White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

CHAPTER SIX

RABALYN ENJOYED THE DAY’S RIDE MORE THAN HE COULD

EXPRESS. HE knew that he would always remember it with enormous affection. If he was lucky enough to live until he grew old he would look back to this day as one of the great, defining moments of his life. It was an effort not to let the horse have its head and ride off at ferocious speed towards the distant hills. As he sat in the saddle he could feel the power of the beast beneath him. It was awesome. As Brother Lantern had instructed him he chatted to the gelding, keeping his voice low and soothing. The gelding’s ears would flick back as he spoke, as if listening and understanding. Rabalyn patted its sleek neck. At one point he drew rein and let the others ride on for a while, then gently heeled the gelding into a run. Exhilaration swept through him as he settled into the saddle, adjusting his rhythm so that there was no painful bouncing. He and the horse were one — and they were fast and strong. No-one could catch them.

As he approached the others he tried to rein in. But the gelding was at full gallop now and swept on by them, ignoring his commands. Even then, with the horse bolting, Rabalyn felt no fear. A wild excitement roared through him. Dragging on the reins he began to shout: ‘Whoa, boy. Whoa!’

The horse seemed to run even faster.

Brother Lantern’s steeldust came galloping alongside. ‘Don’t drag on the reins, boy,’ he shouted. ‘It will only numb his mouth. Gently turn him to the right. As he turns keep applying gentle tugs to the reins.’ Rabalyn followed the orders. Slowly the gelding began to angle to the right. He slowed to a canter and then a trot. Finally, at the gentlest of tugs the gelding halted, alert and waiting for the next instruction.

‘Well done,’ said the warrior, drawing rein a little way from Rabalyn.

‘You will be a fine rider.’

‘Why did he bolt? Was he frightened of something?’

‘Yes, but he doesn’t know what. You have to understand, Rabalyn, that a horse in the wild uses its speed to avoid danger. When you pushed him to the gallop ancestral memories took over. He was running fast, therefore he was in danger. Panic can set in very fast in a horse. That is why the rider must always be in control. When he broke into that run you relaxed and gave him his head. Thus, left to his own devices, he panicked.’

‘It was a wonderful feeling. He is so fast. I bet he could have been a racer.’

‘He is a young war horse,’ said the man, with a smile, ‘skittish and a little nervous. A Ventrian pure blood would leave him for dead in a flat race. On a battlefield the Ventrian would be a liability. It is not as agile and its fleetness can be a hazard. But, yes, he is a fine mount for a young man in open country.’

‘Should I give him a name, Brother Lantern?’

‘Call me Skilgannon. And, yes, you can call him what you will. If you have him long enough he will come to recognize it.’

Braygan approached them at an awkward trot, the young priest bouncing in the saddle, his arms flapping. ‘Some men are not made to ride,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘I am beginning to feel sorry for that horse.’

With that he swung his mount and continued on their way.

By late afternoon they were climbing ever higher into wooded hills.

Through breaks in the trees, Rabalyn could see a vast plain below them to the northwest. He saw also columns of people walking, and occasionally mounted troops. They were too far away to identify as friend or foe.

Rabalyn didn’t care which they were. His gelding was faster than the winter wind.

That night they camped at the base of a cliff. Skilgannon allowed no fire, but the night was warm and pleasant. A search of the saddlebags produced two wooden-handled brushes and Skilgannon showed Braygan and Rabalyn how to unsaddle the mounts and then groom them. Lastly he led the horses out a little way to where the grass was thick and green.

Then, with short ropes also from the saddlebags, he hobbled them and left them to feed.

Braygan was complaining about his sore legs and bruised backside, but Skilgannon paid no attention, and soon the young priest wrapped himself in a blanket and settled down to sleep. The night sky was clear, the stars brilliantly bright. Skilgannon walked a little way from the camp and was sitting alone. Normally Rabalyn would not disturb him, but the man had -

for the first time — spoken in a friendly way after Rabalyn’s horse bolted.

So, with just a hint of trepidation, Rabalyn walked across to where the warrior was sitting. As he came up Skilgannon glanced round. His gaze was once more cold and distant.

‘You want something?’

‘No,’ said Rabalyn, instantly turning away.

‘Come and join me, boy,’ said Skilgannon, his voice softening. ‘I am not the ogre I appear.’

‘You seem very angry all the time.’

‘That would be a fair judgement,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Sit down. I’ll try not to snap at you.’ Rabalyn sat on the ground, but could think of nothing to say. The silence grew, and yet Rabalyn found it comfortable. He looked up at the warrior. He no longer seemed so daunting.

‘Is it hard being a monk?’ he asked, after a while.

‘Is it hard being a boy?’ countered Skilgannon.

‘Very.’

‘I fear that answer could be given by any man, in any position. Life itself is hard. But, yes, I found it especially difficult. The studies were easy enough, and quite enjoyable. The philosophy, on the other hand, was exquisitely impenetrable. We were ordered to love the unlovable.’

‘How do you do that?’

‘You’re asking the wrong man.’

‘That is blood on your neck,’ said Rabalyn.

‘A scratch from an idiot. It is nothing.’

‘What will you do when you get to Mellicane?’

Skilgannon looked at him, then smiled. ‘I shall leave as soon as possible.’

‘Can I go with you?’

‘What about your parents?’

‘They don’t care about me. Never did, really. I only said I was looking for them so you wouldn’t leave me behind.’

‘Ah,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Very wise — for I would have.’

‘What will you do now you are not a monk?’

‘You are full of questions, Rabalyn. Are you not tired after a day in the saddle?’

‘A little, but it is very peaceful sitting here. So what will you do?’

‘Head north towards Sherak. There is a temple there — or it might be there. I don’t know. But I will seek it.’

‘And become a monk again?’

‘No. Something even more foolish.’

‘What?’

‘It is a secret,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘All men should have at least one secret. Maybe I will tell you one day. For now, though, go and sleep. I need to think.’

Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet and walked back to where Braygan lay. The young priest was snoring softly. Rabalyn lay down, his head resting on his arm.

And dreamed of riding through clouds on the back of a golden horse.

Skilgannon watched the lad walk away, and, for the first time in many weeks, felt a sense of peace settle on his troubled soul. He had not been so different from Rabalyn. As a youngster his mind was also full of questions, and his father had rarely been home to answer them. Why did men fight wars? Why were some people rich and some poor? If there was a great god watching over the world why were there diseases? Why did people die so unnecessarily? His mother had died in childbirth, bearing a sickly daughter. Skilgannon was seven years old. The baby had followed her two days later. They were buried in the same grave. Then — as now — Skilgannon had no answers to his questions.

He was tired, and yet he knew sleep would not come. Lying down on the soft earth he stretched out on his back, his arms behind his head, his hands pillowing his neck. The stars were brilliantly bright, and a crescent moon shone. It reminded him of the earring Greavas wore. He smiled at the memory of that sad, strange man, and recalled the winter evenings when Greavas had sat by the fireside and played his lyre, singing songs and ballads of glorious days gone by. He had a sweet, high voice, which had served him well in his days as an actor, playing the part of the heroine.

‘Why don’t they just have women playing women?’ the boy Skilgannon had wanted to know.

‘It is unseemly for women to perform in public, my dear. And if they did what would have become of my career?’

‘What did become of it?’ asked the eleven-year-old.

‘They said I was too old to play the lead, Olek. Look at me. How old do I look?’

‘It is hard to tell,’ the boy had said.

‘I could still pass for twenty-five, don’t you think?’

‘Except for the eyes,’ said the boy. ‘Your eyes look older.’

‘Never ask a child for flattery,’ snapped Greavas. ‘Anyway, I gave up the playhouses.’

Decado had hired Greavas to teach Skilgannon to dance. The boy had been horrified.

‘Why, Father? I want to be a warrior like you.’

‘Then learn to dance,’ Decado had told him, on a rare visit home.

Skilgannon had become angry. ‘All my friends are laughing at me. And at you. They say you’ve brought a man-woman to live with you. People see him walking with me in the street and they shout out insults.’

‘Whoa there, boy. Let’s deal with this one thing at a time,’ said Decado, his expression darkening. ‘First the dancing. If you want to be a swordsman you’ll need balance and co-ordination. There is no better way of honing that than to learn to dance. Greavas is a brilliant dancer and a fine teacher. He is the best. I always hire the best. As to what your friends say, why should either of us care about that?’

‘But I do care.’

‘That is because you are young, and there is a great deal of foolish pride in the young. Greavas is a good man, kind and strong. He is a friend to this family, and we will brook no insults to our friends.’

‘Why do you have such strange friends? It embarrasses me.’

‘When you speak like this it embarrasses me. You listen to me, Olek.

There will always be men who select their friends for reasons of advancement, either socially, militarily or politically. They will tell you to avoid a certain man’s company because he is out of favour, or his family is poor. Or, indeed, because his life is lived in a manner some people find unbecoming. As a soldier I judge my men by what they can do. By how much guts they have. When it comes to friends all that matters is whether I like them. I like Greavas. I think you will come to like him too. If you don’t that is too bad. You will still learn to dance. And I will expect you to stand up for him with your friends.’

‘I won’t have any friends left if he stays,’ snapped the eleven-year-old.

‘Then you won’t have lost anything worthwhile. True friends stand with you, regardless of the ridicule of others. You’ll see.’

The following weeks had been hard for Skilgannon. At eleven years old the respect of his peers was everything to him. He responded to the jeers and the jibes with his fists, and soon only Askelus remained his friend. The boy he most admired, the thirteen-year-old Boranius, tried to reason with him.

‘A man is judged by the company he keeps, Olek,’ he said, one afternoon, in the physical training area. ‘Now people think you are a catamite, and that your father is a pervert. The reality is immaterial. You must decide what means most to you — the admiration of your friends, or the loyalty of a servant.’

At that tender age Skilgannon longed to be able to side with his peers.

Yet the most important person in his young life was his father, whom he loved. ‘Will I lose your friendship also, Boranius?’

‘Friendship carries responsibilities, Olek. Both ways. A true friend would not wish to put me in a position to be scorned. If you ask me to stand alongside you, then of course I will.’

Skilgannon had not asked him, and had avoided the young athlete’s company after that.

Askelus remained. Dark-eyed and brooding, he said nothing about the situation. He called at Skilgannon’s home, and together they walked to school.

‘Are you not ashamed to be seen with me?’ asked Skilgannon one day.

‘Why would I be?’

‘Everyone else is.’

‘Never liked the others much anyway.’ It was then that Skilgannon discovered that — apart from the loss of Boranius — he felt the same. Added to this, his father proved to be right. He had begun to appreciate and like Greavas. And this despite the man’s mocking tone during dance lessons.

He had taken to calling Skilgannon ‘Hippo’.

‘You have all the inherent grace of a hippopotamus, Olek. I swear you have two left feet.’

‘I am doing my best.’

‘Sadly I believe that is true. I had hoped to complete your studies by the summer. I now see I have taken on a lifetime commitment.’

Yet week by week Skilgannon had improved, and the exercises Greavas set him strengthened his legs and upper body. Soon he could leap and twirl and land in perfect balance. The dancing also improved his speed, and he won two races at school. The last was his greatest joy, for his father was there to see him, and he beat Boranius in the half-mile sprint. Decado had been delighted. Skilgannon’s joy was tempered by the fact that Boranius had run with his ankle heavily strapped, following an injury sustained the previous week.

That evening Decado had once more set off to the Matapesh borders, and Skilgannon had sat with Greavas in the west-facing gardens. Two other servants had sat with them.

Sperian and his wife, Molaire, had served Decado for five years then.

Molaire was a large, middle-aged woman, with sparkling eyes and deep auburn hair, touched now with silver. Constantly good-natured she would, at times like this, chatter on about the flowers and the brightly coloured birds that nested in the surrounding trees. Sperian, who maintained the gardens, would sit quietly staring out over the blooms and the pathways, making judgements about which areas to prune, and where to plant his new seedlings. Skilgannon enjoyed these evenings of quiet companionship.

On this night Sperian commented on the medal Skilgannon wore. ‘Was it a good race?’ he asked.

‘Boranius had an injured foot. He would have beaten me otherwise.’

‘It is a lovely ribbon,’ said Molaire. ‘A very pretty blue.’

‘I fear he does not care about the colour of the ribbon, my dear,’ said Greavas. ‘His mind is on the victory, and the defeat of his opponents. His name will now be inscribed on a shield hung in the school halls. Olek Skilgannon, Victor.’

Skilgannon had blushed furiously. ‘No harm in a little pride,’ said Sperian softly. ‘As long as you don’t get carried away by it.’

‘I won a prize once,’ said Greavas. ‘Ten years ago. I was playing the maiden, Abturenia, in The Leopard and the Harp. A wonderful piece.

Comic writing at its very best.’

‘We saw that,’ said Molaire. ‘Last year in Perapolis. Very amusing. I don’t remember who played Abturenia, though.’

‘Castenpol played it,’ said Greavas. ‘He wasn’t bad. The delivery was a little halting. I would have been better.’

Sperian chuckled. ‘Abturenia is supposed to be fourteen years old.’

‘And?’ snapped Greavas.

‘You’re forty — at the least.’

‘Cruel man! I am thirty-one.’

‘Whatever you say,’ replied Sperian, with a grin.

‘Did you ever see me perform?’ Greavas asked, switching his attention to Molaire.

‘Oh, yes. It was the second time we stepped out, wasn’t it, Sperian? We went to see a play at the Taminus. Something about a kidnapped princess and the errant king’s son who rescues her.’

‘ The Golden Helm,’ said Greavas. ‘Difficult part to play. All that screaming and wailing. I remember it. I had a beautiful wig made just for me. We played forty successive nights to full houses. The old King himself complimented me. He said I was the best female lead he had ever seen.’

‘No mean feat for a two-year-old,’ said Sperian, with a wink at Skilgannon. ‘That being twenty-nine years ago this spring.’

‘Leave the poor man alone,’ said Molaire. ‘He doesn’t need your teasing.’

Sperian glanced at Greavas. ‘I tease him because I like him, Mo,’ he said, and the moment passed. Greavas smiled and fetched his lyre.

Skilgannon often remembered that evening. The night was warm, the air scented with jasmine. He had the victor’s medal round his neck, and he was with people who loved him. A new year was about to begin, and the future seemed bright and full of hope. His father’s successes against the forces of Matapesh and Panthia had brought peace to the heartlands of Naashan, and all was well with the world.

Looking back now, with the jaded eyes of manhood, he shivered.

Where joy exists despair will always beckon.

Skilgannon was moving through a dark forest. His legs felt heavy and weary. Danger was close. He could sense it. He paused. He heard the stealthy sound of something moving through the undergrowth. He knew then it was the White Wolf.

Fear surged through him, and his heart fluttered in panic. The trees were silent now. Not a breath of wind stirred in the forest. He wanted to draw his swords. He could almost feel them calling to him. Clenching his fists he tried to quell the terror. ‘I will meet you without swords!’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself!’

In that moment he felt its hot breath upon his back. With a cry he spun round. For a moment only he caught sight of white fur. Then it was gone — and he realized the Swords of Night and Day were once more in his hands. He could not recall drawing them. A voice came to him then -

as if from a great distance. He recognized it as the boy, Rabalyn.

Skilgannon opened his eyes.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Rabalyn.

Skilgannon sat up and took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Was it a nightmare?’

‘Of a kind.’ The sky was pale with the pre-dawn, and Skilgannon shivered. Dew had seeped through his clothes. He rose and stretched.

‘I had good dreams,’ said Rabalyn brightly. ‘I dreamed I was riding a golden horse through the clouds.’

Skilgannon moved across the open ground to where Braygan was preparing a fire. ‘Best move that beneath a tree,’ said the warrior. ‘The branches will disperse the smoke. Make sure the wood is dry.’

‘There is very little food left,’ said Braygan. ‘Perhaps we should seek a village today.’ The little priest looked tired and drawn, and his blue robes were now filthy. The beginnings of a beard were showing on his chin, though his cheeks were still soft and clear.

‘I doubt we will find anyone living in a village so close to the war.

Tighten your belt, Braygan.’

Skilgannon took up his harness and carried it out to where the horses were hobbled. Wiping down the back of his steeldust gelding, he bridled and saddled it. As he mounted the horse gave several cursory bucks and leaps, jarring Skilgannon’s bones. Rabalyn laughed.

‘They won’t all do that, will they?’ asked Braygan nervously.

‘Do not eat too much,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I’ll scout ahead and be back within the hour.’

Heeling the gelding forward he rode away from the pair. In truth he was relieved to be alone, and looked forward to the time he could part company for good. A mile from the camp he dismounted just beneath the crest of a tall hill. Leaving the gelding with trailing reins he crept forward to the top and scanned the countryside below. There was a wooded valley, but he could see a ribbon of road, with many refugees upon it. Some were pulling carts, but most were walking, bearing what little they could carry in sacks or packs. There were few men, the majority being women with children. They were still days from Mellicane.

The sky darkened. Skilgannon looked up. Heavy black clouds were looming over the mountains. Lightning forked across the sky. A rumble of thunder followed almost instantly. His gelding snorted and half reared.

Skilgannon patted its sleek neck, then stepped up into the saddle. ‘Steady now,’ he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. The rain began, light at first. Skilgannon unstrapped his hooded cloak from the back of the saddle and settled it into place, careful to stop the cloth billowing and spooking the horse. Then he swung back towards the south.

Within minutes he had to pick out a different trail. The rain was slashing down now, drenching the ground, and making the simple slopes he had ridden treacherous and slippery. It took more than an hour to reach the campsite. He found Braygan and Rabalyn huddling against the cliff face, beneath a jutting overhang of rock. There was nothing to be done now but wait out the storm. Skilgannon could not risk two inexperienced riders tackling the hill slopes with thunder booming and lightning blazing. He dismounted and tethered the gelding, then pulled his hood over his head and squatted down with the others. Conversation was impossible and Skilgannon leaned against the rock face and closed his eyes. He slept for a while. Within the hour the storm passed, drifting towards the east. The sun broke through the clouds, bright and glorious.

Skilgannon rose and glanced down at Braygan. The little priest looked utterly miserable.

‘What is wrong?’

‘I am wet through, and now I have to mount that fearsome beast.’

Skilgannon felt a flicker of irritation, but he quelled it. ‘We should reach the outskirts of Mellicane within two days,’ he said. ‘Then you can put your time as a rider behind you.’

This thought seemed to cheer Braygan and he pushed himself to his feet. Rabalyn was already hefting his saddle towards his horse.

Two hours later they were riding along a ridge within half a mile of deep woods which masked the trail through the mountains. Below, a straggling line of refugees were trudging slowly on.

Skilgannon was about to heel his horse down the slope when he saw a group of cavalrymen coming from the east. ‘Are they our soldiers?’ asked Braygan.

The warrior did not answer. The advancing riders spurred their mounts. There were five of them, three with lances and two carrying sabres. The refugees saw them and began to run. One elderly woman stumbled. As she struggled to rise a lance clove between her shoulder blades. ‘Oh, sweet Heaven!’ cried Braygan. ‘How can they do this?’

The refugees were fleeing in terror now, streaming towards the woods.

A few small children, their parents panicked and gone, stood where they had been left.

Skilgannon reached for his swords.

As he did so a black-garbed figure emerged from the trees below. He was powerfully built, wearing a sable leather jerkin, with shining silver steel upon the shoulders. On his head was a black helm, also decorated with silver. In his hands was a glittering double-bladed axe. He ran onto the open ground. The horsemen saw him and wheeled to charge. The first of the lancers bore down on the warrior. He did not run away. Instead he ran directly at the galloping horse. Throwing up his hands he shouted at the top of his voice. Unnerved, the horse swerved. The warrior moved in, and the great axe smashed into the chest of the rider, hurling him from the saddle. A second horseman rode in. The axeman leapt to the rider’s left, away from the deadly lance. Then the axe hammered into the neck of the horse. Instinctively it reared — then fell. The rider tried to scramble free of the saddle, but the blood-smeared axe clove into his temple, shattering both helm and skull.

‘By Heaven, now that is a fighting man,’ said Skilgannon.

Heeling his horse forward, he rode down the slope. Two more of the riders had closed in on the axeman. Both carried sabres. The remaining lancer held back, waiting for his moment. That moment would never arrive. Hearing the thundering hooves of Skilgannon’s gelding he swung his mount. The lance came up. Skilgannon rode past on the rider’s left, the golden Sword of Day slicing through his throat. Even as his victim fell from the saddle Skilgannon was bearing down on the riders circling the axeman. His aid was not needed.

The axeman charged in. One horse went down. Hurdling the rolling beast the warrior suddenly hurled his axe at the second rider, the upper points of the twin blades piercing his chest and shattering his breastbone.

The rider of the fallen horse lay on the ground, his leg pinned beneath the saddle.

Ignoring him, the axeman dragged his weapon clear of the corpse and stared up at Skilgannon. The warrior was not young, his black beard heavily streaked with silver. His eyes were the colour of a winter sky, grey and cold. The warrior glanced back to the lancer Skilgannon had killed, but said nothing.

Behind him the last rider had freed himself, and was now on his feet, a sword in his hand.

‘You have one enemy left,’ said Skilgannon. The axeman turned. The swordsman blanched and took a backward step.

‘Run away, laddie,’ said the axeman, his voice deep and cold. ‘And remember me the next time you think of killing women and children.’

The soldier blinked in disbelief, but the axeman had already turned away. He glanced back towards the east, then swung towards where the four children still stood, horrified and un-moving. The warrior, his axe resting on his shoulders, strolled over to them.

‘Time to be moving on,’ he told them, his voice suddenly gentle.

Scooping up a small girl he sat her on his hip and walked off towards the dense woods. The three other children waited for a moment. ‘Come on,’ he called.

And they followed him.

Skilgannon sat his horse watching the man. The remaining rider sheathed his blade and walked to a riderless horse. Stepping up into the saddle he cantered away.

Braygan and Rabalyn came down the slope. ‘That was incredible,’ said Rabalyn. ‘Four of them. He killed four of them.’

A group of women came running from the trees, knives in their hands.

‘They are attacking us!’ screamed Braygan. The sudden noise startled his horse and it reared. Braygan clung to the saddle pommel. Skilgannon helped him steady the mount.

‘They are starving, you idiot!’ Skilgannon told him. ‘They’re coming for meat.’

‘Meat?’

‘The dead horses. Now let’s get into the woods. The enemy could return at any time.’

They camped a half-mile inside the woods. All around them refugees began to prepare fires. The women looked gaunt and hungry, the children listless and silent. Skilgannon found a spot a little away from the nearest refugees. Braygan slumped to the ground and began to ferret inside the food sack, drawing out some salt biscuits.

‘Put them back and give me the sack,’ said Skilgannon.

‘I’m hungry,’ said the priest.

‘Hungrier than them?’ asked Skilgannon, gesturing towards where several women were sitting with their children.

‘We don’t have much left.’

Skilgannon looked at him, then sighed. ‘We are only days from the church, little man. Have you lost your faith so swiftly? Give me the sack.’

Braygan looked crestfallen. ‘I am sorry, Brother Lantern,’ he said. ‘You are right. A little hardship has made me forget who I am. I will take the food to them. And gladly.’ Braygan pushed himself to his feet, dropped the salt biscuits back into the sack, and walked across to the nearest refugees.

‘Shall I unsaddle the horses?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Yes. Then give them a rub down. After that resaddle them. We may need to leave here swiftly.’

‘Braygan is a good man,’ said the youth.

‘I know. I am not angry at him, Rabalyn.’

‘Then why are you angry?’

‘That is a good question.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘I failed in the one career I desired, and was too successful in the one I hated. A woman who loved me with all her heart is dead. A woman I love with all my heart wants me dead. I own two palaces, and lands you could not ride across in a week. Yet I am hungry and weary and soon to sleep on a wet forest floor. Why am I angry?’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘The answer eludes me, Rabalyn.’

The light was beginning to fade. Skilgannon patted the youth on the shoulder and started to walk away. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Rabalyn.

‘Look after the horses. I’m going to scout a while.’

He wandered away through the trees, heading back the way they had come. After a while he left the refugees behind, though if he glanced back he could still see the twinkling light of their campfires.

The crescent moon was bright in a cloudless sky as he climbed the last hill before the valley. In the bright moonlight he could see the stripped carcasses of the dead horses. There was no sign of any pursuit. He sat down at the edge of the trees and stared out towards the east.

‘I don’t think they’ll come tonight, laddie,’ said a deep voice.

‘You move silently for a big man,’ said Skilgannon, as the axeman emerged from the shadows of the trees.

The man chuckled. ‘Used to make my wife jump. She swore I always crept up on her.’ He sat down beside Skilgannon, laying his great double-bladed axe on the ground. Removing his helm he ran his fingers through his thick black and silver hair. Skilgannon glanced down at the helm. It had seen much use. The folded iron sections showed many dents and scratches, and the silver motifs, two skulls alongside a silver axe blade, were worn down. A small edge of one of the silver skulls had been hacked away.

‘If the enemy had come did you plan to take them all on by yourself?’

asked Skilgannon.

‘No, laddie. I guessed you’d be along.’

‘Aren’t you a little old to be tackling cavalrymen?’

The axeman glanced at Skilgannon and grinned. But he did not reply, and they sat for a while in companionable silence. ‘Your accent is not Tantrian,’ said Skilgannon at last.

‘No.’

‘Are you a mercenary?’

‘I have been. Not now. You?’

‘Just a traveller. How long do you plan to wait?’

The axeman thought about the question. ‘Another hour or two.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t think they’d come.’

‘I’ve been wrong before.’

‘They’ll either send no-one, or a minimum of thirty men.’

‘Why thirty?’ asked the axeman.

‘The survivor is unlikely to admit his party was defeated by one old man with a big axe. No offence intended.’

‘None taken.’

‘He’ll say there were a group of soldiers.’

‘If that is true why would they choose to send no-one — which was the first of your predictions?’

‘They are driving refugees towards Mellicane. That is their main purpose. To swell the numbers in the city, and create food shortages. They don’t need to hunt down enemy soldiers here.’

‘Makes sense,’ admitted the axeman. ‘You sound like an officer. I see you have a Naashanite tattoo. I’ll bet there’s a panther or some such on your chest.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘You know our customs well.’

‘We old folk are an observant bunch.’

The young warrior laughed aloud. ‘I think you lied when you said no offence was taken.’

‘I never lie, laddie. Not even in jest. I am old. Damn little point in getting upset when someone mentions it. I turn fifty in a couple of months. Now I get aches in the knees and aches in the back. Sleeping on hard ground leaves me stiff.’

‘Then what are you doing sitting here waiting for thirty cavalrymen?’

‘What are you doing here?’ countered the axeman.

‘Maybe I came to find you.’

‘Maybe so. I think, though, that you came because you don’t like seeing women and children hunted by cowards on horses. I think you came here to show them the error of their ways.’

Skilgannon chuckled. ‘You would have liked my father,’ he said. ‘There were no shades of grey with him, either. Everything was black and white.

You remind me of him.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘No. He led a suicidal charge against a Panthian regiment. It allowed some of his men to escape. My father didn’t try to escape. He rode straight at the Panthian King and his bodyguard. His was the only body the enemy did not mutilate.’

‘They strapped him to his horse, and left a gold coin in his hand,’ said the axeman softly.

Skilgannon was surprised. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’ve lived most of my life among warriors, laddie. The talk around campfires is mostly about everyday matters, a good horse or dog.

Sometimes it’s about the farms we’ll all have one day when the fighting is done. When a hero dies, though, the word comes to those campfires. Your father was Decado Firefist. I’ve met men who served with him. Never heard a bad word said about him. I never met him — though we both served in Gorben’s army. He was cavalry and I’ve never liked horses overmuch.’

‘Were you with the Immortals?’

‘Aye, for a while. Good bunch of lads. No give in them. Proud men.’

‘Were you at Skein?’

‘I was there.’

Another silence deepened. Skilgannon saw the axeman’s eyes narrow.

Then he sighed. ‘Past days are best laid to rest. My wife died while I was at Skein. And my closest friend. It was the end of an era.’ He picked up his helm, wiped his hand round the rim and donned it. ‘Think I’ll find a place to sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to sound maudlin. And damn I hate that.’

Both men rose. The axeman put out his hand. ‘My thanks to you, youngster, for coming to an old man’s aid.’

Skilgannon shook his hand. ‘My pleasure, axeman.’

Then the warrior swept up his axe and walked away.

Skilgannon stayed where he was. The meeting with the axeman, with its easy camaraderie, had warmed him. It had been a long time since he had relaxed so much in the company of another human being. He wished the man had stayed longer.

He sat quietly on the slope. Hearing his father’s nickname of Firefist had opened long locked doors in the halls of his memory. The days immediately after news of Decado’s death reached them had been strange.

Skilgannon, at fourteen, had at first refused to believe it, convincing himself it was a mistake, and that his father would ride home at any moment. Messages of condolence arrived from the court, and soldiers visited him, talking of his father’s greatness. At the last he had to accept the truth. It tore a gaping hole in his heart, and he felt he would die of it.

He had never been so alone.

Decado left a will, instructing Sperian and Molaire to share custody of the boy until his coming of age at sixteen. He had also left two thousand raq — a colossal sum — lodged with a Ventrian merchant he trusted, who had invested it for him. Sperian, who had always been poor, suddenly found himself with access to capital beyond his dreams. Lesser men would have been tempted to appropriate some of it. Decado, however, had always been a fine judge of character. Sperian proved himself worthy of that trust from the start.

Untutored in economics, and unable to write, he engaged Greavas to help him manage the funds, and also tried to take an interest in Skilgannon’s schooling. This was difficult for him, since he understood little of what the boy had to study. Skilgannon did not make it easy at first. His heart was full of bitterness, and he would often rail at Sperian or Greavas, ignoring their instructions. His studies began to suffer, and he was, at the end of the term, demoted to the second class. Instead of accepting that this was a result of his own folly, he shouted at Greavas that he was being victimized because one of his guardians was a freak.

Greavas had packed his bags and left the same night.

Skilgannon had stormed around the house, his anger uncontrollable.

Sperian found him sitting in the garden. The servant was furious.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ he said.

Skilgannon had sworn at him. In that moment Sperian did something no adult had ever done. Stepping in, he backhanded Skilgannon in the face. The boy was half stunned. The gardener, though slim, was a powerful man. ‘And I am ashamed of you,’ he said. Then he walked away.

Standing in the garden, his face burning, Skilgannon felt a terrible rage swell in his heart. His first thought was to find a dagger and stab Sperian to death with it. But then, as swiftly as it had come, his rage died. He sat down beside the small ornamental pond Sperian had built. The man was right.

Molaire found him there an hour later, still lost in his thoughts. ‘I brought you some fruit bread,’ she said, sitting down beside him.

‘Thank you. Do you know where Greavas went?’

‘I expect he’s at the Park Gates tavern. They have rooms.’

‘He’ll hate me now.’

‘What you said was hateful, Olek. It hurt him dreadfully.’

‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘I know. Best you learn from this. Never, in anger, say what you don’t mean. Words can be sharper than knives, and the wounds sometimes never heal.’

An hour later, with the moon high, Skilgannon entered the Park Gates tavern. Greavas was sitting at a corner table alone. Even to the fourteen-year-old he seemed strangely out of place. Most of the men here were labourers or craftsmen, burly and bearded, toughened by years of labour. In his blue silk flared-sleeve shirt, grey roots showing in his dyed yellow hair, the slim former actor stood out like a beacon.

Skilgannon approached him. He saw the sorrow in Greavas’s eyes, and felt the burden of his guilt drag down like a rock on his heart. ‘I am so sorry, Greavas,’ he said, tears in his own eyes.

‘Perhaps I am a freak. Don’t worry about it.’ Greavas turned away and stared out of the window.

‘You are not a freak. You are my friend and I love you. Forgive me and come home. Please forgive me, Greavas.’

The actor relaxed. ‘Of course I forgive you, stupid boy,’ he said, rising from his chair.

It was then that Skilgannon realized that a silence had fallen over the small crowd in the tavern. He looked round to see a lean, sharp-faced man staring at him. His eyes were glittering with malice. ‘Bad enough to have the likes of him in here,’ he said to the company, ‘without having him parade his little bumboys in front of us.’

Skilgannon was stunned. Greavas came alongside him. ‘Time to go, Olek. I’ll come back for my things later.’

‘What you need is a thrashing,’ said the man, suddenly pushing himself towards Greavas.

‘And what you need is a bath,’ said Greavas. ‘Oh, yes, and perhaps to eat fewer onions. Your breath would fell an ox.’

The man’s fist lashed out. Greavas swayed, the blow sailing harmlessly past him. Off balance, the man stumbled into Greavas’s outstretched leg and fell heavily against the table, striking his chin, and hitting the floor.

He struggled to rise and fell again.

Greavas led the boy outside. ‘Can you teach me to do that?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Of course, dear boy.’

Once they reached the house gates Skilgannon paused. ‘I really am sorry, Greavas. Molaire says that sometimes word-wounds don’t heal. This will heal, won’t it?’

Greavas ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘This has already healed, Olek. How did you get that bruise on your face?’

‘Sperian hit me.’

‘Then perhaps you should apologize to him too.’

‘He hit me!’

‘Sperian is the kindest of men. Hitting you would have hurt him more deeply than that bruise hurts you. Go and find him. Make your peace.’

Sperian was in the garden, watering seed trays, when Skilgannon found him.

‘Did you bring him back?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I apologized and he forgave me.’

‘Good boy. Your father would be proud of that.’

‘I wanted to say…’

Sperian shook his head. ‘You don’t have to say anything to me, lad.

Here, give me a hand with these trays. I want them placed where the morning sun can warm the soil. We’ll put them on the well wall.’

‘I will never let you down again, Sperian. Not ever.’

The gardener gazed at him fondly, and said nothing for a moment. Then he patted his shoulder. ‘You take those two trays there. Be careful now.

Don’t want the dirt spilling out.’

Ten years later the memory of that night still brought a lump to his throat. Rising from the hillside Skilgannon took one last look out across the lowlands, then strolled back to where his companions waited.

Braygan was asleep, but the boy Rabalyn was sitting by the horses, his hands clutching the reins. ‘You can sleep now,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Did anyone try to steal the horses?’

‘No. I’ve kept watch, though. All the time.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘You did well, lad. I knew I could trust you.’