9
* * *
Skilgannon organized the hundred or so refugees into a tight column, which moved slowly through the reeds. He took point and moved ahead of the column, while Druss and Garianne walked at either side of the center. The two brothers brought up the rear. Other surviving fighters kept to the outsides of the column, and walked warily, swords and knives at the ready.
There was only one moment of anxiety during the morning, when an old bull pushed its head through the reeds, causing children to scream and scatter. Other than this they passed through the countryside without incident.
For a time Rabalyn walked with Braygan at the center, then he dropped back to where the brothers traveled. They were an odd pair, he thought, noting how the bearded Nian constantly held on to the sash at Jared’s waist. Druss had said they were fighting men, and Rabalyn believed it, despite their odd appearance.
Toward afternoon the column halted at the base of a low hill. There was a stream close by, and many of the women gathered water and prepared their meager rations. Druss had wandered off with Skilgannon, and the strange girl was sitting alone on the hillside, staring out toward the northwest.
Rabalyn hunkered down with the brothers. “Have you known Druss long?” he asked.
“A long time,” said Nian. “More than a year. Chop chop. That’s Old Uncle. Then they all ran away.”
“Who ran away?”
“All the bad men. We killed some too, didn’t we, Jared?”
“Aye, we did.”
“And Garianne shot their leader through the head. Right through the head. He looked really silly. He tried to pull it out. Then he was dead. It was funny.”
The story made no sense to Rabalyn. He gave Jared a quizzical glance. “We were paid to guard a village,” said Jared. “About a dozen of us. We were informed there were some twenty bandits. But it was a far bigger group, around sixty men, half of them Nadir outcasts. Vicious bastards. They attacked just before dusk. We should have been overrun. No question about it.”
“Chop chop,” said Nian, happily.
“Druss just charged into the middle of them, his ax cleaving left and right. You’d have thought they’d have borne him down with weight of numbers. Nian and me rushed in. So did some of the others—and some of the villagers, armed with scythes and sticks. Garianne was coming down with the sickness then, but she staggered out and sent a bolt straight through the forehead of the outlaw leader. That finally broke them. At the end there wasn’t a scratch on Druss. Knives and swords had bounced off his gauntlets and his shoulder guards—even his helm. But nothing had touched him. Amazing,” he said, with a shake of his head. “He was covered in blood. None of it his.” Jared shook his head at the memory of it. “Thing is, in a fight, he’s always moving, never still. Always attacking. Having seen that, I now know what happened at Skeln.”
“Skeln?” queried Rabalyn. “But we lost at Skeln.”
“Yes, we did.”
“I don’t understand. How could we lose with Druss on our side?”
Jared laughed. “Are you mocking me, boy?”
“No, sir. Brother Lantern told me Druss was at Skeln, with the Immortals.”
“I think you misheard, lad. Druss was with the Immortals once. At Skeln he fought with the Drenai. It was Druss who broke the last charge and turned the battle. He broke the Immortals, by God. That’s not just a man we’re talking about. That’s Druss the Legend.”
“Does that mean he’s our enemy?” asked Rabalyn, concerned.
Jared shrugged. “Not mine. Neither Nian nor me would be here had it not been for Druss. And I certainly don’t want him for an enemy. I’m pretty good with this longsword, son. I’d fancy myself against just about anyone. Not against, Druss, though. Nor that Skilgannon either, come to that. How did you come to be traveling with him, Rabalyn?”
Rabalyn told them the story of the riot at the church, and of how Brother Lantern had quelled it.
“There’s no accounting for people,” said Jared. “Who would have thought it? The Damned became a priest. There’s always something to surprise you in this life.” Beside him Nian began to moan. Rabalyn glanced at the man. His face was gray, and sweat was gleaming on his skin.
“Hurts, Jared,” he whimpered. “Hurts bad.”
“Lie down. Come on, just lie down for a while.” He swung to Rabalyn. “Get some water.”
Rabalyn ran off and borrowed a small bucket from a family. Filling it with water he made his way back to the brothers. Jared dipped a cloth in the water and began to bathe his brother’s head. Then he opened a pouch at his side, took a pinch of pale, gray powder, and sprinkled it into Nian’s mouth. Drenching the cloth he squeezed drops of water onto Nian’s lips. After a while the groaning ceased and the man slept.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Rabalyn.
“He’s dying,” said Jared. “Go tell Skilgannon we’ll have to wait here at least another hour.”
During the next few minutes people began to gather around the unconscious Nian. Some women from the column inquired what was wrong, but Jared waved them away. Garianne came over and sat beside Nian, gently stroking his cheek. Rabalyn remained close by, not knowing what to do. Finally he stood and wandered away, up the hillside to where Brother Lantern and Druss were talking.
The older warrior looked round as Rabalyn approached, and smiled at him. “Don’t look so downcast, boy. He’ll come round.”
“Jared says he’s dying.”
“Aye, but not today.”
“What is wrong with him?”
“There is a sickness in his head,” said Druss. “A surgeon told Jared there’s a cancer growing there. It is destroying Nian’s mind.”
“Couldn’t they give him medicine or something?”
“That’s why they’re heading for Mellicane. There’s said to be a healer there.”
“Have you seen him like this before?” asked Brother Lantern.
“Aye. He’ll sleep for an hour—maybe two,” replied Druss.
“It will be dusk by then. I have no idea how far the beasts have moved, or whether they’ll come back after nightfall.”
“I was thinking that myself. We’re no more than two hours from Mellicane now. Give him an hour. If he hasn’t woken I’ll carry him. The boy can take my ax and walk beside me.”
Brother Lantern offered no objection. “I’m going to make a sweep to the north and see how the land lies,” he said. “If I am not back in an hour then lead them on toward the city. I’ll meet you on the way.”
With that he loped off down the hillside. Rabalyn watched him go. “What if there are any beasts out there?” he asked Druss.
“Well, Rabalyn, he’ll either kill them or die.”
Around a half mile from the base of the hill Skilgannon slowed. The short run had warmed and loosened his muscles, but—as he approached the trees—he had no wish to race headlong into a pack of the beasts. His eyes felt gritty, his body weary. It was more than twenty-four hours since he had last slept, and the previous night had been long and bloody.
The attacks had been sustained and cunning, the beasts darting in and attacking from different directions, as if operating to a plan. Several times during the night he had seen the colossal gray creature he had first spotted emerging from the reeds the previous afternoon. It seemed to Skilgannon that this one beast was directing the others. After a while he had watched for it. If he glimpsed it to the south of the circle, then it would be from that direction the next attack would come.
Looking back on the night of terror Skilgannon realized that the beasts had not set out to kill all of the refugees. They had been hunting food, and once they had gathered enough bodies they had withdrawn. Like a wolf pack.
He pushed on into the trees, and climbed toward a hilltop, scanning the ground as he moved. There were many deep paw prints, but all were heading away from the city. At the top of the hill were several tall oaks. He climbed one of them and scanned the land. To the far north he coul
d just make out the spires of Mellicane, and the tents of the besieging armies of Datia and Dospilis. Out toward the east he saw riders. There was no sign of Joinings. A great weariness settled over him, and he wedged himself against two thick branches and rested his head against the tree trunk.
For a while he slept lightly.
He was walking through a moonlit forest. The White Wolf was near. He could hear its stealthy movements in the undergrowth. Skilgannon’s heart was beating fast. He clenched his fists to stop from reaching for his swords. A low snarl came from behind him. Spinning on his heel, he swung to face the threat.
There was nothing there. Then he saw that—once again—he had unconsciously drawn the Swords of Night and Day, the blades glittering in the moonlight. Casting them from him he cried out: “Where are you?”
Then he awoke.
The sun had scarcely moved in the sky. He had not slept for more than a few minutes. Even so he felt refreshed, and considered rejoining the refugees. But it was peaceful here, high in the tree, and he realized how much he had missed his own company. There was a time he had enjoyed having people close by—the days when Greavas, Sperian, and Molaire had cared for him, when Malanek had taught him the dance of blades. Long painful years had flowed by since then. The days of Bokram and the terror. The days of Jianna.
The horror had been ahead of him on the morning he set off to find Greavas. The sun had shone bright in a clear, cloudless sky, and the strength and arrogance of youth had filled him with confidence.
Skilgannon, at sixteen, had begun the day by walking to the Royal Park. During the stroll through the lanes and shops of the city center he had taken time to pause at the stalls and—while appearing to study merchandise—had identified the men following him. There were two: one tall, lean, and sandy haired; the other shorter, with a long, dark mustache that overran his chin. Skilgannon, upon reaching the park, had stretched his muscles and began to run. The paths through the park were beautifully paved with white stone, angling through flower beds, and past artificial lakes and statue gardens. Many people were strolling, or sitting on the stone benches. Some had even spread blankets and were picnicking. Skilgannon continued on in an even lope. As the path bent he had glanced back to see the two men toiling after him. There was no sense of danger. It was like an adventure for the young man. He took them through four miles of slow jogging, and then steadily increased the pace.
At the last he came almost full circle, back to the marble gymnasium and bathhouse set beside the western gates of the park. Here he slowed and finally sat upon a wide bench. The two followers, sweat drenched and weary, stumbled to where he sat.
“Good morning,” said Skilgannon.
The man with the drooping mustache nodded at him. The taller man forced a smile.
“A hot day for a run,” said the youth. “Are you in training?”
“Always,” said the sandy-haired man.
“I am Olek Skilgannon.” Rising he offered his hand.
“Morcha. This is Casensis.” Both men seemed uneasy. Skilgannon guessed they had been told to follow at a distance and not be seen.
“I am about to enjoy a bath and a massage,” Skilgannon told them. “Nothing like it after a warming run.”
“We’re not members,” said the burly Casensis, his eyes narrowing. “These places are for the rich.”
“And for the sons of soldiers who have served the nation,” said Skilgannon, smoothly. “My father was given honorary membership, which has passed to me. I am also allowed to bring guests. Will you join me?”
He led the surprised men inside. The marble hallway was cool, and scented. Skilgannon signed the register and the three men were led through to a cedar-paneled changing room, where they were given soft white robes and towels. Then, having stripped off their clothing and donned their robes, they made their way through two archways and into a huge area with a vaulted ceiling. Enormous windows had been set into the walls, many with stained glass. Trees were growing here, and a series of artificial pools had been created. Hot water gushed over rocks, filling four large pools set on different levels. Rose petals floated on the water, and the air was rich with scent. Only two of the pools were being used. Skilgannon laid his robe and towels on a stone bench and walked down the marble steps, wading into the upper pool, close to the gushing water. Stretching out, he floated on the surface, closing his eyes. The two spies followed him.
Skilgannon swam across the center of the pool, away from the waterfall and sat back with his arms on the stone lip. The sandy-haired Morcha swam to join him, while Casensis waded across. Two serving women, bare-breasted but wearing long, clinging skirts, moved from the shadows bearing goblets of cold spring water. Both women had the traditional dyed yellow hair, streaked with red at the temples, that marked them as pleasure servants. They also sported gold torques upon their necks, signifying they were several ranks above the cheaper whores who worked the streets and the marketplaces.
Casensis stared up at them, unable to tear his gaze from their naked breasts. One of them smiled at him. Then they moved away.
“Are they free also?” asked Casensis.
“For massage, yes,” said Skilgannon. “All other services are negotiable.”
“What do they charge?”
“Ten silver pieces.”
“That’s three months’ wages!” said Casensis, outraged.
“And for what do you earn these wages?” Skilgannon asked.
“We are soldiers of the king,” said Morcha, swiftly.
“Ah, I see why you were running today. It is important to stay strong and able. I too am hoping to join the king’s army soon.”
They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the cool drinks and the warm water. Morcha turned toward Skilgannon. “This has been good of you, sir. It will be something to remember.”
“My pleasure, my friend. But you must enjoy a massage before you go. The girls here are highly skilled. They will soothe away all aches and pains, and you will doze and dream beautiful dreams. It is my favorite part of the day. Then perhaps you will join me for a meal in the dining area.”
“That is most kind of you,” said Morcha.
With the bath finished the three men climbed out. Immediately blond women moved forward, leading each of them into separate candlelit rooms.
Once Skilgannon was clear of the men he thanked the girl, and declined a massage. “I shall leave a handsome tip for you,” he told the surprised masseuse. “When my friends have been suitably relaxed tell them I was called away, but that I have arranged for them to dine at my expense.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Moving back to the changing room, he swiftly dressed and left the building. Leaving the park, he moved swiftly through the streets, pausing once more at shops and stalls, just in case there were other followers. Satisfied at last that he was alone, Skilgannon followed the directions Sperian had given and headed into the north of the city.
The house he was seeking was new, built on the outskirts, and close to an army barracks. It was a small three-roomed property, with a roof of rough-cast red tiles. There were some twenty similar buildings constructed for the wives and children of workers at the barracks: cooks, carpenters, and blacksmiths. Sperian had described the house, saying that a bougainvillea bush was growing on the western wall alongside the front door. There was something about the location that spoke of Greavas. Only a man with his keen sense of humor and irony would hide the most wanted pair in the capital within a stone’s throw of one of the largest barracks. And yet even as the thought occurred to Skilgannon, he realized there was also great intelligence in the decision. All the buildings in the city’s richest quarter had been searched, as well as outlying estates. No one would dream of seeking the empress and her daughter in a hastily built dwelling so close to a center for the new king’s loyal troops.
Skilgannon tapped at the door, but there was no reply. Moving around to the back of the house he tried the small gate leading to the tiny patch of
garden. This was locked. Glancing round to see if he was observed from any of the other houses Skilgannon scaled the wall and leapt down into the garden.
As he landed he caught a glimpse of movement to his left. Something flashed for his head. Ducking he hurled himself to his right, landed on his shoulder, and rolled to his feet. Even as he came upright a sandal-shod foot thudded against his temple. He rolled with the blow, throwing up his arm to prevent a second high kick exploding against his head. His assailant was blond and female, her dyed hair streaked red at the temples. She launched another attack, her left hand slashing toward his face. Grabbing her wrist he twisted it savagely, trying to turn her. Instead of resisting she threw herself forward, aiming a head butt at his face. It thudded painfully against his collarbone. Angry now he threw her to the ground. She rolled expertly to her feet and advanced on him again, her pretty face masked by fury, her eyes narrowed.
“Enough! Enough!” yelled Greavas, running from the doorway and grabbing the girl by the waist. “This is a friend—though a stupid one. What are you doing here?” he demanded of Skilgannon.
“Not a subject I think we should discuss in the presence of a whore,” he snapped.
“A whore you cannot afford,” she responded. “And if you could you still wouldn’t be man enough.”
The venom in her voice stunned him. Never had a pleasure girl spoken so to him. Always they were deferential, never making eye contact. Added to which this girl had used moves that Malanek had taught him. Unheard of for a woman. Skilgannon looked more closely at her, then back at Greavas. A middle-aged woman appeared in the rear doorway, her eyes fearful. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Everything is fine,” said Greavas. “Unless of course you were followed here,” he added, swinging to Skilgannon. “Then we are all dead.”
“I was not followed—though two men were assigned to the task. I left them at the bathhouse.”
“Let us hope there were no others.”
“There were no others,” said Skilgannon, his temper flaring. “I came to warn you not to return to the house. Boranius is seeking you.”