfair,' said a lantern-jawed soldier with deep-set eyes.

'Maybe it is, brother Dagon, but I speak as I see. Do not misunderstand me – I respect the man, I'd even vote for him. But he's not like us; he has the mark of greatness on him and he put it there himself, if you understand me.'

'I don't,' said Dagon. 'As far as I can see he's a great warrior and he's fighting for the Drenai same as me.'

'Then let's leave it at that,' said Vanek, smiling. 'We both agree he's a great warrior, and brothers like us shouldn't quarrel.'

Above them in the gate tower Karnak, Dundas and Gellan sat under the new stars and listened to the conversation. Karnak was grinning broadly as he signalled Gellan to the other side of the ramparts where their talk could not be overheard.

'Intelligent man, that Vanek,' said Karnak softly, his eyes locked on Gellan's face.

Gellan grinned. 'Yes, he is, sir. Except for women!'

'There isn't a man alive who knows how to deal with women,' said Karnak. 'I should know – I have been married three times and never learned a damned thing.'

'Does Vanek worry you, sir?'

Karnak's eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of humour in them. 'And if he does?'

'If he did, you wouldn't be a man I follow.'

'Well put. I like a man who stands by his own. Do you share his views?'

'Of course, but then so do you. There are no saga-poet heroes. Each man has his own reason for being prepared to die, and most of the reasons are selfish – like protecting wife, home or self. You have bigger dreams than most men, general; there's no harm in that.'

'I am glad you think so,' said Karnak, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

'When you do not want to hear the truth, sir, let me know. I can lie as glibly as any man.'

'The truth is a dangerous weapon. Gellan. For some it is like sweet wine, for others it is poison, yet it remains the same. Go and get some sleep – you look exhausted, man.'

'What was all that about?' asked Dundas as Gellan moved into the torch-lit stairwell.

Karnak shrugged and walked to the ramparts, gazing r ut over the camp-fires of the Vagrian army around the harbour. Two ships were gliding on a jet-black sea towards the dock, their decks lined with men.

'Gellan worries me,' said Karnak.

'In what way? He's a good officer – you've said that yourself.'

'He gets too close to his men. He thinks he is cynic, but in fact he's a romantic – searching for heroes in a world that has no use for them. What makes a man like that?'

'Most men think you are a hero, sir.'

'But Gellan does not want a pretend hero, Dundas. What was it Vanek called me? A political whoreson? Is it a crime to want a strong land, where savage armies cannot enter??'

'No, sir, but then you are not a pretend hero. You are a hero who pretends to be otherwise.'

But Karnak appeared not to have heard. He was staring out over the harbour as three more ships ghosted in towards the jetty.

Dardalion touched the wounded soldier's forehead and the man's eyes closed, the lines of pain disappearing from his face. He was young and had not yet found need of a razor. Yet his right arm was hanging from a thread of muscle and his torn stomach was held in place by a broad leather belt.

'There is no hope for this one,' Astila's mind pulsed.

'I know,' answered Dardalion. 'He sleeps now … the sleep of death.'

The makeshift hospital was packed with beds, pallets and stretchers. Several women moved among the injured men – changing bandages, mopping brows, talking to the wounded in soft compassionate voices. Karnak had asked the women to help and their presence aided the men beyond even the skill of the surgeons, for no man likes to appear weak before a woman and so the injured gritted their teeth and made light of their wounds.

The chief surgeon – a spare slight man named Evris – approached Dardalion. The two had struck up an instant friendship and the surgeon had been overwhelmingly relieved when the priests augmented his tiny force.

'We need more room,' said Evris, wiping his sweating brow with a bloody cloth.

'It is too hot in here,' said Dardalion. 'I can smell disease in the air.'

'What you can smell is the corpses below. Gan Degas had nowhere to bury them.'

'Then they must be burnt.'

'I agree, but think of the effect on morale. To see your friends cut down is one thing, to see them tossed on a raging fire is another.'

'I'll talk to Karnak.'

'Have you seen anything of Gan Degas?' asked Evris.

'No. Not for several days in fact.'

'He's a proud man.'

'Most warriors are. Without that pride there would be no wars.'

'Karnak used hard words on him – called him a coward and a defeatist. Neither was true. A braver, stronger man never lived. He was trying to do what was best for his men and had he known Egel still fought, he would never have thought of surrender.'

'What do you want from me, Evris?'

'Talk to Karnak – persuade him to apologise, to spare the old man's feelings. It would cost Karnak nothing, but it would save Degas from despair.'

'You are a good man, surgeon, to think of such a thing when you are exhausted from your labours among the wounded. I will do as you bid.'

'And then get some sleep. You look ten years older than when you arrived six days ago.'

'That is because we work during the day and we guard the fortress by night. But you are right again. It is arrogant of me to believe I can go on like this for ever. I will rest soon, I promise you.'

Dardalion walked from the ward to a small side-room and stripped off his bloodied apron. He washed swiftly, pouring fresh water from a wooden bucket into an enamelled bowl; then he dressed. He started to buckle on his breastplate, but the weight bore him down and he left his armour on the narrow pallet bed and wandered along the cool corridor. As he reached the open doors to the courtyard the sounds of battle rushed upon him – clashing swords and bestial screams, shouted orders and the anguished wails of the dying.

Slowly he climbed the worn stone steps into the Keep, leaving the dread clamour behind him. Degas' rooms were at the top of the Keep and there Dardalion tapped at the door and waited, but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The main room was neat and spartanly furnished with a carved wooden table and seven chairs. Rugs were laid before a wide hearth and a cabinet stood by the window. Dardalion sighed deeply and strode to the cabinet. Inside were campaign medals ranging over forty years, and some mementoes – a carved shield presented to Dun Degas to celebrate a cavalry charge, a dagger of solid gold, a long silver sabre with the words FOR THE ONE etched in acid on the blade.

Dardalion sat down and opened the cabinet. On the bottom shelf were the diaries of Degas, one for every year of his military service. Dardalion opened them at random. The writing was perfectly rounded and showed a disciplined hand, while the words themselves gave evidence of the military mind.

One ten-year-old entry read:

Sathuli raiding party struck at Skarta outskirts on the eleventh. Two forces of Fifty sent to engage and destroy. Albar led the First, I the Second. My force trapped them on the slopes beyond Ekarlas. Frontal charge hazardous as they were well protected by boulders. I split the force into three sections and we climbed around and above them, dislodging them with arrows. They tried to break out at dusk, but by then I had deployed Albar's men in the arroyo below and all the raiders were slain. Regret to report we lost two men, Esdric and Garlan, both fine riders. Eighteen raiders were despatched.

Dardalion carefully replaced the diary, seeking the most recent.

The writing was more shaky now:

We enter the second month of siege and I see no hope of success. I am not able to sleep as I used. Dreams. Bad dreams fill my night hours.

And then:

Hundreds dying. I have started to experience the strangest visions. I feel that I am flying in the night sky, and I can see the lands of the Drenai below me. Nothing but corpses. Niallad dead. Egel dead.

All the world is dead, and only we mock the world of ghosts.

Ten days earlier Degas had written:

My son Elnar died today, defending the gate tower. He was twenty-six and strong as a bull, but an arrow cut him down and he fell out over the wall and on to the enemy. He was a good man and his mother, bless her soul, would have been proud of him. I am now convinced that we stand alone against Vagria and know we cannot hold for long. Kaem has promised to crucify every man, woman and child in Purdol unless we surrender. And the dreams have begun once more, whispering demons in my head. It is getting so hard to think clearly.

Dardalion flipped the pages.

Karnak arrived today with a thousand men. My heart soared when he told me Egel still fought, but then I realised how close I came to betraying everything I have given my life to protect. Kaem would have slain my men and the Drenai would have been doomed. Harsh words I heard from young Karnak, but richly deserved they were. I have failed.

And the last page:

The dreams have gone and I am at peace. It occurs to me now that through all my married life I never spoke to Rula of love. I never kissed her hand, as courtiers do, nor brought her flowers. So strange. Yet all men knew I loved her, for I bragged about her constantly. I once carved her a chair that had flowers upon it. It took me a month and she loved the chair. I have it still.

Dardalion closed the book and leaned back in the chair, gazing down on the lovingly carved and polished wood. It was a work of some artistry. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked to the bedroom where Degas lay on blood-soaked sheets, his knife still in his hand. His eyes were open and Dardalion gently closed the lids before covering the old man's face with a sheet.

'Lord of All Things,' said Dardalion, 'lead this man home.'