White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE MOON WAS HIGH AND BRIGHT AS THE TWO WARRIORS

TRUDGED UP the hillside. Skilgannon glanced at the axeman. Druss looked tired and drawn, his eyes sunken. Skilgannon himself was weary, and he was half Druss’s age. They walked in silence for a while, coming at last to a rocky outcrop close to a high rock face, pitted with caves.

‘My guess is they are in there,’ said Druss.

‘You want to go in?’

‘Let’s see what transpires.’ Druss slumped down on a boulder, and rubbed his eyes. Skilgannon looked at him.

This Orastes means a lot to you?’

‘No,’ said Druss. ‘He was just a fat boy I knew back at Skein. I liked him, though. He should never have been a soldier. I was amazed when he survived. War is a curious beast. Sometimes it will swallow the best and leave the worst alone. There were some great fighters at Skein. Cut down in their prime. I’ll give Orastes his due, though. He stood his ground.’

‘No more can be asked,’ said Skilgannon.

‘You’ll get no argument from me. I didn’t see him many times after that.

His father died and he became Earl of Dros Purdol. Another role to which he was not suited. Poor Orastes. A failure in almost everything he ever did.’

‘Everyone is good at something,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Aye, that’s true. Orastes was a fine father. He adored Elanin. Just to see them together made the heart soar.’

‘And the wife?’

‘She left him. I’d like to say she was a bad woman, but my guess would be that Orastes was a poor husband. I suppose that she must have regretted leaving her child. Hence she stole her back while Orastes was away from Purdol. That would have torn him apart.’

A slight breeze whispered across the rocks. Upon it Skilgannon could smell the rancid scent of fur. Druss was right. The beasts were close.

Constantly alert, his eyes scanning the rocks, he sat beside the axeman.

‘So, Orastes came to Tantria and sought help from the Old Woman. And she betrayed him. Tell me, why did you not take vengeance on her?’

‘I don’t make war on women, laddie.’

‘And yet they have just as great a capacity for evil.’

‘True, but I’m too old to change now. Ironmask destroyed Orastes. It is Ironmask who will pay.’

‘So you think that Orastes is still following his daughter?’

‘Aye, I do. I don’t know how much of Orastes survives in the beast. He probably doesn’t even know why he is heading into Pelucid. But that’s why he’s here. The child meant everything to him.’

The two men fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts. The sky was cloudless, the moon high and bright. Something moved upon the rocks.

The Sword of Day slid into Skilgannon’s hand. He relaxed as he saw a small lizard scurry into the shadows.

‘Why are you here, laddie?’ asked Druss suddenly.

‘You know why. I am hoping to bring my wife back from the dead.’

‘I meant why are you here? With me now. In this place. I could be wrong about Orastes. There could be more of the creatures than we can handle. This is not your fight.’ Skilgannon was about to say something light when Druss spoke again. ‘And don’t be flippant, laddie. ‘Tis a serious question.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘You remind me of my father. I was too young to be alongside him when he needed me.’

‘Death always brings guilt,’ said Druss. He pushed himself to his feet. ‘I am a good judge of men, Skilgannon. You believe that?’

‘I do.’

‘Then believe me when I tell you that you are a better man than you know. You can’t put right the evil you have done. All you can do is ensure it never happens again.’

‘And how do I do that?’

‘You find a code, laddie.’ Druss hefted Snaga. ‘And now it’s time to enter those caves. I don’t think Orastes will be coming out to us.’

Skilgannon stared at the nearest entrance. It seemed to him then that it resembled a gaping mouth. Fear touched him, but he drew his second sword and followed the axeman towards the cliff face.

Beyond the cave mouth was a twisting tunnel. Moonlight did not pierce the gloom for more than a few yards. Druss took several steps towards the darkness. ‘There’ll be light further on,’ he said. ‘The whole of the cliff face is pockmarked with caves and openings.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Skilgannon, following him into the dark. Within a few paces they could see nothing, and Druss moved warily, feeling ahead with every footfall. The stench of animal fur was stronger now, and some way ahead they heard a low growl.

Skilgannon sheathed one of his swords, and placed a hand on Druss’s shoulder. Ahead they saw a faint gleam of moonlight, shafting down at a forty-five-degree angle. Slowly they approached it. They rounded a slight bend. Several shafts of moonlight could now be seen, coming from fissures in the rock face.

The tunnel opened out into a cavern. Stalactites hung from the domed roof. ‘You could try calling his name,’ offered Skilgannon. ‘Maybe some part of his mind still remembers it.’

‘Orastes!’ shouted Druss, his voice booming and echoing. ‘It is I, Druss.

Come out, my friend. We mean you no harm.’

A movement came from the right. Skilgannon turned towards it. A massive creature lunged from the shadows, jaws open. Skilgannon leapt aside, the golden Sword of Day slashing in a wide, glittering arc. The blade sliced into the creature’s shoulder, and down through the powerful collar bone, exiting at the chest. It did not halt its charge, and its powerful body cannoned into Skilgannon, knocking him from his feet. Snaga swept up and down, cleaving through the Joining’s skull. It slumped to the cavern floor.

Skilgannon rolled to his feet, drawing the Sword of Night as he did so.

The dead beast was covered in thick, black fur. Skilgannon did not know whether to be relieved that it wasn’t Orastes, or disappointed. Had it been Orastes they could have left this grisly tomb.

‘Orastes!’ called out Druss. ‘Come forth. It is I, Druss.’

Another shadow moved. Skilgannon readied himself for an attack.

Moonlight fell on a great grey beast, with huge hunched shoulders. It was standing beside a stalactite, and staring at the two men, its golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

‘We have come to help you, Orastes,’ said Druss, laying down his axe and stepping forward. The creature gave out a low growl, and Skilgannon saw it tense for the charge.

‘Druss, be careful,’ he warned.

‘You are looking for Elanin,’ said Druss. At the sound of the girl’s name the beast seemed to shudder. Its massive head twisted, and it gave out an ear-splitting howl. ‘We know where she is,’ said Druss. ‘She has been taken to a citadel.’ Now the creature backed away a few paces. Its eyes narrowed. It was preparing to attack.

‘Say the girl’s name again, Druss,’ advised Skilgannon.

‘Elanin. Your daughter Elanin. Listen to me, Orastes. We need to rescue Elanin.’ The beast roared again, and Skilgannon almost believed he could hear anguish in the sound. Then it smashed its fist against a stalactite, shattering it to shards. The beast backed away into the shadows.

Druss took another step away from his axe. ‘Trust me, Orastes. We know of a temple where they may be able to bring you back. Then you could come with us when we rescue Elanin.’

The grey beast roared and charged. Its shoulder struck Druss, sending him hurtling to the ground. Then it bore down on Skilgannon, who hurled himself to his right, landing on his shoulder and rolling to his feet. The swords came up. Orastes or no he would kill it if it came for him. But it did not. The Joining ran off into the darkness. Druss made to follow, but Skilgannon stepped into his path.

‘No, Druss,’ he said. ‘Even a hero should know when he has lost.’

Druss stood for a moment, then gave a deep sigh. ‘It was Orastes. I know that for sure now.’

‘You did all you could.’

‘It wasn’t enough.’ Druss walked to where Snaga lay and recovered it.

‘Let’s get back to where the air is clean,’ he said.

For the next two days Druss continued to walk the mountains seeking Orastes. This time he went alone. The company remained in the settlement of Khalid Khan. Diagoras, who had some skill with wounds, helped with the injured. Seven men and three women had been killed by the beasts, and eight others carried injuries, five from bites and slashes, three from broken bones. The nomads made no attempt to skin the dead beasts. Instead they were dragged from the camp, covered in brushwood and set alight. On the morning of the third day Khalid Khan’s men began dismantling their tents.

‘We are moving further into the mountains,’ Khalid told Skilgannon.

‘This is now a place of ill omen.’

Garianne came into the settlement, a bighorn sheep across her shoulders. She left it with several of the nomad women, then walked to a spot in the shade and sat down alongside Skilgannon.

‘We need to leave,’ she said. ‘The Old Woman spoke to us. She told us in a dream that enemies are coming.’

Skilgannon glanced at the young woman. She was staring ahead, her face set. He had learned not to ask questions of her, so merely waited. ‘The Nadir shaman with Ironmask is now aware of Old Uncle. He has sent riders to waylay him. Many riders. They will be here by tomorrow morning. The Old Woman says to head northwest. To leave Old Uncle to his fate.’

‘She told Druss she wanted Ironmask dead,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘That is… Old Uncle’s… quest. Yet now she is content to see him killed, so that we may survive. That seems strange to me.’

‘We do not know what she desires,’ said Garianne. ‘We only know what she told us.’

‘Perhaps it was just a dream, and the Old Woman did not appear to you.’

‘It was the Old Woman,’ said Garianne. ‘It is how she speaks with us when we are far away.’

Skilgannon believed her, but the Old Woman’s advice made little sense.

If she wanted Ironmask dead, as she had indicated, then why encourage the company to split up? Leaning back against the rock wall Skilgannon closed his eyes. The Old Woman was a dark mystery. She had come to the aid of Jianna, ensuring her escape from the capital. Yet never, to Skilgannon’s knowledge, had she come for the gold she had requested for the service. Perhaps Jianna had paid her secretly. In all the stories of the Old Woman that he knew there was one common factor. Betrayal. Yet Jianna had suffered no such fate. And why did the hag want Ironmask dead? What had he done to earn her hatred? There were no answers. He had insufficient information. Her request for the company to leave Druss to his fate meant that she desired them to survive. Why? Irritated now, he opened his eyes and stared out over the encampment. Most of the tents were down, and rolled. The few pack animals owned by the nomads were being loaded.

‘I will not leave Druss,’ he said.

‘We are glad,’ Garianne told him. ‘We love Old Uncle.’

Still being careful with his words, he spoke again. ‘Yet had I gone away you would have come with me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Not, I think, because you love me.’

‘No, we do not love you. We hate you.’ The words were said without passion or regret. They were merely spoken. It seemed to Skilgannon that she might as well have been talking about a change in the breeze.

‘You stay with me because the Old Woman requires you to.’

‘We do not wish to speak further,’ said Garianne, rising smoothly to her feet and walking away. He sat where he was. Her hatred was not a surprise. As the Damned he had seeded hatred across three nations. Every man or woman or child who had been killed by his troops would have had relatives or friends. Far easier for them to hate a single general than a vast, faceless army. He had heard it before. Once, on his travels, he had sat quietly in a tavern. Men were sitting close by discussing the war. ‘The Damned killed my son,’ he heard a man say. Skilgannon had listened carefully. As the conversation went on he learned that the boy had been killed in a skirmish some twenty miles from the battlefield where Skilgannon had fought. Wherever he went he heard people discussing the evils of the Damned. Some of the stories were hideously twisted, others merely ludicrous. The Damned had filed his teeth to sharp points and dined on human flesh. His eyes had become red as blood after he sold his soul to a demon. The stories grew and grew, becoming mythic. It was one of the reasons he could travel without being recognized. Who would suspect the handsome young man with the eyes of sapphire blue? He had learned that people needed evil to have an ugly face.

Skilgannon sighed, his spirits low.

A month ago he had been a novice priest in a quiet community, believing the days of war and death were behind him. He realized he had no longing any more for those peaceful days, and yet there was an edge of regret that they had passed. Idly he stroked the locket round his neck.

Would anything change if he managed to restore Dayan to life? Would his guilts be lessened? Skilgannon didn’t know. ‘You deserve life, Dayan,’ he said aloud. As always thoughts of Dayan merged into memories of Jianna.

He pushed himself to his feet. The Old Woman’s advice was good. He should leave Druss to his fate.

Skilgannon strode up the mountainside and into the cavern of the hidden lake. Here it was cool and he swam for a while. Levering himself from the water he sat on a rock. After that one night of lovemaking with Jianna in the forest his life had changed. He had lived only for the day when he could restore her to her throne. Looking back he felt both foolish and naive. He had believed that once she was safe, and the realm was hers, they would be together once more. Skilgannon did not care if she could not wed him. He had allowed himself to dream of being her consort, and her lover. And that’s what it was. A wishful dream.

The truth was that — if she loved him at all — she loved power more.

Jianna would never be content. If she became queen of all the world she would stare longingly at the stars and dream of conquering Heaven.

The harsh reality had come home to him on the day they defeated Bokram. Skilgannon could still recall the fear he had experienced on the night before the final battle. Yet again it was the Old Woman who had given birth to it. She had walked into the battle camp, past the guards and the sentries, and entered the Queen’s tent. Skilgannon had been with Jianna, Askelus and Malanek, discussing the proposed course of the battle. Malanek had leapt to his feet, drawing a dagger. Jianna told him to sit down. Then she had stood and walked to the Old Woman, taking her hand and kissing it. The thought still made Skilgannon shudder. That those beautiful lips should have touched the skin of something so vile.

‘Welcome,’ said Jianna. ‘Come, join us.’

‘No need for that, my dear. I have no head for battle plans.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Skilgannon had asked, his voice harsher than he intended.

‘To wish you well, of course. I have read the runes. Tomorrow will be a bad day for Bokram. It may even be a bad day for you, Olek. Did you know that Boranius employed a seer? He cast the bones for him. According to his prediction Boranius will kill you tomorrow. Still, I expect you are willing to die for your Queen, Olek.’

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Boranius also has swords of power. Ancient blades given to him by Bokram. They are called the Swords of Blood and Fire. I would love to have acquired them. Much of the magic I used to create your own swords was based upon spells woven around blood and fire. The two of you will meet on the battlefield. That much I have seen.’

‘And was the seer correct?’ asked Jianna. ‘Will Boranius… conquer?’

she added, clearly unwilling to speak openly about Skilgannon’s death.

The Old Woman shrugged. ‘The seer has been right before. Perhaps this time he is wrong.’

‘Then you must stay back tomorrow,’ said Jianna, turning towards Skilgannon. ‘I do not want to lose you, Olek.’

The Old Woman smiled. ‘That is touching, my dear. But if Olek does not fight then I fear the battle will be lost.’

It was in that moment that Skilgannon learned that Jianna loved power more than she loved him. He saw her face change. She looked at him, waiting for him to speak.

‘I shall fight,’ he said simply. Jianna protested, but weakly, and he saw the relief in her eyes.

‘Such a fight it will be,’ said the Old Woman happily. Then she had bowed to Jianna and left the tent.

‘You will beat him, Olek,’ said Jianna. ‘No-one is as good as you.’

Skilgannon had glanced at Malanek, who had trained Boranius. ‘You have seen us both. What do you think?’

Malanek looked uncomfortable. ‘In a fight anything can happen, Olek. A man may stumble, or be more tired than his opponent. His sword might break. It is too close to call.’

‘Do you have no respect for me, old friend?’

Malanek seemed shocked. ‘Of course I have.’

‘Then do not use weasel words. Speak your mind.’

Malanek took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think you can beat him, Olek.

There is something inhuman about the man. His great strength, the weight of his muscles, should limit his speed. Yet it does not. He is ferociously fast, and utterly fearless. You should take the Queen’s advice and stay back tomorrow. The Old Woman is wrong. We can win without you.’

Fear had been strong upon him the following morning. He was on the verge of fulfilling his dream. Today, if they won, the Queen would regain her father’s throne, and he, Skilgannon, would take her in his arms once more. Yet a seer had prophesied that Boranius would kill him. The thought made him shudder.

With the battle at its height Skilgannon had seen Boranius. He was fighting on foot, cleaving his swords left and right, men falling before him.

Time froze in that moment. Every instinct told him to avoid the man. He was surrounded by soldiers who would eventually drag him down. Let them do it. Then you will be free!

The coward is never free, he told himself, spurring his horse and riding towards his enemy. He had leapt from the saddle and shouted for the soldiers to fall back. They had parted then, and he had looked into the eyes of Boranius. The golden-haired warrior had grinned at him. ‘Have you come to race me again, Olek? Be careful. I have no injured ankle this time.’

Skilgannon had drawn his swords. Boranius laughed. ‘Pretty. They are copies, you know. In my hands are the originals.’ He raised the Swords of Blood and Fire. ‘Come to me, Olek. I will kill you a piece at a time. Like I killed your friends. Oh, you should have heard them squeal and beg.’

‘Don’t tell me. Show me,’ said Skilgannon.

Boranius had attacked with blistering speed. Even with Malanek’s warning the awesome speed of the man was a surprise. Skilgannon parried desperately, weaving and moving. He knew in those first moments that Boranius was a better swordsman, and that the seer was right. He fought on, blocking and swerving, the Swords of Blood and Fire glittering as they sought his flesh.

Many of the soldiers watching could see their general was doomed. One of them raised a spear and hurled it. It struck Boranius high on the right shoulder, surprising him. Skilgannon launched an attack, the Sword of Night flashing in a searing arc for Boranius’s throat. The blond warrior threw himself back. The blade struck his cheekbone, shearing through his lips and nose. The Sword of Day plunged into Boranius’s chest, and the man fell.

The relief Skilgannon felt was colossal. Enemy cavalry began a counter attack. Skilgannon ordered the waiting soldiers to regroup and ran to his horse. Within an hour the battle was over. Bokram was dead, his head raised on a pike, his surviving soldiers in flight through the valleys.

It should have been the day of his greatest triumph. He had avenged Greavas, and Sperian and Molaire. He had returned Jianna to her rightful place. And yet he had not attended the feast of celebration that night.

Instead the Queen had sent him out, harrying the fleeing troops. That night, as he had learned later, she took another general to her bed, the Prince Peshel Bar, whose cavalry had held the right, and whose power had allowed Jianna to raise her army.

The same Peshel Bar she later had murdered.

Rising from the waterside, Skilgannon dressed and returned to the open air. A convoy of nomads was heading deeper into the mountains. Khalid Khan had remained behind, and was talking to Druss. Skilgannon strolled down to join them.

Khalid Khan embraced the axeman, then turned and walked away.

Diagoras, Rabalyn, Garianne and the twins were close by. Skilgannon approached Druss. ‘Have you spoken with Garianne?’ he asked.

Druss nodded. His face was grey with exhaustion. He had not slept in days. ‘Nadir warriors are coming. She says the Old Woman advised you to move on. Good advice, laddie.’

‘I don’t live my life on her advice. We know which direction they are coming from. I’ll ride out and scout the land. I’ll find a battleground that suits us.’

Druss grinned. ‘She says there are around thirty of them. You plan to attack?’

‘I plan to win,’ said Skilgannon. With that he strode after Khalid Khan and questioned the old nomad about the roads and passes to the northwest, and the water holes and camping places the Nadir would seek out on their way here. They talked for some while, then Skilgannon saddled his gelding and told the company to follow Khalid Khan to a campsite some eight miles northwest. ‘I will meet you there later tonight,’

he said.

Then he rode into the hills.

Following Khalid Khan’s advice Skilgannon rode the mountain paths towards the north, the route rising steadily. It was searingly hot in the open, the air heavy and soporific in the shade. Concentration was difficult.

Skilgannon struggled to maintain his focus. He rode on, picking a path towards a sharp summit rearing high above the surrounding mountains.

From here the land dropped away sharply towards the northwest, the mountain road — such as it was — snaking in a series of half-circles round the flanks of the peaks. Skilgannon dismounted and scanned the land, recalling the descriptions Khalid Khan had given him, fixing the terrain in his mind.

Far below him he could see where the road emerged onto flat land before rising again, twisting and curving up into rugged, dusty hills. Here and there were small stands of gnarled trees, too few to offer cover or a line of safe retreat. Remounting, he moved on, seeking out places which offered concealment, or a defensive perimeter; somewhere from which he could organize a surprise attack. He could rely only on the fighting talents of himself, Druss, Diagoras, Garianne and the twins. The boy Rabalyn was too young and inexperienced. Any Nadir warrior would cut him down in seconds. Then there were other complications. Druss and the twins would be fighting on foot, the Nadir mounted, and probably armed with bows.

Garianne might well be deadly with the small crossbow, but that only accounted for two enemies, not six, in the first moments of conflict. It would be necessary for Garianne to scramble to a place of safety to reload.

Bearing all these things in mind Skilgannon rode on, scanning not only the immediate countryside, but also the distant road, seeking sign of the Nadir. If they were to be at the campsite by morning that probably allowed for a night camp and some rest. It was unlikely they would ride all day and all night before tackling a man like Druss. Though not impossible, he conceded.

Skilgannon had never fought the Nadir, but like most professional soldiers he had studied histories of their race. An offshoot of the Chiatze people, they were nomads, living on the vast steppes of northern Gothir.

Vicious and warlike, they had not proved to be a danger to civilizations like Gothir, or the richer nations to their south, because they were constantly at war with one another, living out ancient blood feuds that sapped the strengths of the tribes from generation to generation. They fought mostly from horseback, their mounts being small, hardy steppe ponies. Preferred weapon was the bow. In close quarters they used shortswords or long knives. Lightly armoured — a breastplate of hardened leather and a fur-rimmed helm, sometimes of iron, but again mostly of leather or wood — they could move fast and fight with a fury unequalled. It was said they had no fear of death, believing that the gods would reward a warrior with great wealth and many wives in the next life.

Locating a hiding place for his mount Skilgannon crawled out to the edge of a high ridge and watched the road. The sun was setting now, and there was still no sign of the enemy. He waited, allowing his mind to relax.

Not so long ago he had twenty thousand soldiers under his command: archers, lancers, spearmen, infantry. Now he had five fighters. Druss was not a concern. If he could get close enough to the enemy he would create carnage among them. Diagoras? Tough and skilled and brave. But could he take out five hardened Nadir warriors? Skilgannon doubted it. Then there were the twins. Good men, but — in truth — nothing special in terms of combat. They would fight hard, and maybe account for two each. Again, if they could get close enough. Garianne was harder to judge, but Skilgannon’s instinct was that she would prove sufficiently deadly.

He saw dust to the northwest. Shading his eyes against the sun setting to his left, he focused on the distant band. A column of riders was moving down the mountainside. Flicking his gaze left he located the jutting rocks, within which Khalid Khan had said there was water. Did the Nadir know of it? The column slowed as it neared the rocks. Two riders split off from the column and rode out of Skilgannon’s sight. A few moments later they returned, and the men in the column dismounted, leading their ponies into the rocks.

Skilgannon counted twenty-seven men in the party.

Easing himself back from the ridge he rose and walked to where his horse was tethered. Darkness was gathering now. Skilgannon sat down with his back against a rock and rested for half an hour. Then he mounted the gelding and set off down the slope to the desert floor, heading slowly towards the distant oasis and the camp of the Nadir.

With a fighting force of six his options were few. They could retreat, and seek to avoid the enemy. This would only delay the inevitable. Or they could fight. The harsh reality, though, was that a Nadir force of almost thirty, once engaged, would win. Skilgannon had made his name as a general not merely by his prowess with a blade. He had a sharp mind, and an instinctive grasp of tactics. His ability to spot a weakness in enemy formations had become legendary. This situation, however, offered few opportunities to use such skill.

He rode on. Would the Nadir put out scouts to watch for enemies? It seemed unlikely, but even so he held to the low ground, riding through high brush where he could. Pulling up in a small stand of pine some two hundred yards from the entrance to the rocks he dismounted, tethering his horse. The scent of woodsmoke was in the air. The Nadir had lit a fire.

Skilgannon squatted down and closed his eyes, sharpening his senses.

After a while he caught the aroma of cooking meat.

Moving out on foot he approached the rocks, climbing silently above the Nadir camp. There were two fires, a dozen men round each. This left three. Skilgannon waited. Another man emerged from the shadows. After a while a second came into sight. This one was naked, carrying his clothes in a bundle. Skilgannon guessed he had been swimming.

So where was the last man?

Was he even now creeping towards Skilgannon’s position?

The answer was not long in coming. A second naked man came in from the rock pool. There were ribald comments from his friends. The man dressed swiftly and approached the fires.

All twenty-seven Nadir were in sight. Skilgannon settled down to wait.

An hour drifted by. Some of the warriors, having eaten, stretched out on the ground and slept. Several others squatted in a circle and began to gamble with knuckle-bones. This told Skilgannon a great deal about them.

They had set no sentries, and therefore were confident that no danger threatened. Why should it? They were hunting — at worst — a few travellers, and at best a single, ageing axeman and his companion. Why would they be worried? It was vital, Skilgannon knew, that warriors remained confident. Only confident men achieved victory. The good leader, however, watched out for the subtle movement between confidence and arrogance.

An arrogant army carried the seeds of its own destruction. The secret to defeating them lay in the ability of the enemy to nurture those seeds; to introduce doubt and fear.

He knew then what he had to do.

But it bothered him. It would be high risk, and the chances of surviving were low. For another hour he worked through other strategies, but none would yield such high rewards. Having exhausted all the possibilities he began to prepare, sitting quietly, eyes closed, settling himself into the illusion of elsewhere. Fear and stress melted away. Rising, he drew both swords and made his way down the rocks.

The Nadir had set one night sentry at the entrance to the oasis. The man was sitting with his back to a tree, head down. Skilgannon knelt in the shadows watching the man for some minutes. The Nadir did not move. He had fallen asleep. Rising from his hiding place Skilgannon crept forward. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth. The Sword of Night sliced across the Nadir’s throat. Blood spurted. The man jerked once — and died.

Moving through to the centre of the campsite Skilgannon stood for a moment among the sleeping men. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Awake!’ he bellowed. Men rolled from their blankets, scrambling to their feet.

Skilgannon stepped towards the first. The Sword of Day slashed through his neck, decapitating him. A second man was disembowelled as Skilgannon spun and sent the Sword of Night plunging into his belly.

Nadir warriors dived for their weapons. Several grabbed swords and rushed at the newcomer. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Blocking and parrying. The Sword of Night sliced open a man’s jugular, and he fell back into his comrades. Then Skilgannon was among them, swords cutting into flesh and severing bone.

They fell back from his fury. Spinning on his heel Skilgannon darted back towards where the Nadir had tethered their ponies. A warrior ran to head him off. Skilgannon dived below a ferocious cut, rolled on his shoulder, and came up running. The ponies were in two lines, each row held by a picketing rope. Slicing his blade through the first tether, he spun in time to parry a lunge. His riposte plunged the Sword of Day into the Nadir’s chest. The Nadir ponies whinnied and reared, breaking free.

Moving back Skilgannon slashed his sword through the second picket rope, then pushed himself in among the nervous mounts.

Sheathing one of his swords he gave a high-pitched wolf howl. This was too much for the ponies. The sudden movement around them, and the smell of blood, had made them skittish. The bestial howl was enough to send them running. Nadir warriors, still trying to reach Skilgannon, made an effort to block the ponies’ escape. Skilgannon grabbed the mane of one mount as it passed and vaulted to its back. An arrow slashed past his face.

Giving another howl he slapped the flat of his sword against the pony’s rump and galloped through the camp. Two more arrows flashed past him.

A third sliced into the pony’s shoulder, making it stagger. It did not go down, but followed the rest of the herd out onto the desert floor.

Skilgannon rode to where his own horse was tethered and jumped down from the pony. Mounting his gelding he swung round to see Nadir warriors racing from the rocks. ‘Come to me tomorrow, my children,’ he called. ‘We will dance again!’

Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode away from the furious Nadir.

He had been lucky, but even so he was disappointed. He had hoped to kill at least ten of the enemy, reducing the odds for tomorrow. Instead he had slain five or six, maybe seven. Several others were wounded, but their cuts could be stitched readily enough. He doubted the wounds would stop them. Riding southeast he came up behind a dozen or so of the Nadir ponies, and continued to herd them away from the rocks, forcing them further and further from their riders. Several of them were still saddled, and hanging from the saddles were horn bows and quivers of arrows.

Skilgannon rode alongside the mounts, lifting clear the weapons and hooking them over his saddle pommel. Then he left the ponies, and set off up the snaking mountain road to where the others would be waiting.

The Nadir had been tough and fast. They had roused from sleep more like animals than men, instantly alert. This had surprised him. He had expected to be able to kill more of them as they blundered from sleep to awareness.

Skilgannon rode on, still scanning the land, and planning the next attack. Only one important question remained. What sort of losses would the Nadir need to suffer before they pulled back from the fight? There were, at most, twenty-two fighting men left. How many would the companions need to kill. Another ten? Fifteen?

He saw Druss and the others waiting on a wide section of the road.

Stepping from the saddle he approached the axeman.

‘You’re bleeding, laddie,’ said Druss.

In the shelter of a concave depression in the cliff face Diagoras knelt behind the standing Skilgannon, stitching the cut in his lower back.

Moonlight shone down on the blue and gold tattoo of the eagle, its flaring wings rising across Skilgannon’s shoulder blades. There were old scars on the young man’s body, some jagged, some clean and straight. There were old puncture wounds from bolts or arrows. Diagoras pulled close the last stitch, knotted it, then sliced his dagger through the twine. Skilgannon thanked him, and donned his shirt and sleeveless jerkin.

Diagoras placed the crescent needle and remaining twine in his pouch and sat back, listening as Skilgannon outlined his plan for the morning.

He had said little of his fight with the Nadir, merely telling them that he had entered the camp and killed five. He made it sound undramatic, almost casual. Diagoras was impressed. He had not fought the Nadir himself, but he knew men who had. Ferocious and brutal, they were enemies to be feared. Skilgannon asked Druss if he had any idea how many men the Nadir would have to lose before they withdrew. The old warrior shrugged. ‘Depends,’ he said. ‘If their leader is a bold one we might have to kill them all. If he is not… another ten, maybe twelve, dead will convince him to pull back. It is hard to say with Nadir fighters. Their chief back at the fortress may be the kind of man who will kill any survivors who have failed him.’

‘Then we must plan to take them all,’ said Skilgannon.

Diagoras swallowed back a sarcastic comment and remained silent. He glanced at the others. The twins were listening intently, though the simpleton had a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea what was really going on. Garianne seemed unconcerned at the prospect of defeating twenty Nadir warriors, but then she was a fey creature, and more than a little insane. The boy, Rabalyn, sitting with his back to the far wall, looked frightened, but resolute.

Skilgannon outlined his strategy. It sounded, at first, breathtakingly simple, and yet Diagoras, who prided himself on his tactical skills, had not thought of it. Few men would have. Skilgannon called for questions. There were a few from Druss, and one from Jared. They were all concerned with timing. Skilgannon glanced at Diagoras, who shook his head. This was not the time to point out that there was no fall back plan, and no line of escape. Which, of course, was the danger with a strategy of such stunning simplicity. It was win or die. No middle ground. No safety factors.

Skilgannon moved to where a water skin had been placed. Hefting it, he drank deeply. Then he gestured to Diagoras and walked out onto the road.

Diagoras joined him there.

‘I thank you for your silence back there,’ said Skilgannon.

‘It is a good plan.’ He gazed down over the sickening drop to the valley floor below, then stepped back. ‘But you know what General Egel once said of plans?’

‘They survive only until the battle starts,’ replied Skilgannon.

Diagoras smiled. ‘You are a student of Drenai history?’

‘A student of war,’ corrected Skilgannon. ‘Yes, there is much that could go wrong, and even if it goes right we are likely to take losses.’

Diagoras laughed suddenly. Skilgannon eyed him curiously. ‘What is amusing you?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? A mad woman, a simpleton and an unskilled boy make up almost half of our fighting force. And here we are talking of what might go wrong.’

Skilgannon was about to answer, but then he too laughed.

Druss wandered out to join them. ‘What are you two discussing out here?’ he asked.

‘The stupidity that comes with war,’ said Diagoras.

‘Diagoras believes our force is not as good as it might be,’ offered Skilgannon.

‘That’s true,’ said Druss, ‘but then you can only fight with what you have. I’ve seen Garianne and the twins in action. They’ll not let us down.

And the boy has courage. Can’t ask for more than that.’

This is all true,’ said Diagoras, with a grin. ‘So we’re not worried about them. It’s you. Let’s be honest, Druss, you are a little too old and fat to be of much use to young and powerful warriors like us.’

Druss stepped in and Diagoras was hauled from his feet. Even as he began to struggle he was hoisted above the axeman’s head. Druss grabbed his ankle then swung him upside down. Diagoras found himself hanging head first over a six hundred foot drop. Twisting his head he looked up.

Druss was standing, arms outstretched, holding him by his ankles. ‘Now, now, Druss,’ he said, ‘no need to get angry.’

‘Oh, I’m not angry, laddie,’ said Druss amiably. ‘We old folk have difficulty hearing sometimes, and with you speaking out of your arse I couldn’t catch what you were saying. Now, with your arse where your mouth was, it should be much easier. Speak on.’

‘I was telling Skilgannon what a privilege it was to be travelling with a man of your renown.’

Druss stepped back and lowered Diagoras to the rock. The Drenai breathed a sigh of relief, then stood. ‘I fear you don’t have much of a sense of humour, old horse,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ offered Druss. ‘I laughed so much I nearly dropped you.’

Diagoras was about to say more when he looked into the axeman’s face.

In the moonlight there was a sheen of sweat upon his brow, and he was breathing heavily. ‘Are you all right, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Just tired,’ said Druss. ‘You are heavier than you look.’ With that he turned away from the two warriors and walked back to where the others waited. Diagoras saw him kneading his left forearm, and frowned.

‘What is worrying you?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Druss does not seem himself. At Skein his complexion was ruddy. These last few days he has looked ten years older. His skin is grey.’

‘He is an old man,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He may be strong, but he is still a half a century old. Travelling these hills and fighting werebeasts would sap anyone’s strength.’

‘You are probably right. No man can fight time. When do we need to get into position?’

‘An hour. No more than that.’

Druss had stretched himself out on the ledge and appeared to be sleeping. Diagoras and Skilgannon walked further along the road. Here and there were fissures in the rock wall, some shallow, others deep. At one point the road narrowed, then widened. To the left was the sheer red rock face, to the right an awesome drop. Diagoras scanned the area and shivered.

‘I have always been nervous about heights,’ he said.

‘I don’t much like them myself,’ said Skilgannon. ‘But in this situation the terrain is to our advantage. And we need all the advantages we can get.’

‘The Nadir are said to be superb horsemen.’

‘They will need to be,’ observed Skilgannon grimly.

For some time they discussed the plan, and then, as warriors will, they spoke of gentler days. Diagoras talked of an aunt who ran a brothel. ‘She was wonderful,’ he said. ‘I liked nothing better as a child than to sneak off into the city and spend a day with her. My family never spoke of her -

except my father. He went into the most terrible rage when he discovered I’d been seeing her. I don’t know what annoyed him the most, the fact that she was a whore, or that she was richer than all the rest of the family.’

‘Why did she become a whore?’ asked Skilgannon. ‘My guess is that you are from a high-born family.’

‘I really don’t know. There was some scandal when she was young. She was sent to Drenan in disgrace, and then ran away. It was before I was born. It was some years later that she appeared. She had wealth then, and she bought a huge house on the outskirts of the city. It was beautiful. She hired architects and gardeners and turned it into a palace. The gardens were a sight to behold. Pools and fountains, and rooms there created from bushes and trees. And she had the most gorgeous girls.’ Diagoras sighed.

‘They came from everywhere — Ventria, Mashrapur, Panthia. There were even two Chiatze girls, dark-eyed and with skin the colour of ivory. I tell you that place was like paradise. Sometimes I still dream of it.’

‘Does your aunt still own it?’

‘No. She died of a fever a few years back. Just after Skein. Even in death there was a scandal. My aunt’s closest friend was a woman named Magatha. She was Ventrian, and, like my aunt, had been a whore. She killed herself on the same day my aunt died. Sweet Heaven, that caused a ripple in polite society.’

‘So, the whorehouse is closed now?’

‘Oh, no. She left it to me, along with all her wealth. I promoted one of the women there, and she manages it for me.’

‘This must please your father.’

Diagoras laughed. ‘It pleases almost every other man in the community.

It is — and I say this with great pride — the best whorehouse in the south.’

Dawn was not far off. ‘It is time,’ said Skilgannon.