“Of course you do, little one,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle. “That is only natural. And I am feeling generous today. So I have left a little gift by your bed. Something for you to play with. Something of your mother’s.”
He left her then, pulling shut the door behind him. She heard the bolt clang shut.
Still trembling Elanin went to her bedside. There was a pouch there. She lifted it and opened the drawstrings, tipping the contents to her bed. Then she screamed and fled back to the closet.
On the bed, blood from her mother’s severed fingers began to seep through the dirty sheets.
The forest was dark and gloomy, but up ahead Skilgannon could see an angled shaft of moonlight. Slowly he made his way toward it, heart beating fast, fear swelling. Movement from his left caused him to spin, and he caught a glimpse of white fur. His hands snaked for his swords, but he stopped. The yearning to grip the ivory blades was almost overpowering. He walked on.
And there, illuminated by the shaft of moonlight sat an enormous wolf, its fur glistening white as virgin snow. The beast stared at him. Its eyes were huge and gold. Then it rose and padded toward him. The fear roared back at him, swirling into panic. The swords were in his hands now, and he raised them. A savage exultation fired his blood. He screamed a war cry —and the swords swept down . . . .
A hand was pulling at his shoulder, and he surged upright, pushing Diagoras away. “What are you doing?” he yelled.
“Calm yourself, man. You were shouting in your sleep.”
“I almost had it,” said Skilgannon. “I could have ended it.”
“What are you talking about?”
Skilgannon blinked and rubbed his hand across his face. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a dream. I am sorry for disturbing you.” He glanced around. Druss was still sleeping alongside the wounded Rabalyn. Garianne was awake and staring at him, her face emotionless. On the far side of the camp the twins were sitting close together and talking in low voices. Khalid Khan walked across to Skilgannon, handing him a cup of cool water.
“Are they dreams or visions, warrior?” he asked.
“Just dreams,” said Skilgannon. He drained the water and took a deep, calming breath. Then he rose and walked across the rocks to a flat area, where he began to stretch. Then, with Diagoras and Khalid Khan watching him, he eased his way through a series of slow movements, like a dance. He felt his lungs expand and his body loosen.
Khalid Khan returned to his blanket, but Diagoras walked over and sat close by.
“What is it that you do?” he asked.
“It is an ancient discipline. It brings the body back into harmony.” Skilgannon continued for a while, but being observed prevented him from achieving complete oneness. Even so he was more relaxed as he joined Diagoras. “The boy is holding up well,” he said.
“I am more optimistic tonight,” said Diagoras. “He is young, and it seems the bleeding is slowing down.”
The day had been a long one. Diagoras had driven the wagon, while Druss sat in the back, talking to the stricken Rabalyn, encouraging him, and telling him stories. Skilgannon had ridden alongside for a while, listening to the old warrior talking. His stories were not about warfare, but about different lands and cultures. He spoke of his wife, Rowena, and her talent for healing. She could lay her hands on the sick, and within days they would be up and working in the fields. Skilgannon looked at the axman, noting the gray face and the dark, sunken eyes, and wished his wife could be here now. Soon after that Druss lay down and slept, as the wagon slowly trundled on, ever deeper into the mountains.
According to Khalid Khan they had one more day of travel. They would arrive at the temple site around dusk tomorrow.
Skilgannon walked away from the campsite, climbing a ramp of rocks and staring back over the rocky trails they had covered that day. “You think we will be followed?” asked Diagoras, coming alongside him. Skilgannon glanced round.
“I do not know. There were fewer Nadir in the attack than I expected.”
“It is a shame about the boy, but your plan worked well.”
“Yes. Though it shouldn’t have,” said Skilgannon. “Any plan that depends on the stupidity of the enemy is flawed. They could have attacked us in two groups. They could have dismounted and moved in on foot. They could have sent a scout ahead. Even better they could have held back until we were forced to leave the mountain road and enter open country.”
Diagoras shrugged. “But they did none of these things, and we survived.”
“True.”
“What were you trying to catch in your dream? You said you almost had it.”
“A wolf. It is not important.”
Diagoras reached up to the shaved part of his skull, gingerly touching his fingers to the ragged stitches. “Damn thing itches,” he said. “I hope the hair grows back. I knew a warrior once who had a long scar on his skull. Hair turned white around it. Damn, but he was ugly.”
“The scar made him ugly?”
“Not entirely. He was mildly unattractive before. The scar tipped him into downright ugliness.” Diagoras laughed. “He was a most unfortunate fellow. Always complaining about how fate hated him. He could cite a litany of bad luck that had dogged him since childhood. One night, when he was severely depressed, I got him to walk with me. I explained how important it was to have a positive outlook on life. Rather than dwell all the time on the bad things, a man should look at the blessings. For example, we were returning from fighting the Sathuli. Now they are a fighting race. We’d lost twenty men. However, as I pointed out, he was not among them. He had survived. And that was lucky. I tell you I worked hard during that walk, and by the time we got back to the camp he was much cheered. He thanked me profusely, and said that from that moment on he would treat life differently.”
“And did he?”
“No. We got back to our tent to sleep and he was bitten by a snake that had crawled into his blankets while we were walking.”
“A poisonous snake?”
“No. I think he wished it was. It bit him in the balls. He was in agony for weeks.”
“Some men are just unlucky,” said Skilgannon.
“Isn’t that the truth!” agreed Diagoras. They sat in silence for a while. Then Diagoras spoke again. “How did you earn the enmity of the Witch Queen?”
“I ceased to serve her. It is that simple, Diagoras. I walked away. Men don’t walk away from Jianna. Everything but that. They flock around her, vying to catch her eye. If she smiles at them it is as if they have imbibed some narcotic.”
“She casts spells on them?”
Skilgannon laughed. “Of course. The greatest spell of all. She is beautiful, Diagoras. I do not mean pretty, or attractive, or sensual. She is stunning. I mean that in the fullest sense. A man who gazes upon that beauty has his senses stunned. He cannot drink it all in. When I first knew her she was being hunted. She disguised herself as a whore, her hair dyed yellow and streaked with crimson. She wore a cheap dress, and no paint upon her face. Even then she would turn heads.” He took a long breath. “She turned mine. I have never been the same since. When you are with her you have eyes for nothing else. When you are away from her you can think of little else. In my years as a priest I thought of her almost hourly. I tried in my mind to dissect her attraction. Was it the eyes, or the mouth? Was it the beauty of her breasts, or the curve of her hips? Was it her legs, so long and luscious? In the end I realized it was something far more simple. You cannot have her. No man can. Oh, you can sleep with her. You can touch and kiss those breasts. You can hold her close, skin on skin. But you cannot possess her. She is the unattainable.”
“I know that feeling,” said Diagoras.
“You knew a woman like that?”
“No. It was a horse. I went to an auction in Drenan, to buy a stallion. There were some wonderful beasts there. I was hard-pressed to choose one to bid for. I had almost eighty Raq to spend, and that would have bought just about any horse in Drenan. Then they led out
a Ventrian purebred. It was magnificent. The crowd went silent. It was a gray, with an arching neck and powerful shoulders. It was perfect in every line. Flawless. The bidding started at fifty Raq, but it was like a joke. Within minutes it had reached two hundred Raq, and was still climbing. I kept bidding, even though I could never raise the money. I managed to pull out at three hundred Raq. It went for four hundred and thirty. I’ve never forgotten that stallion. Never will. The moment I saw it I knew I could never own it.”
Skilgannon looked at the Drenai officer. “You Drenai are an interesting people. I talk of a fabulous woman, and you speak of a horse. Now I know why all your fables and stories are about wars, and not about great love.”
“We are a more pragmatic race,” agreed Diagoras. “But then no stallion ever sent assassins to kill someone who walked away from it. No stallion ever metamorphosed from an angelic lover to a harridan. And with a good horse you get a fine ride every time you mount. The horse won’t tell you it has a headache, or is angry with you because you were late home.”
Skilgannon laughed. “You have no soul, Drenai.”
“Having been raised largely in a whorehouse I am not easily captivated by mere beauty. Though I will admit I find Garianne more than a little becoming, and I have been known to feel the tiniest pang of jealousy when she seeks you out.”
“It is hardly a compliment when a woman needs to be drunk to seek your attention,” observed Skilgannon, rising from the rock. Diagoras joined him as they walked back to the campsite. Everyone was asleep now.
“I’ll keep watch,” said Skilgannon. “Get some sleep.”
“Gladly,” said the Drenai, moving off into the darkness.
For Rabalyn the journey across the mountains was difficult. He could only breathe when propped up, and there was some dull, pressure pain in his chest and upper belly. It was not, however, insufferable. He’d once had a toothache that had been considerably more painful. Yet, as they moved on, faces would constantly appear above him, asking how he was, and looking grave and concerned. Diagoras, Jared, and Skilgannon would check on him. Even Nian came over as Rabalyn was lifted down from the wagon for a noon stop in the shade of some high rocks.
“Lots of blood,” said Nian. “Your tunic is very wet with it.”
“You . . . remember . . . the stars?” asked Rabalyn, having to take swift shallow breaths in order to speak. Nian looked nonplussed. He sat beside Rabalyn, his head tilted on one side.
“Don’t get stars in the daytime,” said Nian. “Nighttime is for stars.”
Rabalyn closed his eyes, and the bearded simpleton ambled away. The most conversation came from Druss. Rabalyn enjoyed it when the axman sat beside him in the back of the wagon. It was relaxing to close his eyes and listen as Druss told him of far-off countries and hazardous journeys by sea. On this occasion, when Rabalyn opened his eyes and looked at the Drenai, he saw his face was pale and covered in a film of sweat.
“You . . . are . . . in . . . pain?” he asked.
“I’ve known pain before. It usually goes away, I find.”
“Is it your heart?”
“Aye. I have been thinking on it. Two months ago I passed through a village that had suffered some sickness or another. Mostly I don’t get sick. This time, though, I did. Headaches, chest pain, and an inability to hold food down. I’ve not been myself ever since.”
Rabalyn gave a weak smile.
“What’s so funny, laddie?”
“I saw you . . . kill those . . . werebeasts. I thought . . . you were the . . . strongest man . . . ever.”
“And so I am,” Druss told him. “Don’t you forget it.”
“Will . . . I . . . die . . . from this?”
“I don’t know, Rabalyn. I’ve seen men killed by tiny wounds, and others survive when they should not have. It is often a mystery. One fact I do know is that you must desire to live.”
“Doesn’t . . . everyone?”
“Yes, of course. That desire, though, has to be focused. Some men will scream and beg for life. They exhaust themselves—and die anyway. Others, though wanting to live, look at their wounds or their sickness, and just give up. The secret—if there is truly any secret—is to hold to life, as if you were gripping it in your palm. You tell your body, quietly, firmly, to hold on. To heal. You stay calm.”
“I . . . will.”
“That was brave of you, laddie, to jump down and help Garianne like that. I am proud of you. Because of you she is still alive. You were thinking of the code, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Druss laid his huge hand on Rabalyn’s arm. “There’s some would say what you did was foolish. There’s many would tell you that it would have been best had you stayed on that rock and remained safe. They would tell you that it is better to live a long lifetime as a coward, rather than a short one as a hero. They are wrong. The coward dies every day. Every time he runs away from danger, and leaves others to suffer in his place. Every time he watches an injustice and tells himself: “It is nothing to do with me.” Every time a man risks himself for another, and survives, he becomes more than he was before. I have seen you do that three times. Once, back in the woods when you took up my ax. Once in the camp when the beasts attacked. But, best of all, when you leapt from that rock to help Garianne. We none of us live forever, Rabalyn. Better by far, then, to live well.”
Blood was flowing once more from the pressure pad strapped to Rabalyn’s chest. Druss’s fingers were too thick to untie the bandage. Diagoras came over, and as he unwrapped the bandage, Druss applied pressure to the wound. “I can . . . smell cheese,” said Rabalyn.
He saw Diagoras glance at Druss, but neither man spoke. Sitting him up they applied a new pad, and strapped the badages tightly. Diagoras gave him a drink of water. Then they lifted him back into the wagon.
“We need to press on,” said Diagoras. The others were mounting their horses. Diagoras swung into the driver’s seat. Druss grunted as he eased himself alongside.
Rabalyn drifted off to sleep. It was a warm and comfortable sleep. He saw his aunt Athyla calling to him. She was smiling. He ran to her, and she put her arms around him. It was the most wonderful feeling he had ever known. He fell into her embrace with the joy of homecoming.
Damn you, Druss!” shouted Diagoras. “You should never have allowed him to come!”
Druss the Legend stood wearily by the wagon, gazing down at Rabalyn’s body. The lad looked smaller in death, hunched over by the wagon wheel, a blanket around his thin shoulders. Jared moved alongside Diagoras, trying to calm him, but the Drenai officer had lost control. Shrugging off the restraining hand, he strode to stand before the axman. “It was your code that killed him. Was it worth it?”
Skilgannon stepped in. “Leave it be, Diagoras!”
The officer swung round, his face ashen, his eyes angry. “Leave it be? Why? Because you say so? A dead boy may not mean much to the man who wiped out an entire city of men and boys and women and babes. But it means something to me.”
“Apparently it means you can behave like an idiot,” said Skilgannon. “Druss didn’t kill him. A Nadir sword killed him. Yes, he could have been left behind. Mellicane will be a city under siege before long. Food will run short. How would he have survived? And if he had managed to scrape a living, who is to say what would have happened when the Naashanite army swept inside. Perhaps the queen would once more have ordered the massacre of all within. You don’t know. None of us know. What we can be sure of is that the boy was brave, and he stood by his friends, even though he was terrified. That makes him a hero.”
“A dead hero!” snapped Diagoras.
“Yes, a dead hero. And all the wailing and recriminations will not change a thing.”
Garianne moved alongside Druss, who was leaning against the wagon, his breathing ragged. “Are you all right, Uncle?”
“Aye, lass. Don’t concern yourself.” The old warrior glanced once more at the boy, then swung away. He moved off slowly into the rocks and sat
down some distance from the group, lost in thought.
Khalid Khan approached Skilgannon. “This is where the temple was,” he said. “My oath upon it.”
Skilgannon gazed around at the towering cliffs. There was no sign of any building. “I was walking back up that ridge yonder,” said Khalid Khan, pointing back the way they had come. “When I glanced back I saw the temple, shimmering in the moonlight. It was nestling against the mountain. I do not lie, warrior.”
“We will wait for the moon,” said Skilgannon. Garianne moved across to sit with Druss, her arm around him, her head upon his shoulder. Jared and Nian walked to Rabalyn’s body. Nian knelt down and stroked the boy’s hair. Diagoras sighed.
“I am sorry, Skilgannon,” he said. “Anger and grief got the better of me.”
“Anger will do that, if you give it a chance,” said Skilgannon.
“You never get angry?”
“Sometimes.”
“How do you control it?”
“I kill people,” said Skilgannon, stepping past the officer. Walking away he glanced at the sky, recalling the words of the Old Woman. “The temple you seek is in Pelucid, and close to the stronghold. It is not easily found. You will not see it by daylight. Look for the deepest fork in the western mountains, and wait until the moon floats between the crags.”
He could see the fork in the mountains, but the moon was not yet in sight. Just then something moved at the edge of his vision. Skilgannon did not react with any sudden movement. Slowly he turned and scanned the jagged rocks.
A gentle breeze blew. There was a scent upon it. Skilgannon walked to where Druss was sitting. “Can you fight?” he asked.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” grunted the axman.
“Fetch his ax,” Skilgannon told Garianne. For a moment she glared at him angrily, then ran to the wagon. She could not lift the massive weapon over the side. Jared helped her. Garianne returned with the ax. Druss took it from her. In the moment of passage between them the ax seemed to lose all weight. Druss hefted it, then stood.