White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER FIVE

RABALYN LAY VERY STILL, KNOWING THAT IF HE MOVED THE

DRAGON would see him. He could feel the fire of its breath on his arm, his chest, and the left side of his face. The pain was searing. The youth did not look at the dragon. He lay with his eyes closed, using all his strength not to cry out. His body began to shake. The dragon’s fire ceased, and then a terrible cold settled over him. He knew then that the dragon had been replaced by a Frost Demon. Aunt Athyla had spoken of such creatures in the far north. They would creep close to homes and chill the bones of the sick and weak. If anything the cold was worse than the dragon’s heat. It ate into his flesh.

Rabalyn opened his eyes and struggled to his knees. He was in a small hollow, surrounded by trees and bushes. Weak sunlight was filtering through the branches overhead. His hand touched a thick fallen branch.

He grabbed it and wielded it like a club. Then looked around for the Frost Demon. Sweat was dripping into his eyes.

There was no demon. No dragon. His throat was awfully dry, and his arms and face prickled with pain.

‘Dreaming,’ he said aloud. The trembling grew worse. His naked body was soaked with sweat and dew and the light breeze blowing through the woods felt like a winter blizzard. Rabalyn rose on unsteady legs and made it to a thick bush. Crouching down, he groaned as fresh pain flared from his thigh. He glanced down and saw that the skin was puckered and raw.

He lay down. It seemed warmer here, and, for a few moments, he felt almost normal. The warmth grew. And grew. Sweat bathed his features and dripped from his face.

He saw again the knife slam into Todhe’s neck, and Aunt Athyla’s body lying before the burning house.

The dragon returned. This time Rabalyn looked at it, uncaring and unafraid. Its body was golden and scaled, its head long and flat. The fire that burned Rabalyn did not come from its mouth, but from its eyes. So bright they were that it pained the youth to look upon them. ‘Go away,’ he whispered. ‘Leave me be.’

‘He is delirious,’ said the dragon.

‘The burns are festering,’ said another voice.

Rabalyn drifted into strange dreams. He was floating upon a clear lake.

The water was cool upon his skin, save for where the sun beat down on his face and arm. He tried to lower himself further into the cold liquid, but it was impossible. Aunt Athyla was there, sitting in an old chair. He realized then that he was not in a lake at all, but in a shallow bath. ‘Where have you been, child?’ asked Aunt Athyla. ‘It is very late.’

‘I’m sorry, Aunt. I don’t know where I’ve been.’

‘Do you think he will die?’ someone asked Aunt Athyla.

Rabalyn could not see the speaker. Aunt Athyla did not answer. She was unravelling a ball of wool. Only it wasn’t wool. It was fire. A ball of fire. ‘I shall make you a cloak,’ she said. ‘It will keep you warm in the winter.’

‘I don’t want it,’ he said.

‘Nonsense. It will be a lovely cloak. Here, feel the wool.’

She rubbed the fire against his face and he screamed.

Darkness swamped him. When the light came again he found himself looking at the strangest sight. A man was kneeling over him, but floating above the man’s shoulders were two curious faces. One was dark, with wide, slanted golden eyes, like a wolf; the other was pale, the mouth a long gash filled with pointed teeth. The eyes were slitted, like those of a cat.

Both faces shimmered, as if shaped from woodsmoke. The man seemed oblivious of the smoke creatures. ‘Can you hear me, Rabalyn?’ he asked.

The face was familiar, but he could not place it in his memory, and drifted off into more dreams.

When at last he awoke the pain from his burns was more bearable. He was lying on the ground, a blanket covering him. There was a bandage over his left arm. Rabalyn groaned. Immediately a man came and knelt beside him. He recognized him as one of the priests.

‘I know you,’ he said.

‘I am Brother Braygan,’ said the man, helping Rabalyn to sit and offering him a drink of water. Rabalyn took the copper cup and drained it.

‘How did you come by these burns?’

‘Todhe set fire to my aunt’s house.’

‘I am sorry. Is your aunt all right?’

‘No. She died.’

Another figure moved alongside. At first Rabalyn failed to recognize him. He was wearing a fringed jacket, and his arms were bare. A black spider had been tattooed upon his forearm. Rabalyn looked into the man’s pale eyes. He realized it was the priest, Brother Lantern. ‘They are hunting you, boy,’ said Lantern. ‘You cannot go back to the town.’

‘I know. I killed Todhe. I wish I hadn’t.’

‘He’ll have to come with us,’ said Brother Braygan.

‘What will he do in Mellicane?’ snapped Lantern. ‘Become a beggar on the streets?’

‘My mother and father are there,’ said Rabalyn. ‘I shall find them.’

‘There, that is settled then,’ said Braygan. ‘You rest for now. I have applied herbal poultices to the burns on your legs and arms. They will be painful for a while, but they will heal, I think.’

Rabalyn drifted off to sleep — and slowly sank into a lake of dreams.

When he awoke it was dark. The dreams drifted away like mist on the breeze.

Save for one. He remembered a terrible axe, and a man with eyes the colour of a winter sky. Rabalyn shivered at the memory.

In the morning Brother Lantern took a spare shirt and breeches from his pack and gave them to Rabalyn. The shirt was of a soft cloth Rabalyn had never seen before. There was a sheen to it that caught the light. It was pale blue, and upon the breast was a small snake, embroidered in gold thread. It was coiled and ready to strike. ‘My burns will stain the cloth,’

said Rabalyn. ‘I don’t want to ruin such a fine shirt.’

‘It is just an item of clothing,’ said Lantern dismissively. The breeches were of a thin, black leather, and too long for the youth. Braygan knelt at his feet, folding the leather up and over Rabalyn’s ankles. From his own pack Braygan took a pair of sandals. Rabalyn tied them on. They were an almost perfect fit.

‘There, that should suffice,’ said Braygan. ‘You look like a young nobleman.’

The next few days proved difficult for Rabalyn. The burns did not heal swiftly, the flesh puckering and splitting. Even the new skin, when it formed, was tight and easily broken. The pain was constant. He tried not to complain, for he realized that the tall warrior, who had been Brother Lantern, did not want him around. The man rarely spoke to him. On the other hand he didn’t speak much to Brother Braygan either. He just strode on ahead, sometimes disappearing from view. Whenever they passed through areas of hills he would run up the tallest slope and study their back trail.

On the morning of the fourth day the warrior — as Rabalyn had come to think of him — ushered them off the road and into thick undergrowth.

There they crouched behind a screen of bushes as five horsemen came into sight, riding hard. Rabalyn recognized the lean figure of Seregas, the Captain of the Watch.

After the horsemen had passed Rabalyn felt close to tears. His wounds were painful. He was travelling with strangers, one of whom did not like him, and the officers of the Watch were still hunting him. What if they followed him all the way to Mellicane, and reported him as a murderer?

The warrior led them deeper into the woods to the left of the trail, and for most of the day they travelled over rough country. By evening Rabalyn was exhausted. The warrior found a hidden hollow and lit a small fire.

Rabalyn did not sit too close to it. His wounds could not tolerate heat.

Brother Braygan brought him a bowl of broth. ‘Are you feeling a little better?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You are sad because of your aunt. I see it in your eyes.’

Rabalyn felt ashamed. He had been more concerned with his own plight, and guilt at his selfishness bore down on him. ‘She was a good woman,’ he said, unwilling to lie outright.

The warrior had vanished into the night, and Rabalyn felt more comfortable in his absence. ‘I wish he’d just go away,’ he said aloud.

‘Who?’ asked Braygan. Rabalyn was immediately embarrassed. He had not meant to voice the thought.

‘Brother Lantern. He frightens me.’

‘He will do you no harm, Rabalyn. Lantern is a… good man.’

‘What happened back at the church? Did the mob go there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they burn everything?’

‘They burned nothing, Rabalyn. Tell me about your parents. Do you know where they live now?’

Rabalyn shook his head. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll want me around. They left me and my sister with Aunt Athyla years ago. They never sent word or anything. They don’t even know Lesha is dead. Truth is they’re both worthless.’

Now it was Braygan who looked uncomfortable. ‘Never say that, my friend. We all have weaknesses. No-one is perfect. You must learn to forgive.’

Rabalyn did not respond. Aunt Athyla had never spoken badly of his parents, but as he grew older he heard stories. His father had been a lazy man, twice dismissed and once jailed for a year for stealing from his employers. He was also a drunkard, and Rabalyn’s one clear memory of him was seeing him strike his mother in the face after a row. She had been hurled back against a wall, half stunned. Rabalyn had been six years old at the time, and he had run to his mother, in tears. That was when his father kicked him. ‘How is a man supposed to make something of himself?’ his father had shouted. ‘Bad enough trying to earn enough to get by, without having to feed and clothe ungrateful brats.’

Rabalyn hated weakness. And he had never understood why his mother had deserted her children to go off with a man so lacking in virtue. He had only told the priests about his parents being in Mellicane so that they would not leave him to his fate. He had no intention of seeking them out.

Let them rot wherever they are, he thought.

Braygan moved to the small fire, and added several dry sticks. ‘So what happened when the mob went to the church?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

‘Why?’

‘It was ugly, Rabalyn. Horrible.’

The priest’s face showed his sorrow, and Rabalyn watched him sitting quietly and staring into the fire. ‘Is Jesper all right?’ asked the boy.

‘Jesper?’

‘Kalia’s dog.’

‘Oh, yes, the dog is fine. Abbot Cethelin is looking after him.’

‘Why is Brother Lantern not dressed like a priest?’

‘He has left the Order. Like me he is… was… an acolyte. He had not taken his final vows. Would you like something to eat?’

‘I’d like to know what happened at the church,’ said Rabalyn. ‘What was so horrible?’

Braygan sighed. ‘Men died, Rabalyn. The abbot was stabbed.’

‘Brother Lantern stopped them, didn’t he?’

Braygan glanced at the boy. ‘How would you know that?’

‘I don’t know it. Just guessed really. I saw him knock over that Arbiter attacking you. He didn’t seem afraid. Then he just ordered the crowd to carry the Arbiter into the tavern. I guessed he’d do the same if the mob came to the church. Who did he kill?’

‘As I said, I do not want to talk about it. Perhaps you should ask Lantern when he returns.’

‘He won’t talk about it. And he doesn’t like me.’

Braygan smiled sheepishly. ‘He doesn’t like me much either.’

‘Then why are you travelling together?’

‘The abbot asked him to see me safely to Mellicane.’

‘What will you do when you get there?’

‘Deliver letters to the church elders, and then take my vows before the bishop.’

‘Is it a long way?’

‘Just over a hundred and fifty miles. Lantern thinks the journey will take another twelve, perhaps fifteen days.’

‘What about the war? Will we see soldiers?’

‘I do hope not,’ said Braygan, suddenly fearful. ‘There are several settlements between here and the capital. We will purchase provisions from them and keep away from the major roads.’

‘Have you ever been to the capital?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Kalia has. She said they have huge beasts there, who fight in the arena.

And Kellias the Pedlar told us that some of them were going to be fighting in the war. He said they were called Joinings, and that the King had promised an army of them to fight off our evil enemies.’

‘I do not like to speak of such things,’ said Braygan, attempting a stern tone, and failing miserably.

‘I’d like to see one,’ added Rabalyn.

‘Be careful of what you wish for, boy,’ said Lantern, silently emerging from the trees. ‘The Joinings are a curse, and anyone who seeks to use them is a fool.’

On the morning of the sixth day, tired and hungry, their provisions almost exhausted, they arrived at a waystation just outside a small village nestling in the hills. Skilgannon scanned the area. There were three wooden structures and a corral containing no horses. Smoke was drifting lazily from the chimney of the largest building. Beyond the waystation there was no sign of movement in the village, save for a fox that darted across the main street, disappearing into an alley.

Skilgannon told Rabalyn and Braygan to wait at the edge of the trees, then strode down to the corral. As he approached it a burly man appeared from the main building. He was tall and round-shouldered, his hair close-cropped, but his brown beard thick and shaggy.

‘Good morning to you,’ he said.

‘And to you. Where are your horses?’

‘Soldiers took them. The station is closed until further notice.’

Skilgannon glanced towards the silent village. ‘All gone,’ said the man.

‘The Datians are less than a day from here. So people grabbed what they could and fled.’

‘But not you.’

The man shrugged. ‘Nowhere to go, son. This is my home. There’s still food left, so if you and your friends want breakfast you are welcome.’

That is kind of you.’

‘Glad to have the company, tell you the truth. My name is Seth,’ he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Skilgannon shook it. Seth glanced down at the spider tattoo. ‘There’s men looking for you,’ he added.

‘They were here yesterday. Big reward, they said.’

‘Huge,’ agreed Skilgannon.

‘Best you don’t stay too long then,’ said Seth, with a grin. ‘Expect they’ll be back.’ Then he turned and walked back inside.

Skilgannon summoned the others. Most of the space within the building was taken up by a storage area, now empty, but several tables and a dozen chairs had been set by the western wall. Seth seated them, then wandered away to the kitchen. Skilgannon rose and followed him. The big man took up a frying pan and placed it atop a large stove. Wrapping a cloth around his hand, he pulled clear the iron cover and moved the pan to the flames.

Then from the larder he took a large chunk of smoked ham, and carved eight slices. As they were placed in the pan they began to sizzle.

Skilgannon’s stomach tightened as the smell of frying bacon filled the air.

‘You don’t need to worry about me, son,’ said Seth. ‘I’m not interested in bounties.’

‘Where did the villagers go?’

‘Some headed for Mellicane, others went south. Some headed up into the high hills. The war is lost. No doubt of it. The soldiers who stole the horses were deserters. They told me that only the capital still holds out against the Datians.’ Seth flipped the bacon slices with a long knife. ‘You are a Naashanite?’

‘No, but I was raised there.’

‘Word was that the Witch Queen would send an army to help us. Never came.’ The bearded man pushed the bacon to the side of the large pan.

From the larder he took a bowl of eggs, and, one by one, cracked six of them. Three of the yolks split, the golden centres seeping over the congealing mess in the pan. ‘Never was much of a cook,’ he said, with a grin. ‘It will still taste good, though. Fine hens. Trust me.’

Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Twelve years this summer. Not a bad place, you know. People are friendly, and — before the war — the station was pretty busy. Postal riders and travellers. I built the sleeping quarters myself. At one time I was even turning business away. Twenty beds, full for a month. Thought I was going to get rich.’

‘What would you do if you were rich?’

Seth laughed. ‘No idea, man. I’ve no taste for finery. Having said that, there was a fancy whorehouse in Mellicane that I always hankered to try.

There was a woman there who charged ten gold raq for a single night. Can you believe that? She must have been something.’ He glanced down at the mess in the pan. ‘Well, I think it’s ready.’

He served the meal onto four wooden platters. He and Skilgannon carried them back into the dining area, and they ate in silence — after Braygan had offered a prayer of thanks.

When they had finished Seth leaned back in his chair. ‘Second breakfast of the day for me,’ he said. ‘Damned if it didn’t taste better than the first.’

‘How will you survive here on your own?’ asked Braygan.

‘I have my hens, and I know how to hunt. There’s also quite a bit of grain hidden close by. I’ll do well enough — if this war ends by the summer.

People will start coming back then. Business will pick up.’

‘Wouldn’t it be safer to go to Mellicane?’ asked Braygan.

Seth looked at the priest and smiled. ‘Nowhere is truly safe in a war, young man. Mellicane is a city under siege. If it falls the slaughter will be terrible. Look what happened in Perapolis when the Damned took it. He killed everyone, men, women, babes in arms. No, I think I’ll stay here in my home. If I’m to be killed it’ll be in a place I love.’

An uncomfortable silence fell. Braygan looked away.

‘I’d like to purchase some supplies from you, Seth,’ said Skilgannon.

For the next five days the travellers moved northwest, ever downwards into lush valleys and low woodland. The temperature rose sharply, and both Braygan and Rabalyn found the going increasingly hard. Sweat itched and tingled on Rabalyn’s healing burns, and Braygan, unused to such sustained exercise, stumbled along on painful legs. Occasionally he would suffer severe cramps in his calves and be forced to sit until the agony passed. They saw few people in this time, though occasionally glimpsed riders in the distance.

On the morning of the sixth day they came across the smoking ruins of a small farm. Five bodies lay on the open ground. Crows were feasting on dead flesh. Braygan shepherded Rabalyn from the scene, while Skilgannon moved to where the bodies lay. As he approached the crows flew away a little distance and waited.

There were three adults, one man and two women, and two small girls.

Skilgannon examined the ground around them. The earth was churned by the hooves of many horses, though it was impossible to tell how many. At least twenty, he thought. The bodies were all close together, so it was likely they were led from the building and murdered. Otherwise — if they had tried to run — they would have been slain further apart. There was no indication that the women had been raped. They were fully clothed.

Skilgannon rose to his feet. A cavalry group had ridden in, looted the farmhouse, then murdered the family who lived there. The farm had then been torched. In the distance Skilgannon could see other farms. Those had not been set ablaze.

Calling to Braygan and Rabalyn, he walked across the ploughed fields towards the next farmhouse. It was deserted.

‘Why did they kill that family?’ asked Braygan.

‘Any number of reasons,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘The most likely is that such an act would spread terror. All the other families in this area, seeing the smoke, and perhaps even witnessing the killings, have fled. My guess is that by terrorizing the rural areas the Datians are forcing more and more people to seek refuge in Mellicane.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Food, Braygan. Wars are not won merely by defeating enemies on the field of battle. Mellicane is a fortress city. Everyone there needs to eat. If you swell the numbers then food will run out more swiftly. Without food they cannot resist an enemy. The city might then surrender, and save the need for a sustained siege.’

Skilgannon left Braygan and Rabalyn at a deserted farmhouse, then set out to scout the area.

There were few farm animals anywhere. Skilgannon saw two pigs and several hens, but any sheep or cattle had been driven away, probably to feed the armies converging on Mellicane.

Pausing at a well, he drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply.

Seth had talked of a Naashanite army that was supposed to come to the aid of the Tantrian King. It would come, Skilgannon knew, but intentionally too late. Centuries ago Tantria, Datia and Dospilis had been part of the Naashanite empire. The Queen desired those lands again.

Better to let the three nations tear each other apart first, then move in to conquer them all.

He sat on the wall of the well and wished that he could just walk away, find a horse and head north towards Sherak. If the Temple of the Resurrectionists existed he would find it, then bring back to life the woman who had married him. ‘I wish I could have loved you more,’ he said aloud. Closing his eyes he pictured Dayan’s face, her golden hair bound in a braid of silver wire, her smile bright and dazzling. Then, without warning, another face appeared, long dark hair framing features of singular perfection. Dark eyes looked into his own, and full lips parted in a smile that clove his heart.

Skilgannon groaned and surged upright. Even now he could not picture Dayan without summoning the memory of Jianna.

‘Do you love me, Olek?’ Dayan had asked, on the night of their wedding.

‘Who could not love you, Dayan? You are everything a man could desire.’

‘Do you love me with all your heart?’

‘I will try to make you happy, and I will take no other wives, nor concubines. That is my promise to you.’

‘My father warned me about you, Olek. He said you were in love with the Queen. That all men knew this. Have you lain with her?’

‘No questions, Dayan. The past is gone. The future is ours. This is our night. The servants are gone, the moon is bright, and you are the most beautiful woman in all the world.’

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves. Glancing to the west he saw three riders approaching. They were soldiers, bearing white crests upon their helms. Skilgannon stood quietly as they approached. They were carrying small, round, unadorned shields, and he could not identify which army they fought for.

The lead rider, a tall man with a wispy blond beard, drew rein. He said nothing, but stared at Skilgannon with cold, blue eyes. His comrades drew alongside, waiting for orders. ‘Are you from this village?’ asked the leader, after a few more moments of silence. The voice was low, with a soft burr that suggested the east. Probably Datian, thought Skilgannon.

‘I am passing through.’

‘A refugee then?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I see no reason to run and hide. Feel free to water your horses.’

A touch of anger showed in the rider’s eyes. ‘I am free to water my horses. I need no permission from you.’

‘Were you in the group that murdered the farmer and his family?’ asked Skilgannon, gesturing towards the blackened farmhouse in the distance.

The man leaned back in his saddle, crossing his hands on the pommel horn. ‘You are very cool, stranger.’

‘I am merely enjoying the sunshine and a sip of water from a well. I am at war with no-one.’

‘The whole world is at war,’ snapped one of the riders, a young beardless man with long black hair, wrapped tightly into two braids.

‘Tantria is not the world,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is merely a small nation.’

‘Shall I kill him, sir?’ asked the rider, looking towards the blond warrior.

The man’s eyes held to Skilgannon’s gaze.

‘No. Water the horses,’ he said, dismounting and loosening his saddle girth. Skilgannon walked away from them and sat quietly on a fence rail.

The leader, leaving his horse with the black-haired rider, moved to join him. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘South.’

‘Where are you heading?’

‘Mellicane.’

The city will fall.’

‘I expect you are right. I’ll not be there long.’

The rider eased himself up onto the fence rail, and glanced back towards the smouldering farmhouse. ‘I was not with that group,’ he said.

‘Though I could have been. What is your business in Mellicane?’

‘I am escorting a priest who wishes to take his vows there, and a boy seeking lost parents.’

‘Not a Naashanite messenger then?’

‘No.’

‘I see you sport the Spider on your arm. Naashanite custom, is it not?’

‘Yes. I served the Queen for a number of years. Now I do not.’

‘You realize I should either kill you or take you back to our camp?’

‘You do not have enough men with you to attempt it,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘Otherwise that is precisely what you would do.’

The rider smiled. ‘Exactly so. Would you explain to me how a warrior like yourself became engaged in so small a mission?’

‘A man I owed asked it of me.’

‘Ah, I see. A man should always honour his debts. We are nothing without honour. There is talk of a Naashanite army preparing to come against us. You think there is truth in the rumour?’

Skilgannon looked at the man. ‘You know there is.’

‘Aye,’ muttered the soldier sadly. ‘The Witch Queen has played us all for fools. Together we could have withstood her. Now we have more than decimated our armies. And for what? Datia and Dospilis together are not strong enough to hold Tantria. How soon will they come, do you think?’

‘As soon as Mellicane falls,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is no more than a guess.

I have no contact now with Naashan.’

The soldier stretched, then climbed to his feet and replaced his horsehair-crested helm. He tightened the chin strap then offered his hand to Skilgannon. ‘Good luck with your mission, Naashanite.’

Skilgannon stepped down from the fence and accepted the handshake.

The rider gripped him hard. Then his left hand swept out from behind his back. A thin-bladed dagger flashed upward towards Skilgannon’s throat.

Instead of trying to pull away Skilgannon threw himself forward, his forehead slamming into the bridge of the soldier’s nose. The dagger thrust missed Skilgannon’s throat, the blade causing a shallow cut to the skin at the back of his neck. Still gripping the rider’s right hand Skilgannon spun to his left, lifting the trapped arm and twisting it. The man cried in pain.

Skilgannon dropped him, leapt back and drew the Swords of Night and Day.

The other two soldiers ran forward, swords drawn. Their captain scrambled to his feet.

‘You are a skilled fighter, Naashanite. You realize that I had to make the attempt to kill you? My men here would have reported me had I merely let you go. No hard feelings, eh?’

‘You are a stupid man,’ Skilgannon told him, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. ‘I had no wish to kill you. You could have lived. Your men could have lived.’ Even as he spoke he leapt forward. The first of the soldiers — the young man with black, braided hair — managed to parry the thrust from the golden blade, but the silver sword opened his throat to the bone. The second soldier charged in — only to have his chest skewered by a single thrust. Skilgannon dragged clear his blade and stepped back as the body toppled towards him.

The leader backed away. Skilgannon cleaned his blades and sheathed them. Then he looked at the rider. Slowly the man drew his cavalry sabre.

‘I have struggled for years to put this vileness behind me,’ said Skilgannon. ‘A man like you can have no understanding of how hard that was.’

‘I have a wife and children,’ said the man. ‘I don’t want to die. Not here.

Not so uselessly.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘Then walk away,’ he said. ‘I will take your horses. By the time you send men after us we will be long gone.’ With that he walked past the rider towards the waiting mounts.

For a moment it seemed the soldier would let him go. Then, seeing Skilgannon’s back, he raised his sabre and darted forward.

Skilgannon spun. A shining circle of serrated metal tore through the rider’s throat. Blood gouted from the wound. The man choked and stumbled, falling to his knees.

With scrabbling fingers he tried to close the wound. Skilgannon walked past him, gathered up the circle of steel, then returned to kneel by the dying man. The fallen rider began to tremble violently, then with one last gasp he died.

Skilgannon wiped the steel weapon clean on the dead man’s sleeve, then rose and walked to the horses.

‘You seem very sad,’ said Rabalyn, moving to sit opposite Braygan at the dining table. The deserted house was cheerless, as if yearning for the people who had fled it in fear.

‘I am sad, Rabalyn. It hurts my heart to see such violence. That family back there were not soldiers. They grew crops and they loved one another.

I cannot understand how people can commit such acts of evil.’

Rabalyn said nothing. He had killed Todhe, and killing was evil. Even so he now knew how such acts began. Rage, grief and fear had propelled him into the murder of Todhe. And Todhe himself had been angry with him, which is why he had set fire to the house… Lost in thought Rabalyn sat quietly at the table.

Braygan stared around the large room. It had been carefully constructed, originally of logs, but the inner walls had been plastered. The floor was hard-packed earth, but someone had etched designs upon it, spirals and circles that had then been dusted with powdered red clay, creating crimson patterns. Everything about the room spoke of care and love. The furniture had not been crafted by a trained carpenter, but had been carved and adorned by someone trying hard to master the skills; someone willing to add small individual touches to the pieces. A clumsy rose had been carved into the back of one of the chairs, and what might have been an ear of corn had been started on another. A family had tried to make a life here, filling the room with evidence of their love. Initials had been carved into the beam above the hearth. ‘I think I would like the people who lived here, Rabalyn,’ he said. ‘I hope they are safe.’

Rabalyn nodded, but still said nothing. He didn’t know these people, and, truth to tell, he didn’t much care if they were safe or not. Rising, he wandered about the house, seeking any food that might have been left behind. In a deep larder he found some pottery jars with cork stoppers.

Removing one he looked inside. It was filled with honey. Rabalyn dipped his finger into it and licked it greedily. The silky sweetness on his tongue was beyond pleasurable. Aunt Athyla had used honey in her baking, but Rabalyn’s favourite snack was to toast stale bread over the fire, then smear it with honey. Finding a wooden spoon, he sat down in the kitchen and scooped out several spoonfuls. After a while the sweetness began to cloy on his tongue. Putting aside the jar he walked outside to the well, and drew up a bucket of water. Drinking deeply, he washed away the sugary taste.

Then he saw Brother Lantern riding towards the house. He was leading two other horses.

Rabalyn walked out to meet the warrior. The horses looked huge, quite unlike the shaggy ponies to be seen back in Skepthia. Rabalyn stepped aside as they passed. They loomed above him and he reached out to stroke the flank of the nearest. Its chestnut-coloured coat gleamed and its powerful muscles rippled under his hand.

Skilgannon rode past Rabalyn without a word and dismounted at the house, tethering the horses to a post. Rabalyn followed him as he walked inside. Braygan looked up. ‘Did you discover any more victims?’ he asked.

‘No. We have horses. Do you ride?’

‘I once rode a pony around a paddock.’

‘These are not ponies. These are war horses, highly trained and intelligent. They will expect equal intelligence from you. Come outside. It will not be safe to stay here long, but we will risk a short training period.’

‘I would just as soon walk,’ said Braygan.

‘There are three dead Datians back there,’ said the warrior, ‘and they will be discovered before long. Walking is no longer an option. Follow me.’

Once outside he gestured to Rabalyn, and helped him mount the chestnut gelding the boy had stroked moments earlier. ‘Kick your feet from the stirrups,’ said Skilgannon.

Rabalyn did so, glancing down as the warrior adjusted the height of each stirrup. ‘Gently take hold of the reins. Remember that the horse’s mouth is tender, so no savage jerking or pulling.’ He led the horse away from the others, then glanced back at Rabalyn. ‘Do not grip with your legs.

Sit easy. Now merely walk him around for a while.’ Releasing his hold on the bridle Skilgannon moved back to where Braygan was standing.

‘These horses don’t like me,’ said Braygan.

‘That is because you are standing there staring at them. Come forward.

Keep your movements slow and easy.’ He helped the priest to mount, then adjusted his stirrups, repeating the advice he had given to Rabalyn.

Lastly Skilgannon sprang easily into the saddle of a steeldust gelding and rode alongside the two nervous novices. ‘The horse has four gaits,’ he said, ‘walk, trot, canter and gallop. Walking, as we are now doing, is simple. You just sit lightly in the saddle. The trot is not so simple. The horse will break into what is known as a two-time gait.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Braygan.

‘The horse will step from one diagonally opposite pair of legs to the other. Near-fore and off-hind together, then off-fore and near-hind. This will create a bouncing effect and your backsides will be pummelled until you learn to move with the rhythm. Stay tall in the saddle. Do not slouch.’

They spent an hour in the open fields behind the farmhouse. Rabalyn learned swiftly, and even cantered his mount briefly at one point. For Braygan the entire exercise was a nightmare.

‘If I strapped a dead man to the saddle he’d show more rhythm than you,’ said the warrior. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘I am frightened. I don’t want to fall off.’

‘Kick your feet from the stirrups.’ Braygan did so. ‘Now let go of the reins.’ Once more Braygan obeyed him. Skilgannon suddenly clapped his hands and yelled. Braygan’s horse reared then broke into a run. The movement was so sudden that the priest fell backwards, turning a somersault before striking the soft earth. Shakily he climbed to his feet.

There,’ said the warrior. ‘Now you have fallen off. As ever the fear of it was not matched by the actuality.’

‘You could have broken my neck.’

‘True. The one certainty about riding, Braygan, is that — at some time -

you will fall off. It is a fact. Another fact you might like to consider, in your life of perpetual terror, is that you will die. We are all going to die, some of us young, some of us old, some of us in our sleep, some of us screaming in agony. We cannot stop it, we can only delay it. And now it is time to move on. I’d like to reach those far hills by dusk. We can find a campsite in the trees.’