White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER EIGHT

SITTING BY THE FIRE, THE SOFT SCENT OF WOODSMOKE

HANGING IN the night air, Rabalyn felt suddenly free of fear. In its place came a sweet melancholy. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and softer, safer days when she would mix stale bread with milk, dried fruit and honey and bake a pudding. They would sit in the evenings by the fire and cut deep slices, savouring each mouthful. In those days Rabalyn dreamed of being a great hero; of striding across the world carrying a magical sword. Of freeing maidens in distress and earning their undying love.

Now he had fought a beast, alongside a truly great warrior. He gazed down at the sleeping man. Druss had come seeking a friend. A kind of quest. Just like old Labbers had said. Warriors were always on quests, according to Labbers. Mostly they were hunting for magical jewels, or other items of sorcery. Or they were really kings in disguise. Rabalyn had loved the stories — even the stupid ones. He could never understand why a succession of otherwise sensible rulers would always send their eldest son on a quest. Surely they knew the first to go always died or got captured.

The second eldest would go. He’d fall down a pit, or get eaten by wolves, or seduced by witches. Finally the king would send his youngest, most inexperienced son. He would finish the quest, find the princess, and live happily ever after. If Rabalyn was a king he would send the youngest son first. He had often giggled during story time. Labbers had grown frustrated. ‘What is so funny, child?’

Rabalyn could never explain. He would just say: ‘Nothing, sir.’

Sometimes the king had no sons. Only daughters. These stories were great favourites among the other children. Rabalyn didn’t like them. The king would be looking for a suitor for his prettiest daughter. Every handsome, rich nobleman would ride in. Of course, they were doomed to failure. The man who would win the hand of the princess would be a kitchen lad, or a stable boy, or a young thief. He would naturally have to prove himself by slaying a dragon, or some such, and he would do it in a sneaky way that the children loved. Rabalyn’s dislike for those tales centred on the endings. It always turned out that the stable lad was the secret son of a great king, or a wizard. Princesses, it seemed, just didn’t fall in love with common folk.

Beside him the axeman was snoring softly. ‘You are not really a light sleeper,’ whispered Rabalyn.

‘Don’t let appearances fool you,’ answered the axeman. Rabalyn laughed, and added a chunk of wood to the fire. Druss sat up and yawned.

‘Were you the youngest son?’ asked Rabalyn.

The old warrior shook his head and scratched at his black and silver beard. ‘I was the only son.’

‘Did you ever fall in love with a princess?’

"No. My friend Sieben was the man for loving princesses. Well, princesses, duchesses, maids, courtesans. Anyone, really. He ended up marrying a Nadir warrior woman. That’s when he started to lose his hair.’

‘Did she put a spell on him?’

The axeman laughed. ‘No, boy, she just wore him out.’ For a while they talked. The fire was warm, the night peaceful. Rabalyn told the axeman about his Aunt Athyla and their little house, and how he had always dreamed of being a great warrior.

‘All boys want to be warriors,’ muttered Druss. ‘That’s why so many of them die young. We don’t achieve anything, you know, Rabalyn. At best we fight so that other men can achieve something. We’re not even important.’

‘I think you are important,’ objected Rabalyn.

The axeman laughed. ‘Of course you do. You’re young. A farmer ploughs the land, and grows crops. The crops feed the cities. In the cities men make laws, so that youngsters like you can grow in peace and learn. People marry and have children, and they teach them to respect the land and their fellow citizens. Philosophers and poets spread knowledge. The world grows. Then along comes a warrior, with a shining sword and a burning brand. He burns the farm and kills the farmer. He marches into cities and rapes the wives and maidens. He plants hate like a seed. When he comes there are only two choices. Run away — or send for men like me.’

‘But you are not like the killers and the rapers.’

‘I am what I am, boy. I try to make no excuses for my life. I wasn’t strong enough to be a farmer.’

This confused Rabalyn, who had never seen a stronger man. No farmer could have stood against the beasts as this man had. Rabalyn threw some sticks on the fire and watched them blaze.

‘How did the Immortals lose at Skein?’ he asked.

‘They faced better fighters on the day.’

‘Better fighters than you?’

‘You are a bottomless pit of questions.’

‘There’s so much I don’t know.’

‘Ah, well, we are not so unalike then, Rabalyn. There is so much I don’t know.’

‘But you are old and wise.’

The axeman stared hard at the boy. ‘I’d be happier if you stopped talking about my age. Bad enough living this long, without there being constant reminders.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And I’m not wise, Rabalyn. Had I been wise I would have stayed home with the woman I loved. I’d have farmed and planted trees. I’d have raised cattle, and sold them at market. Instead I found wars and battles to fight.

Old and wise? I’ve met wise men who were young, and stupid men who were old. I’ve met good men who did evil things, and evil men who tried to do good. It’s all beyond my understanding.’

‘Did you have children?’

‘No. I regret that. Though I have to say that I get tense around the very young. The screaming and the squalling grates on me. I’m not a great lover of noise. Or people, come to that. They irritate me.’

‘Do you want me to stop talking?’

‘Laddie, you came down that tree and probably saved my life. You can talk as much as you like. Sing and dance if you want to. I may be cantankerous, but I’m never ungrateful. I owe you.’

Rabalyn felt a surge of pride. He wished he could hold on to this moment for ever. The silence grew. Rabalyn listened to the crackle of burning wood, and felt the night breeze blowing against his skin. He looked back at the axeman. ‘If you truly are like those killers who attack cities then why did you help those people when the soldiers were killing them?’

‘Had to, laddie. It’s the code.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Rabalyn.

‘That’s the only difference between me and the killers. They see what they want and they take it. They have become just like those beasts we slew tonight. Outwardly they look like the rest of us. Under the skin they are savage and cruel. They have no mercy. That beast is in me too, Rabalyn. I keep it chained. The code holds it.’

‘What is the code?’

The axeman gave a grim smile. ‘If I tell you, then you must swear to live by it. Do you really want to hear it? It could be the death of you.’

‘Yes.’

The axeman leaned back and closed his eyes. When he spoke it was as if he was reciting a prayer. The words hung in the air. ‘Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.’

‘Did your father teach you that?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘No. It was a friend. His name was Shadak. I have been lucky with my friends, Rabalyn. I hope you are too.’

‘Is it Shadak you are looking for?’

Druss shook his head. ‘No, he died a long while back. He was more than seventy. He was knifed in an alleyway by three robbers.’

‘Were they caught?’

‘Two were caught and hanged. One escaped. He fled to a settlement in the high hills. A friend of Shadak’s tracked him down and killed him, and the gang that he had joined.’

‘So who are you looking for?’

‘The young Earl of Dros Purdol. He came to Mellicane two months ago, and then went missing.’

‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ said Rabalyn.

‘Aye, the thought had occurred to me. I hope not. He’s a good man, and he has an eight-year-old daughter, Elanin, who is a constant joy.

Whenever I see her she makes daisy chains I have to wear in my hair.’

Rabalyn laughed, as he pictured the grim warrior with a crown of flowers. ‘I thought you said you got tense around the young?’

‘I do. Elanin is an exception. Last year on my farm a wild dog ran at her.

Most children would have panicked. The dog was large and it would have savaged her. Even as I ran to ward it off she picked up a stick and thumped it across the nose. It yelped and fled.’

‘And you like her because she’s brave?’

‘I admire courage, boy.’ The old man sighed. ‘1 expect she’s back in Dros Purdol now worried sick about her father. To see the two of them together lifts the heart.’

‘Can I travel with you to Mellicane?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Of course. But your friends will come for you.’

‘I don’t think so. We were scattered when the beasts attacked. I expect they’ll just go on without me.’

Druss shook his head. ‘As you get older you’ll learn to judge men better.

The man with the swords would never leave a friend behind. He’ll keep looking until he finds you.’

‘Unless the beasts killed him.’

‘That would surprise me,’ said the axeman. ‘Trust me. He would be a hard man to kill. Now you should get some sleep. I’ll sit for a while and -

with your leave — enjoy a little silence.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rabalyn, with a smile. Settling down by the fire he tried to stay awake. He wanted to savour this night, to fill his mind with it so that not even the smallest detail would ever be lost to him.

‘Was your father a king?’ he asked sleepily.

‘No. He was a common man, like me.’

‘I’m glad.’

Rabalyn was almost asleep when the wind changed. He heard distant howling, and what sounded like a scream of pain.

‘There’s others fighting tonight,’ said Druss. ‘May the Source be with them.’

The sound of the old man’s voice comforted the youth.

And he slept.

Elanin was a bright child, and, until recently, happy and contented.

When her mother arrived for one of her infrequent visits to Dros Purdol she had been pleased to see her. When Mother said she was going to take her on a trip to sea, to meet her father in Mellicane, she had been delighted. She hoped, as children do, it meant that Mother and Father were getting back together, and would be friends again.

But it had all been a lie.

Father hadn’t been in Mellicane. Instead Mother had brought her to a huge palace, and there she had met the awful Shakusan Ironmask. The meeting had not, at first, been frightening. Ironmask was a big man, wide-shouldered and powerful. He was not wearing the mask that gave him his name. His face was handsome, though strangely discoloured from the bridge of his nose down to his chin. One of the servants back at Dros Purdol had a purple birthmark too, on the side of his face. But this was far worse.

Mother said that he was going to be her new father. This was just so silly, and Elanin had laughed. Why would she need a new father? She loved the one she had. Mother had said that Father didn’t want her any more, and had instructed she was now to live with her mother. At this Elanin became angry. She knew in her heart this was yet another lie and she had told her mother so. It was then that Ironmask had struck her on the face with the flat of his hand. No-one had ever hit her before, and Elanin had been more shocked than hurt. The force of the blow knocked her to the floor. Ironmask loomed over her. ‘In my home you will treat your mother with respect,’ he said. ‘Or you will suffer for it.’ Then he had left.

Mother had knelt by her, helping her to her feet, and stroking her blond hair. ‘There, you see,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t make him angry. You must never make him angry.’ It was then that Elanin saw her mother was frightened.

‘He is a horrible man,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to stay here.’

Mother looked suddenly terrified, and swung to see if the comment was overheard. ‘Don’t speak like that!’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Promise me you never will again.’

‘I won’t promise you. I want my father.’

Things will get better. Trust me, they will. Oh, please, Elanin. Just try to be nice to him. He can be charming and wonderful and generous. You’ll see. It is just that he has a… terrible temper. There is a war, you see, and he is under a great deal of strain.’

‘I hate him,’ said Elanin. ‘He hit me.’

‘Listen to me,’ said her mother, drawing her in close. ‘This is not Drenai land. The customs here are different. You must be polite to Shakusan. If not he will hurt you. Or me.’ The fear in her mother’s voice reached through Elanin’s anger.

In the days that followed she was careful around Ironmask, avoiding contact where possible, and remaining quiet and softly spoken where not.

Before long she began to notice how timid the servants were. They did not joke and laugh as her own servants did back in Purdol. They moved silently, bowing whenever they saw her or her mother. One of the serving girls brought her some breakfast on the fifth day. Elanin saw that the girl -

who could have been no more than fifteen — had lost two fingers from her right hand. The stump of one was covered by a badly stitched flap of skin and there was dried blood around it. The girl was quiet and avoided eye contact, so Elanin did not ask her about her injury. The same day she noticed that several of the servants had lost fingers.

That night she was awoken by the sound of screaming coming from far below. Elanin scrambled from her bed and ran into the room Mother shared with Ironmask. He was not there, and Mother was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and weeping.

‘Someone is screaming, Mother!’ cried Elanin. Mother had hugged her, and said nothing. Later, when they heard Ironmask approaching, Mother sent Elanin running back to her own room.

She had lain in her bed, dreaming of being rescued. Much as she loved Father she knew that Orastes was not strong enough to take her and Mother from Ironmask. He was a wonderful man, but so much of his life was spent in fear. The officers at Dros Purdol bullied him, and treated him with contempt. Even Mother, when she visited, would talk disparagingly of him when others were present. This always hurt him, but he did nothing to stop her. None of this mattered to Elanin, who loved him more than she could express. No, when she dreamed of rescue in those early days, she thought of Uncle Druss. He was the strongest man in the world. Last year, when she and Father visited him on his farm in the mountains, he had straightened a horseshoe for her with his hands. It was like a magic trick, and when she returned to Purdol no-one believed her. No-one was that strong, she was assured.

She hoped that Father would send Uncle Druss to Mellicane.

When Rabalyn awoke the sky was bright and clear, a glorious blue that lifted the heart. He yawned and stretched. The axeman looked at him and grinned. ‘I tell you, laddie, if sleeping ever catches on as a sport I’ll wager everything I have on you becoming champion.’

Rabalyn rubbed sleep from his eyes. ‘Did you sleep?’ he asked.

‘I dozed a mite.’ Druss looked away, towards the trees, his eyes narrowing.

‘Is there something out there?’ asked Rabalyn, fear rising.

‘Not something. Someone. Been there a while now,’ answered Druss, his voice low.

‘I can’t see anyone.’

‘She’s there.’

‘She?’

Druss swung back to the youth. ‘When she comes in don’t question her.

Sometimes she’s a strange lass.’ The axeman added fuel to the fire, then rose and stretched his huge arms over his head. ‘Damn, but my shoulder aches,’ he said. ‘Must be rain coming.’ As he spoke a young woman emerged from the trees. Over one shoulder she carried a small pack, and in her hand, held by the ears, were two dead hares. Rabalyn watched her.

She was tall and slim, her movements graceful. Her long honey-gold hair was pulled back from the brow and bound into a single braid that hung between her shoulders. Her clothes were dark, an ankle-length cloak over a jacket of sleek black leather, the shoulders adorned with beautifully fashioned mail rings, blackened to prevent them gleaming in the light. Her trews were also of leather, though dark brown. She wore knee-length, fringed moccasins, and a short sword in a black scabbard. Rabalyn looked at her face. She was strikingly attractive, though her expression was grim and purposeful. Striding to the fire she dropped her pack, and tossed the hares to the ground. Without saying a word she drew a small curved knife and began to skin them. Druss wandered away into the trees, leaving Rabalyn alone with the woman. She ignored him, and continued to prepare the meat. From the pack she took a small pan, laying it by the fire.

Rabalyn sat quietly as she sliced meat into it. Druss strode in, carrying his helm upturned. Walking to the fire he offered it to the woman. Rabalyn saw it was full of water. Taking it, the woman emptied the contents into the pan, and placed it over the fire.

Then she settled back and glanced at the bodies of the beasts. ‘The fourth one is dead,’ she said. Rabalyn jerked as she broke the odd silence.

‘We killed it last night.’ Her voice was hard and cold. ‘We were lucky. It was already wounded and weak.’

‘The boy struck it with my axe,’ said Druss.

The woman turned her gaze on Rabalyn for the first time. Her eyes were a smoky grey. She tilted her head as she looked at him, her expression unchanging. Rabalyn felt himself reddening. Then she looked back at Druss. Finally she stood and wandered over to the dead beasts, examining them, and then the ground around the campsite. At last she returned to the fire. ‘Now you know,’ said Druss.

‘Yes.’

‘Thought you would.’

The woman undipped her cloak and let it fall to the ground. Then she lifted clear a narrow leather baldric from which hung a small black double-winged crossbow. Rabalyn had never seen a weapon like it before.

He leaned forward. ‘May I look at it?’ he asked.

The woman ignored him. ‘Your axe became lodged in one of the beasts.

The boy pulled it clear as you wrestled with the last,’ she said to Druss.

‘The boy hid in that tree until then.’

‘Exactly. Now show him your bow, Garianne,’ said the axeman softly.

‘He’s a good lad and means no harm.’

Lifting the weapon, she passed it to Rabalyn without glancing at him.

The bow was around a foot in length, with two bronze triggers, and a sharply curved grip. He turned it in his hands, trying to see how the lower bolt could be inserted. It was a clever mechanism. The top bolt was merely placed in a groove in the main shaft; the second was loaded below it, through an opening in the side. Rabalyn curled his hand around the grip and extended his arm. The weapon was lighter than it looked. An image appeared in his mind, of a tall man, dark-eyed and lean. Then it was gone.

Rabalyn placed the crossbow on the ground. Garianne moved to the cookpot, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon. From the pack she took a small sack of salt, and added several pinches. Then, from another muslin package, she sprinkled dried herbs into the broth. A savoury scent filled the air.

Time passed, and Rabalyn became uneasy at the lack of conversation.

The woman said nothing. The axeman seemed unconcerned. Finally Garianne lifted clear the pot, and set it on the ground to cool. Occasionally she would stir it. ‘I’ll buy you a meal in Mellicane,’ said Druss.

‘We are not going to the city. We’re heading north. We want to see the high country.’

‘There’s some sights to see,’ agreed the axeman. ‘If you change your mind I’ll be staying at the Crimson Stag on the west quay.’ She seemed not to be listening, then Rabalyn saw her cock her head to one side, and nod.

‘I don’t like cities,’ she said, staring upwards. Then there was a pause.

‘Easy for you to say,’ she continued. Then another pause. ‘But I can hunt what we need.’ Finally she shrugged and said: ‘As you wish.’

Now Rabalyn was totally confused. The axeman seemed to take the entire one-sided conversation in his stride. Moving to the pan he lifted the spoon, and stirred the contents. ‘Smells good,’ he said.

‘Eat,’ said Garianne. Druss ate several spoonfuls, then passed the pot and spoon to Rabalyn. The broth was thick and tasty, and he too ate. At last he pushed the pot towards Garianne. She sighed. ‘I am not hungry now,’ she said, replacing her baldric and clipping her cloak back into place. ‘We will see you in Mellicane, Uncle.’

‘I’ll bring your pot with me,’ he said.

She walked off into the trees without another word.

Druss finished the last of the broth. ‘Who was she talking to?’ asked Rabalyn.

The axeman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve learned there is more in this world than I can see. I like her, though.’

‘Are you her uncle?’

‘I can imagine worse nieces. But no, I’m not her uncle. She started calling me that after I nursed her through a fever last year.’

‘I think she’s mad,’ said Rabalyn.

‘Aye, I can see why you would.’

‘Why didn’t she wait for you to finish the broth? Then she would have had her pot.’

‘She’s uncomfortable around people. You made her nervous.’

‘Me? How?’

‘You asked her a question. I did warn you, laddie. She doesn’t take well to questions.’

‘I only asked to see her crossbow. I was being polite.’

‘I know. She’s a strange lass. But she’s got heart, and she uses that crossbow like a master.’

‘What does her family think of her running around dressed like a man?’

asked Rabalyn.

Druss laughed aloud. ‘I’m forgetting you come from a small community, laddie. She doesn’t have any family — not that I know of. She sometimes travels with a pair of twins. Good lads. One’s a simpleton. I have never heard her speak of family, though. My guess is they were probably killed.

That, or some other shock unhinged her. She is not always as you saw her today. A little wine inside her and she’ll sing sweeter than a songbird. Aye, and dance and laugh. It’s only when the voices come that she.. well, you saw,’ he concluded lamely.

‘How did you meet her?’

‘Do you never run out of questions, laddie?’ replied Druss, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Come on, it’s time to be moving. I have a feeling we’ll be meeting your friends before long.’

With the coming of the dawn Braygan was more exhausted than at any other time in his life. The bright sunshine hurt his eyes, and he felt as if he was walking through a dream. A small boy was sleeping beside him, his terrified mother stroking the child’s hair. Other women and children were huddled together at the centre of the circle. A girl of around three began to cry. Braygan reached out to comfort her, but she backed away from him. A woman called to the child, who scrambled over to her, sobbing.

Braygan pushed himself to his feet and eased his way to the outer circle where Skilgannon stood, with around a dozen surviving men, and the same number of strong women. Some of the women in the circle were armed with knives. The remainder held thick lumps of wood, which they had used as clubs when the beasts attacked.

‘Have they gone for good this time?’ asked Braygan, glancing down at the dried blood on Skilgannon’s blades.

Skilgannon looked at the priest and shrugged. Just beyond the circle lay the giant body of a hideous creature. Braygan tried not to look at it, but his eyes were drawn to its massive jaws. The little priest had seen those fangs crunch into the skull of a man, ripping the head from the shoulders, before Skilgannon had leapt in, cutting a gaping hole in the beast’s throat.

The headless body of the man was no longer in sight. Other creatures had dragged it away into the darkness, along with the corpses of other Joinings.

Braygan swung to look back at the crowd of people huddled together inside the circle. There were some fifty or more, half of them children.

‘How many of us did they get?’ asked Braygan.

‘Ten… fifteen,’ answered Skilgannon wearily. ‘I had no time to keep count.’

The two brothers, Jared and Nian, broke away from the outer circle and approached Skilgannon. Both carried longswords, with double-handed hilts. ‘You think we should try to get away now it’s light?’ asked Jared.

‘Wait a while,’ said Skilgannon. ‘They may have retreated back into the reeds, and be watching for just such a move.’

‘I counted eighteen of them,’ said the young man. ‘I think we killed five at least, and wounded four others.’

‘I cut the head from one,’ said Nian. ‘Did you see that, Jared? Did you see me cut its head?’

‘I saw. You did well. Very brave, Nian.’

‘Did you see?’ the man asked Skilgannon. ‘Did you see me cut its head off?’

‘Your brother is right. You are very brave,’ said Skilgannon. Braygan saw the simpleton give a crooked smile, then reach out and take hold of the long blue sash that hung from his brother’s belt. He stood there, sword in one hand, sash in the other.

‘We cannot just wait here all day,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Either they have gone, or they are waiting. We need to know which.’

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Jared.

‘I’m going to take a stroll to the reeds.’

‘We’ll keep you company.’

Skilgannon glanced past Jared, at his brother. ‘Might be best if Nian remains behind — to look after the women and children.’

Jared shook his head. ‘He couldn’t do that, my friend. He needs to be close to me.’

‘Then you both remain here,’ said Skilgannon. With that he sheathed his swords and strolled away towards the northwest.

Braygan watched him go, and felt his heart sink. A murmur began among other people in the circle, as they watched Skilgannon move away towards the reeds. ‘Hold the circle!’ shouted Jared, moving away from Braygan. ‘He’s just scouting. He’ll be back. Stay watchful!’

A flicker of resentment flared in Braygan, and he was immediately ashamed. How swiftly Skilgannon had become important in these people’s lives. He was their saviour and their hope. What am I, wondered Braygan?

I am nothing. If these people survive they will not remember the chubby little priest who cowered at the centre of the circle, begging the Source to keep him alive. They will recall the dark-haired warrior with the twin swords who took command, forming the circle that saved them. They will remember him to the ends of their lives.

‘There’s one!’ The shout was full of terror, and a wail went up from the children.

Braygan swung round, eyes wide and fearful. A dark shape emerged from the tall grass. It was a golden-haired woman in a dark cloak.

Braygan’s relief was immense.

‘It’s Garianne! It’s Garianne!’ shouted the simpleton, Nian. Still holding to his brother’s sash he walked towards the woman. Jared grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t pull me,’ he said gently. ‘She’s coming here.’

Nian waved. ‘Over here, Garianne. We’re over here.’

The woman was beautiful, her eyes a soft flecked grey, her braided hair gleaming in the sunlight. She approached the two brothers. Nian moved towards her, and, dropping his sword, lifted her into a hug. She kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Put me down,’ she said, ‘and be calm.’ Then she swung towards Jared. ‘We are glad to see you alive,’ she said, her voice flat and emotionless. She did not smile.

‘It is good to see you, Garianne,’ Jared told her. ‘Did…?’ He cleared his throat. ‘We were wondering if the beasts were still close by.’

‘Some moved northeast in the night. We killed one. Old Uncle and his friend killed three more.’

‘I cut the head off one,’ said Nian. ‘Tell her, Jared.’

‘He did. He was very brave, Garianne. It would be good if you could stay awhile and help us fight off the creatures. There are many children here.’

‘We are going to Mellicane. Old Uncle is buying us a meal.’ ‘We are all heading to Mellicane, Garianne. Nian would be happy if you came with us.’

‘Yes, yes, come with us, Garianne,’ insisted Nian. Suddenly the woman smiled. Braygan found the moment breathtaking. In that instant she moved from attractive to stunningly beautiful. Stepping towards Nian, she reached up and curled her arm round his shoulder.

‘I wish I had seen you cut its head off,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘Three whacks it took. Is Old Uncle coming too?’

Her smile faded and she stepped away from Nian.

‘No questions, Nian,’ said Jared softly. ‘Remember?’

‘I’m sorry, Garianne,’ muttered Nian. Her smile returned briefly, and she seemed to relax.

‘Old Uncle is coming. Maybe an hour. Maybe less,’ she told them. Jared swung to Braygan. ‘Old Uncle is a warrior named Druss.

You have heard the name?’ Braygan shook his head. ‘He is Drenai, and, like your friend, he is deadly. With Garianne and Druss we have more than a chance against any beasts.’

Skilgannon walked towards the swaying bank of reeds, his movements smooth and unhurried, scanning the stalks for any sign of movement not caused by the breeze. He was exactly as he seemed to those who watched him from the circle, relaxed and strolling, his swords sheathed.

Malanek had called it the illusion of elsewhere; where the mind floats free and surrenders control of the body to the instincts and the senses. As he walked Skilgannon allowed his thoughts to roam far, even as his eyes watched for danger.

He thought of Malanek, and the tortuous training, the endless exercises and the harsh regime of physical stress. He remembered Greavas and Sperian, and the increasing tension of the days after Bokram’s coronation.

Arrests were sudden. Houses were raided, the occupants dragged away.

No-one spoke of the departed. Known followers of the dead Emperor disappeared, or were publicly executed in Leopard Square.

Fear descended on the capital. People watched each other with suspicious eyes, never knowing who might inform on them for a hasty word, or a suggested criticism. Skilgannon worried about Greavas, and his connections to the royal family, and, indeed, the former actor often went missing for days before returning without a word as to his previous whereabouts. Skilgannon asked him one evening where he had been.

Greavas sighed. ‘Best you don’t know, my friend,’ was all he would say.

One night, around three weeks after the coronation, armed soldiers arrived at the house. Molaire was beside herself with fear, and even the normally resolute Sperian was ashen and afraid. Skilgannon was sitting in the garden when the officer marched out. It was the golden-haired former athlete, Boranius. Skilgannon rose from his chair. ‘Good to see you,’ he said, and meant it.

‘And you,’ answered Boranius coolly. ‘However, I am here on official business.’

‘I shall have refreshments served for you,’ said Skilgannon, gesturing towards the pale-faced Sperian. The man gratefully withdrew. Skilgannon glanced at the two soldiers standing in the garden doorway. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable,’ he told them. ‘There are chairs for all.’

‘My men will stand,’ said Boranius, lifting his scabbard, and seating himself on a wicker chair. He still looked every inch the athlete Skilgannon had so admired.

‘Do you still run, Boranius?’

‘No, I have little time for such pursuits. You?’

Skilgannon laughed. ‘I do, but it is not the fun it was, for I have no-one to test me. You were my inspiration. You set the standard.’

‘And you beat me.’

‘You had an injured ankle, Boranius. However, I did enjoy getting the medal.’

‘The days of school medals are behind me now — and you too soon. Have you considered your future?’

‘I shall be a soldier like my father.’

‘That is pleasing to hear. We need good soldiers. Loyal soldiers.’ The blond officer leaned back in his chair. ‘These are difficult times, Olek.

There are traitors everywhere. They must be hunted down and exterminated. Do you know any traitors?’

‘How would I recognize them, Boranius? Do they wear odd hats?’

‘This is not a subject for jests, Olek. Even now someone is sheltering the Emperor’s concubine and her bastard daughter. Bokram is king by right and by blood. Those who speak or act against him are traitors.’

‘I have heard no-one speak against him,’ said Skilgannon. There was a tightness around Boranius’s blue eyes, and the man seemed constantly on edge.

‘What about the pervert who lives here? Is he loyal?’

Skilgannon felt a coldness settle in his belly. ‘You are a guest in my home, Boranius. Do not speak ill of any of my friends.’

‘I am not a guest, Olek. I am an officer of the King. Have you heard Greavas speak against the King?’

‘No, I have not. We do not discuss matters of politics.’

‘I need to question him. Is he here?’

‘No.’

Sperian returned carrying a tray of drinks, the mixed juices of apple and apricot in silver goblets. Skilgannon glanced up at him. ‘Where is Greavas?’ he asked.

‘He is visiting friends, sir, in the north of the city.’

‘When will he be returning?’

‘Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, sir. He did not say.’

Skilgannon thanked the man and waved him away. ‘I shall tell him you need to speak with him when he returns,’ he said, ‘though I fail to see how a retired actor could be of help to you.’

‘We shall see,’ said Boranius, rising. ‘There is also a warrant for the arrest of your friend, Askelus.’

Now Skilgannon was truly shocked. ‘Why?’

‘Like his father he is also a traitor. His father was disembowelled this morning in Leopard Square.’

‘Askelus is no traitor,’ said Skilgannon, also rising. ‘We have spoken often. He is a huge admirer of the Emperor Gorben, and he has talked, like me, of serving in Bokram’s army. Not once have I heard him say a word of criticism against the King. Quite the reverse, in fact.’

‘Then — sadly — he will perish for the sins of his father,’ said Boranius coldly.

Skilgannon had stared then at the young man who had been his hero.

The young athlete of his memory disappeared. In his place stood a cold-eyed soldier, bereft of emotion, save perhaps malice. Memories flooded Skilgannon then, moments that had seemed insignificant at the time, but now shone bright in the glow of sudden understanding. The casual discarding of friendships, the sarcastic comments, the meanness of spirit. Skilgannon had seen Boranius through the golden gaze of hero worship. Now here was the reality. Boranius held the power of life and death, and he revelled in it. Anger swelled in Skilgannon’s heart, but he quelled it, and smiled. ‘I have much to learn, my friend,’ he said. ‘I thank you for taking the time to visit me.’

Boranius chuckled then and slapped Skilgannon on the shoulder. ‘When you have your final papers — assuming they are Firsts — come and see me. I will find a place for you in my regiment.’

‘You do me great honour.’

With that he walked Boranius and his men to the front door, and waited as they mounted their horses and rode away.

Sperian came out and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I thought we were all to be arrested,’ he said.

‘The man is a viper,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Aye, your father thought that. Never liked the family.’

‘Can you get a message to Greavas tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell him not to come home for a while. Go through the market.

Tomorrow is auction day. There will be hundreds there. You should be able to slip through unnoticed.’

Sperian looked uncertain. ‘You think I might be followed?’

‘It is a possibility.’

‘My eyes aren’t good, Olek. I am not skilled at this sort of thing.’

‘No, of course you aren’t. Foolish of me. I will take it myself.’

Now Sperian looked even more worried. ‘He doesn’t want you involved, sir. He would be most put out if I told you where he was.’

Skilgannon put his hand on the retainer’s shoulder. ‘If he comes out into the open he will be arrested. Probably executed. Most certainly tortured. I don’t think you should concern yourself with his annoyance at your disclosure.’

‘It’s not just that, sir. It’s who he’s with.’

‘Tell me.’

‘He has the Empress and her daughter hidden. He’s looking for a way to get them out of the city.’

Skilgannon was jerked from his memories as the reeds rustled and shook. The Swords of Night and Day flashed from their scabbards. A small dog darted by him, sniffed the ground, then ran on towards the circle. A little girl called out a name and the dog barked and scampered over to her.

Skilgannon let out his breath, and continued his walk.

There was no sign of the beasts. Turning back towards the refugees, he saw the massive figure of the axeman emerge from the long grass. Beside him was the boy, Rabalyn.