White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER TWO

ABBOT CETHELIN FELT HEAVY OF HEART AS THE YOUNG PRIEST, Braygan, left the study. He liked the boy, and knew him to be good-hearted and kind. There was no malice in Braygan, no dark corners in his soul.

Cethelin moved to the window, pushing it open and breathing in the cool Tantrian mountain air.

He could taste no madness upon it, nor sense any sorcery within it. Yet it was there. The world was slipping into insanity, as if some unseen plague was floating into every home and castle, every croft and hovel. A long time ago, close to his home, Cethelin recalled seeing a host of rodents scampering towards the distant cliffs. He and his father had walked to the clifftops, and watched as the rodents hurled themselves into the sea. The scene had amazed the boy he had been. He had asked his father why these little creatures were drowning themselves. His father had no answer. It happened every twenty or so years, he had said. They just do it.

There was something chilling in that phrase. They just do it.

Mass extinction should have a better reason. Now, at sixty-seven, Cethelin still pondered the reasons behind the madness — not, this time, of rodents, but of men. Had it begun when Ventria invaded the Drenai? Or had that merely been a symptom of the madness? War had spread like an unchecked bush fire through the heartlands of this eastern continent. Civil war still raged in Ventria, as a result of the Ventrian defeat at Skein five years before. Rebellions had spread throughout Tantria, only to be followed by war with the country’s eastern neighbours Dospilis and Datia

— a war that continued still.

In Naashan to the southeast the Witch Queen’s forces had invaded Panthia and Opal, and even the peaceful Phocians had been drawn in to help defend against the invaders. To the northwest the Nadir had spread into Pelucid, crossing the vast deserts of Namib to raze and plunder the cities of the coast. War was everywhere, and in its wake came the carrion birds of hatred, terror, plague and despair.

Cethelin felt the last worst of all. To spend a lifetime offering love to all, only to see it brutally transformed and twisted — obscenely reshaped into a blind, unreasoning hatred — was hard to bear. His thoughts swung to Brother Labberan. The children he had nurtured had turned on him, kicking and screeching.

Cethelin took a deep breath, and fought for calm.

Kneeling on the bare boards of the study floor the abbot prayed for a while. Then he rose and walked down to the lower levels and sat for an hour at Labberan’s bedside. He spoke soothingly, but the old priest was not comforted.

Cethelin was tired by the time he climbed again to his own rooms, and he took to his narrow bed. It was still early afternoon, but Cethelin found that short naps at such times helped maintain his vigour. Not so today. He could not sleep, and lay upon his back, his mind unable to relax. He found himself thinking of Lantern and Braygan; opposites in so many ways. I should have sent Lantern across the water to found an order of the Thirty, he thought. He would have made a fine warrior priest.

A fine warrior priest.

A contradiction in terms, thought Cethelin sadly.

Unable to take comfort from rest he rose from his bed and made his way to the east wing of the monastery, moving past the kitchens and through the silent weaving rooms. Mounting the circular steps he climbed to the First Library. His right knee was aching by the time he reached the top, and he felt his heart thudding painfully.

There were several priests present, studying ancient tomes. They rose as he entered and bowed deeply. He smiled at them, and bade them continue with their reading. Moving through the aisles, he ducked beneath the last arch and entered the reconstruction room. Here also there were priests, meticulously copying decaying manuscripts or scrolls. So engrossed were they in their work they failed to notice him as he continued through to the eastern reading room. Here he found Brother Lantern sitting by a window.

He was reading a yellowed parchment.

He glanced up and Cethelin felt the power in his sapphire gaze. ‘What are you reading?’ asked the abbot, sitting opposite the younger man. He winced as he sat, then rubbed his aching knee. Lantern noticed his pain.

‘The apothecary said he would have some fresh juniper tisane for your arthritis within the month,’ Lantern told him, then suddenly smiled and shook his head.

‘We may yet have another month,’ said Cethelin, sensing the irony that caused the smile. ‘If the Source wills it.’ He pointed to the parchment and repeated his question.

‘It is a listing of little-known Datian myths,’ replied Lantern.

‘Ah. The Resurrectionists. I recall them. The stories are not Datian in origin. They come from the Elder Days, the days of Missael. The hero Enshibar was resurrected after his faithful friend, Kaodas, carried a lock of his hair and a fragment of bone to the Realm of the Dead. There the wizards grew Enshibar a new body and summoned his spirit back from the hall of heroes. It is a fine tale, and resonates through many cultures.’

‘Most myths contain a grain of truth,’ said Lantern warily.

‘Indeed they do, Younger Brother. Is that why you carry a lock of hair and a fragment of bone within the locket round your neck?’

For a moment only Lantern’s sapphire eyes glinted with anger. ‘You see a great deal, Elder Brother. You see into men’s dreams, and you see through metal. Perhaps you should be reading the dreams of the townsfolk.’

‘I know their dreams, Lantern. They want food for their tables, and warmth in the winter. They want their children to have better and safer lives than they can provide. The world is a huge and terrifying place for them. They are desperate for simple answers to life’s problems. They fear the war will come here and take away all that they have. Then the Arbiters tell them it is all our fault. If we were dead and gone everything would be fine again. The sun would shine on their crops, and all dangers cease.

However, at this moment I am more interested in your dreams than theirs.’

Lantern looked away. ‘You do not believe in this… this hidden temple of the Resurrectionists?’

‘I did not say that I disbelieved. There are many strange places in the world, and a host of talented wizards and magickers. Perhaps there is one who can help you. On the other hand perhaps you should let the dead rest.’

‘I cannot.’

‘It is said that all men need a quest, Lantern. Perhaps this was always meant to be yours.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘If I asked a favour of you would you do it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do not be so swift, young man. I might ask you to put aside your search.’

‘Anything but that. Tell me what you need.’

‘As of this moment I need nothing. Perhaps tomorrow. Have you visited Labberan?’

‘No. I am not much of a comforter, Elder Brother.’

‘Go anyway, Younger Brother.’ The abbot sighed and pushed himself to his feet. ‘And now I will leave you to your reading. Try to locate the Pelucidian Chronicles. I think you will find them interesting. As I recall there is a description of a mysterious temple, and an ageless goddess who is said to dwell there.’

It was late when Skilgannon entered the small room where Brother Labberan was being tended. Another priest was already beside him. The man looked up and Skilgannon saw it was Brother Naslyn. The black-bearded monk had the look of a warrior. A laconic man, his conversation was mostly monosyllabic, which suited Skilgannon. Of all the priests he had to work alongside he found Naslyn the easiest to bear. The powerful brother rose, gently stroked Labberan’s brow, then moved past Skilgannon. ‘He’s tired,’ he said.

‘I will not stay long,’ Skilgannon told him.

Moving to the bedside he gazed down at the broken man. ‘How much do you remember?’ he asked, seating himself on a stool at the bedside.

‘Only the hatred and the pain,’ muttered Labberan. ‘I do not wish to talk of it.’ He turned his face away and Skilgannon felt a touch of annoyance.

What was he doing here? He had no friendship with Labberan — nor indeed with any of the priests. And, as he had told Cethelin, he had never developed any talent as a comforter. He took a deep breath and prepared to leave. As he rose Labberan looked at him, and Skilgannon saw tears in the old man’s eyes. ‘I loved those children,’ he said.

Skilgannon sank back to the stool. ‘Betrayal is hard to take,’ he said. The silence grew.

‘I hear you fought one of the Arbiters.’

‘It was not a fight. The man was a clumsy fool.’

‘I wish I could have fought.’

Skilgannon looked into the old man’s face and saw defeat and despair.

He had seen that look before, back on the battlefields of Naashan four years ago. The closeness of defeat at Castran had seemed like the end of the world. Retreating soldiers had stumbled back into the forests, their faces grey, their hearts overburdened with fear and disillusionment.

Skilgannon had been just twenty-one then, full of fire and belief.

Against all the odds he had regrouped several hundred fighting men and led them in a counter charge against the advancing foe, hurling them back. He gazed now into the tortured features of the elderly priest and saw again the faces of the demoralized soldiers he had rebuilt and carried to glory. ‘You are a fighter, Labberan,’ he said softly. ‘You struggle against the evil of the world. You seek to make it a better and more loving place.’

‘And I failed. Even my children turned against me.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When did you lose consciousness?’

‘In the street, when they were kicking me.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Then you do not recall being dragged into the schoolroom?’

‘No.’

‘You were taken there by some of your pupils. They pulled you inside, and locked the door. One of them then ran here to tell the abbot of your injuries. Because of the riot we could not reach you immediately. You were tended by some of the children. They covered you with blankets. It was very brave of them,’ he added. ‘Brother Naslyn and I came to you before the dawn and carried you back. Several of the children had remained with you.’

‘I did not know.’ Labberan smiled. ‘Do you know any of their names?’

‘The boy who brought us to you was called Rabalyn.’

Labberan smiled. ‘An unruly boy, argumentative and naughty. Good heart, though. Who else?’

‘A slender girl with black hair and green eyes. She had a three-legged dog with her.’

‘That would be Kalia. She nursed the hound back to health after it fought the wolves. We all thought it would die.’

‘I do not recall the others. There were three or four of them, but they left when we arrived. But the boy, Rabalyn, had a swollen eye. Kalia told me he got it when he fought the other boys attacking you. He beat them off. Well, he and the three-legged dog.’

The old man sighed, then relaxed and closed his eyes. Skilgannon sat for a while, until he realized the old priest was sleeping. Silently he left the room and walked out into the night. As he crossed the courtyard he saw Abbot Cethelin standing below the arch of the gate. Skilgannon bowed to him.

‘He feels better now, does he not?’ said the abbot.

‘I believe so.’

‘You told him about the children who helped him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘Why did you not tell him? Or someone else?’

‘I would have, had you not. You still believe they are all scum, Lantern, these townspeople?’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘A few children helped him. Good for them. They will not however stop the mob when it comes here. But, no, I do not think they are all scum. There are two thousand people living in the town. The mob numbers some six hundred. I make little distinction, however, between those who commit evil and those who stand by and do nothing.’

‘You were a warrior, Lantern. Such men are not renowned for understanding the infinite shades of grey that govern the actions of men.

Black and white are your colours.’

‘Scholars tend to overcomplicate matters,’ said Skilgannon. ‘If a man runs at you with a sword it would be foolish to spend time wondering what led him to such action. Was his childhood scarred by a cruel father?

Did his wife leave him for another man? Was he perhaps misinformed about your intentions, and therefore has attacked you in error?’ He laughed. ‘Warriors need black and white, Elder Brother. Shades of grey would kill them.’

‘True,’ admitted the abbot, ‘and yet a greater understanding that there are shades of grey would prevent many wars beginning.’

‘But not all,’ said Skilgannon, his smile fading. ‘We are what we are, Elder Brother. Man is a hunter, a killer. We build great cities, and yet we live just like the wolf. The strongest of us dominate the weakest. We might call our leaders kings or generals, but the effect is the same. We create the wolf pack, and the very nature of that pack is to hunt and to kill. War, therefore, becomes inevitable.’

Cethelin sighed. ‘The analogy is a sad one, Lantern — though it is true.

Why then did you decide to remove yourself from the pack?’

‘My reasons were selfish, Elder Brother.’

‘Not entirely, my boy. I pray that time will prove that to you.’

At fifteen Rabalyn didn’t care about wars and battles to the east, nor about who was right and who was wrong regarding the causes. These were enormous issues that concerned him not at all. Rabalyn’s thoughts were far more focused. The town of Skepthia was all he had ever known, and he thought he had learned the rules of behaviour necessary to survive in such a place. True, he often broke those rules, stealing occasional apples from Carin’s shop, or sneaking onto the estates of the absent lord to poach pheasants or hunt rabbits. If approached later and questioned he would also lie shamelessly, even though Brother Labberan taught that lies were a sin against Heaven. Broadly, however, Rabalyn had believed he understood how his small society operated. Yet in the last week he had witnessed appalling scenes that made no sense to him.

Adults had gathered in mobs, screeching and calling for blood. People who had worked and lived in the town were suddenly called traitors, dragged from their homes and beaten. The soldiers of the Watch stood by, doing nothing. Yet these same soldiers berated him for killing pheasants.

Now they ignored the killing of people.

Brother Labberan was probably right to have called him an idiot.

‘Stupid boy, are you incapable of learning?’ It had always seemed such fun to irritate Brother Labberan. He would never raise a hand — not even to lightly slap a child. It did not feel like fun now in his memory.

Rabalyn rubbed at his swollen eye. It was still painful, but at least now he could see again, although bright sunshine still made the eye water.

Todhe had caught him with a wicked blow just as he was pulling Bron away from the unconscious priest. With fury born of pain Rabalyn had pushed Bron to the ground, then swung and hammered a punch into Todhe’s face. The blow had been a good one, and had smashed the other boy’s lips against his teeth. Even so the powerful Todhe would have beaten him senseless had the dog not rushed in and bitten his calf. Rabalyn smiled at the memory. Todhe had screamed in pain. Kalia had called the dog back and Todhe had limped away with his friends. He had turned at the alleyway arch and screamed a threat back at Rabalyn: ‘I’ll get you for this — and I’ll see the dog is killed too.’

He and Kalia and several others had pulled Brother Labberan into the small schoolroom and locked the door. The old priest was in an awful state. Kalia had begun to cry, and this perturbed the three-legged hound, which started to howl.

‘What do we do when they come back?’ asked Arren, a chubby boy from the northern quarter. Rabalyn saw the fear in his eyes.

‘You ought to get home,’ he said.

Arren fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. ‘We can’t leave Brother Labberan,’ he said.

‘I’ll go to the castle,’ said Rabalyn. ‘The priests will come for him.’

‘I can’t fight Todhe,’ said Arren. ‘If he comes back he’ll be very angry.’

‘He won’t come back,’ said Rabalyn, trying to sound decisive. ‘Keep the door locked behind me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Did he mean what he said, do you think?’ asked Kalia. ‘About killing Jesper?’

‘No,’ lied Rabalyn. ‘Wait for me. And find some blankets to cover old Labbers. He’s shivering.’

With that Rabalyn set off through the town, heading out towards the old bridge and the long climb to the monastery. He heard the mob off to the west, and saw the flames starting. Then he ran like the wind.

He had been taken to the abbot, told him about old Labbers. The abbot ordered food brought for him and instructed him to wait. The hours wore on. A monk gave him a cold poultice to hold over his eye, and then at last a tall, frightening priest had come and sat beside him. Black-haired and hard-eyed, the man had introduced himself as Brother Lantern. He had questioned Rabalyn about the attack, then he and another monk had walked with Rabalyn back to the schoolroom, skirting the rioting mob.

That had been two days ago, and no-one had heard since whether old Labbers was alive or dead. Todhe and his friends had twice tried to ambush Rabalyn, but he had been too swift for them, darting away into alleyways and scaling walls.

Now he sat high on the northern hillside, near the old ruins of the watchtower. Kalia’s crippled dog was squatting beside him. Todhe’s father, the councilman Raseev, had put out an order for the hound to be killed. Kalia had brought Jesper to Rabalyn. The girl was distraught and Rabalyn had reluctantly agreed to hide the hound and brought him up to the watchtower. He didn’t know what to do next. A three-legged dog was not easy to hide.

Rabalyn stroked the hound’s large head, scratching behind its spiked ears. It pushed in towards him, licking his face, and laying the stump of its amputated right foreleg on Rabalyn’s lap. ‘You should have bitten him harder,’ said Rabalyn. ‘It was just a nip. Should have taken his leg off.’

From his high vantage point Rabalyn saw a group of youngsters emerging from the houses far below. One of them pointed up towards him.

Rabalyn swore, then swiftly tethered a lead round Jesper’s neck and led the hound off down the far slope.

If he skirted the town, and waded across the river at its narrowest point, he could reach the monastery by dusk. They’d protect Jesper, he thought.

Abbot Cethelin sat in his study, and in the lantern light pored over the ancient map. It was of thin hide, two feet square, the symbols and lines of mountains and rivers carefully etched in the leather and then filled with gold leaf. As with many pieces from the pre-Ventrian era, what it lacked in accuracy it more than made up for in beauty. As he stared at the map he found himself wishing he had been blessed with the gift of spiritual flight, like his old friend Vintar. Then he could have floated free of the monastery and up into the night sky, to stare down over lands he could now only imagine through the delicate tracing of gold upon leather.

But that was not his gift. Cethelin’s talent was to dream visions, and to sometimes see within them faint threads — like the gold on the map. He could sense the malignant and the benevolent, constantly vying for supremacy. The large affairs of men, with their wars and their horror, were identical to the battles that raged in the valleys of each human soul.

All men had a capacity for kindness and cruelty, love and hate, beauty and horror.

There were some mystics who maintained Man was little more than a puppet, his strings being tugged and manipulated by gods and demons.

There were others who talked of fate and destiny, where every action of men was somehow pre-ordained and written. Cethelin struggled to disbelieve both these philosophies of despair. It was not easy.

In some ways he wished he could embrace the simplistic. Evil deeds could then be laid at the door of evil men. Unfortunately his intellect would not allow him to believe it. In his long life he had seen that, far too often, evil deeds were committed by men who deemed themselves good; indeed were good by the mores of their cultures. The Emperor Gorben had built Greater Ventria in order to bring peace and stability to a region cursed by incessant wars. To do this he had invaded all the surrounding lands, razing cities and destroying armies, plundering farms and treasuries. In the end he had his empire, and it was at peace. He also had an enormous standing army that needed to be paid. In order to pay it he had to expand the empire, and had invaded the lands of the Drenai. Here his dreams had been crushed by the defeat at Skein Pass. Now everything he had built was falling apart, and the region was descending once more into endless little wars.

No wonder the people of the town were frightened. Armies tended to plunder towns, and the war was getting closer. Only two months ago a battle had been fought not forty miles away.

Cethelin moved to the window and pushed it open. The night breeze was cool, the stars shining brightly in a clear sky. Flames were flickering again in the town’s northern quarter. Some other poor soul was watching his house burn, he thought sadly.

A dog barked in the courtyard below. Cethelin leaned out of the window and gazed down. A dark-haired youth, in a pale linen shirt and black leggings, was squatting in the gateway, a black hound beside him.

Cethelin threw a cloak around his thin shoulders and left his study, descending the long staircase to the lower levels.

As he walked out the hound turned towards him and growled. It lurched forward in a faintly comical manner, off balance and part hopping.

Cethelin knelt and held out his hand to the beast. It cocked its head and eyed him warily. ‘What do you want?’ the abbot asked the youth, recognizing him as the young man who had helped Brother Labberan.

‘Need a place for the dog, Father. Councillor Raseev ordered it put down.’

‘Why?’

‘It bit Todhe when he was kicking old Labbers… begging your pardon, Brother Labberan.’

‘Did it hurt him badly?’

‘No. Just a nip to the calf.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now why did you think we could find a home for a three-legged dog?’

‘Figured you owed him,’ said the boy.

‘For saving Brother Labberan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he useful?’

‘He fights wolves, Father. He’s not afraid of anything.’

‘But you are,’ observed Cethelin, noting that the youth kept casting nervous glances back through the open gate.

Todhe’s looking for me. He’s big, Father. And he has friends with him.’

‘Are you seeking sanctuary too?’

‘No, not me. I’m too fast for them. I want to get back to my aunt’s house. Looks like they’ve set fires again.’

‘Who is your aunt?’

‘Aunt Athyla. She comes to church. Big woman. Sings loud and out of tune.’

Cethelin laughed. ‘I know her. Laundrywoman and occasional midwife.

She has a sweet soul.’

‘Aye, she does.’

‘What of your parents?’

‘They left to find work in Mellicane years ago. Said they’d send for me and my sister. They didn’t. My sister died last year when the plague struck. Me and Aunt Athyla thought we’d get it, but we didn’t. Brother Labberan gave us herbs and such. Told us to clean out the house and keep the rats away.’

‘It was a harsh time,’ said Cethelin.

‘The Arbiters say the priests caused the plague.’

‘I know. Apparently we also caused the war, and the harvest failures.

Why is it that you don’t believe the stories?’

The youth shrugged. ‘Old Labbers, I expect. Always talking about love and such. Can’t see him causing plagues. Makes no sense. Still, no-one cares what I think.’

Cethelin looked into Rabalyn’s dark eyes. He saw strength there, and compassion. In that moment he also caught a glimpse of Rabalyn’s memories: a woman being beaten by a harsh man, a small child fading towards death as Rabalyn sat by the bedside weeping. ‘I care, Rabalyn. Old Labbers — as you call him — cares. I shall take care of the dog until such time as you return for him.’

‘Jesper’s not my dog. Belongs to Kalia. She brought him to me and asked me to hide him. When all this blows over I’ll get her to come and see you.’

‘Walk with care, young man.’

‘You too, Father. Best lock this gate, I’d say.’

‘A locked gate will not keep out a mob. Goodnight to you, Rabalyn. You are a good lad.’

Cethelin watched as the boy sped off. The dog gave an awkward bound as if to follow him. Cethelin called to him softly. ‘Here, Jesper! Are you hungry, boy? Let us go to the kitchen and see what we can find.’

Rabalyn returned the way he had come, wading across the shallows of the river and making his way through the trees and up the old watchtower hill. From here he could see the fires burning in the northern quarter. It was here that most of the foreigners had settled, including fat Arren and his family. There were merchants from Drenan, and a few shops run by Ventrian traders. The mob, however, were more concerned with those whose family ties were in the east, in Dospilis or Datia. Both these nations were now at war with Tantria.

Rabalyn squatted in the ruins, his keen eyes scanning the area at the base of the hill. He doubted Todhe and his friends would be waiting for him now, not with another riot looming. They would be out chanting and screaming at those they now dubbed traitors. Many of the houses in the northern quarter were empty. Scores of families had left in the last few days, heading west towards Mellicane. Rabalyn could not understand why any foreigners had chosen to stay.

A cool wind blew across the hilltop. Rabalyn’s leggings and shoes were wet from wading the river and he shivered with the cold. Time to be getting home. Aunt Athyla would be worried, and she would not sleep until he was safe in his bed. The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also massively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repetitive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: ‘Are you going to be warm enough?’ If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: ‘I don’t know about that. It’s enough to have food on the table today.’ Her days were spent cleaning other people’s sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create balls of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold.

Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.

The riots had unnerved her. When the first killings had taken place Rabalyn had run home and told her. At first she had disbelieved him, but when the truth was established Athyla refused to talk of it with the boy. ‘It will all settle down,’ she said. ‘Best not to get involved.’

That evening she had sat with her balls of wool, looking old and grey.

Rabalyn had moved alongside her. ‘Are you all right, Aunt?’

‘We don’t have any foreign blood,’ she said. ‘It will be all right.

Everything will be all right.’ Her face was drawn and tight, just as it had been when Lesha had died — a mixture of bafflement and sorrow.

Rabalyn left the hilltop and made his way down towards the town.

The streets were deserted. He could hear the mob far off, chanting and screaming. The wind changed and he smelt smoke in the air. Pausing in a darkened alleyway arch he peered out across the short open stretch between the houses and his aunt’s little cottage. No-one was in sight, but Rabalyn decided to take no chances. Squatting down in the shadows he scanned the area. There was a dry stone wall running along the north side of the cottage, and a line of scrub bushes around the gate. Rabalyn waited silently. Just as he was convinced there was no danger he saw someone rise briefly from behind the bushes and creep across to the wagon outside the baker’s house. It looked like Todhe’s friend Bron. A touch of anger flared in Rabalyn. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were still wet.

He wanted nothing more than to get inside the cottage and warm himself by the fire.

Backing down the alley he ran through Market Street, cutting through the smith’s yard. Searching around he found a foot-long rod of rust-speckled iron in a pile of discarded metal. Hefting it he crept on, climbing a low wall and emerging between two lines of houses. From here he could see two young men crouched behind the miller’s wagon. One was indeed Bron. The other was Cadras, whose father worked for Todhe’s family as a general servant. Cadras was a decent enough lad, neither malicious nor vengeful. But he was malleable and followed Todhe’s lead in everything. Rabalyn waited. After a while Bron ducked down and crept back to the hedge outside Aunt Athyla’s cottage. Rabalyn saw Todhe emerge and haul Bron down. The iron rod felt heavy in Rabalyn’s hand. It was comforting to be armed, and yet he did not want to use the weapon.

Todhe’s father, Raseev, virtually ran the council and any harm to his son would be swiftly, and harshly, punished.

Rabalyn decided to outwait them.

Which might have worked had a fourth youth not crept up behind Rabalyn and leapt upon him, pinning his arms.

‘He’s over here!’ shouted the youth. Rabalyn recognized the voice as that of Archas, Bron’s older brother. Rabalyn leaned forward, then threw his head back into Archas’s face. The hold round his chest loosened. Rabalyn squirmed clear, then spun and hit Archas across the cheek with the iron rod. The youth was thrown from his feet.

Rabalyn could hear the others pelting towards him. He should have run, but his blood was up now, and a raging fury swept through him. With a cry he leapt to meet them. The iron rod cracked against Bron’s skull, causing the youth to stumble. Rabalyn ducked to his right and swung the rod again — this time at Todhe. The big youth threw up his arm to protect his head. The rod hammered against the upraised limb causing Todhe to scream in pain. A fist struck Rabalyn in the back. He stumbled and swung towards the new assailant. It was Cadras. Rabalyn hit him in the belly, then leapt in and head-butted him. Cadras cried out and fell. Rabalyn backed away from them, holding the rod high. Todhe was already running away. Bron had struggled to a sitting position and was looking dazed.

Suddenly he leaned forward and vomited. Cadras pushed himself to his knees and put a hand to his smashed nose. Blood was running over his mouth and chin. Rabalyn stood looking at them both. Beyond the injured pair Archas was lying unconscious. Dropping the iron rod Rabalyn moved to where the youth lay on his face. Gently turning him he was relieved to hear Archas groan. ‘Lie still,’ said Rabalyn. ‘Gather your wits.’

There was blood on Archas’s face, and a huge lump over his left eye.

‘I feel sick,’ said Archas.

‘Best you sit up,’ said Rabalyn, helping the youth to the wall. Bron struggled over, then slumped down beside his brother. Neither of the young men spoke and Rabalyn left them there.

He had tackled four attackers and defeated them. He should have felt uplifted and empowered. Instead his heart was heavy, and fear of retribution clung to him.

Skilgannon made his way to the high battlements, and felt a moment of irritation when he saw that he was not alone. Brother Naslyn was already there, leaning on the crenellated wall. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and powerful. Turning, he saw Skilgannon and nodded a greeting. ‘A fine night, Brother Lantern,’ he said.

‘What brings you to the old tower?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘I wanted to think.’

‘Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.’ Skilgannon turned away.

‘No, do not leave, Brother. I was hoping you would come. I have seen you here exercising. I know some of the moves. We practised them in the Immortals.’

Skilgannon looked at the man. It was not hard to imagine him in the black and silver armour of the Emperor’s elite regiment. Invincible in battle, they had carried Gorben to victory after victory for decades. They had been disbanded after the defeat at Skein. ‘Were you there?’ asked Skilgannon. Such was the awesome reputation of that dreadful battle, and its aftermath, that the question could have referred to nothing else.

‘Aye. I was there.’ He shook his head. ‘The world ended,’ he said, at last.

Naslyn was a quiet, solitary man. He needed to talk now, but only in his own time. Skilgannon began to stretch, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Naslyn joined him, and together they quietly moved through the familiar routines of the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock and the Crow. It had been some time since Naslyn last practised the moves, and it took him a while to rediscover his balance. Then they faced one another, bowed, and began to shadow fight, spinning and leaping, hands and feet lancing out, the blows landing on target areas lightly. Skilgannon was faster than the heavier man, but Naslyn moved well for a while until fatigue overtook him. At the last he stepped back, and bowed once more.

Sweat covered his face and dripped from his short black beard. They stretched once more, then sat quietly on the battlements.

‘I still dream of it,’ said Naslyn, after a while. ‘It was one of those impossible moments where, when you replay it in your mind, you are convinced the outcome will be different.’ He turned towards Skilgannon.

‘We couldn’t lose, Lantern. We were the best. Not only that but we outnumbered the enemy ten — perhaps twenty to one. There was no way they could stand against us. No way.’

‘The Drenai are fine warriors, they say.’

‘Aye, they are,’ snapped Naslyn. ‘But that’s not why they won. Three men were responsible for our downfall that day. And the odds against what happened are so enormous they are incalculable. The first was Gorben, bless him. I loved that man — even though the madness was on him at the end. We had taken losses in the eastern battles and he promoted fresh recruits to our ranks. One of these was a young soldier named Eericetes — may his soul be cursed to wander for eternity, the coward.’ He fell silent and stared out at the silhouetted mountains.

‘Who was the third?’ asked Skilgannon, though he knew the answer.

‘The Silver Slayer. Druss. They call him Druss the Legend now. Man, but he earned it that day. We struck their line like the hammer of Heaven. It buckled and damn near broke. And then just as victory was in our grasp.

..’ Naslyn shook his head in remembered disbelief ‘.. Druss charged. One man, Lantern. One man with an axe. It was the pivotal moment. He was unstoppable. The axe blade clove into our ranks and men fell. He couldn’t have stood for long. No one man could. But then the coward Eericetes threw down his shield and ran. Around him other new recruits panicked and did the same. Within a dozen heartbeats the line broke and we were all retreating. Unbelievable. We were the Immortals, Lantern. We didn’t run. The shame of it burns like fire in my heart.’

Skilgannon was intrigued. Tales of Druss the Legend had abounded in Naashan, ever since the death of the champion Michanek. ‘What was he like? Is he a giant?’

‘No taller than me,’ said Naslyn, ‘but more heavily built. It wasn’t his size, though. It was the sheer power he radiated. Him and that damned axe.’

‘They say he fought alongside the Immortals years ago,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Before my time, but there were some who remembered him. They told incredible tales of his skill. I didn’t believe them then. I do now. The retreat was awful. Gorben went totally mad and demanded his generals kill themselves for the dishonour. Instead they killed him. Ventria was finished then. And look at us now, tearing ourselves apart.’

‘Why did you become a priest?’

‘I was sick of it all. The slaughter and the battles.’ Naslyn laughed grimly. ‘I thought I could put right the evils of my youth.’

‘Perhaps you can.’

‘I might have. But I didn’t survive Skein to be slaughtered by angry peasants. They’ll be coming, you know. With clubs and scythes and knives.

I know what I’d do. I’d fight, by Heaven. I don’t want that.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘I’m thinking of leaving. I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Why me? Why not the abbot?’

‘You don’t talk much, Lantern, but I know a warrior when I see one.

You’ve been in battles. I’ll wager you were an officer — and a good one. So I thought I’d get your advice.’

‘I have none to give, my friend. I am still undecided.’

‘You are thinking of staying, then?’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘Maybe. I truly do not know. When I came here I gave my swords to the abbot to dispose of. I had no wish to be a fighter any more. In the town yesterday I wanted to kill a loudmouthed braggart who struck Braygan. It took all of my control to hold back. Had my swords been close to hand I would have left his head on the cobbles.’

‘We are not such good priests, are we?’ offered Naslyn, with a smile.

‘The abbot is. Many of the others are. I do not want to see them slaughtered.’

‘Is that why you are thinking of staying, so that you can defend them?’

‘It is in my mind.’

‘Then I will stay too,’ said Naslyn.