‘No, I have not. We do not discuss matters of politics.’
‘I need to question him. Is he here?’
‘No.’
Sperian returned carrying a tray of drinks, the mixed juices of apple and apricot in silver goblets. Skilgannon glanced up at him. ‘Where is Greavas?’ he asked.
‘He is visiting friends, sir, in the north of the city.’
‘When will he be returning?’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, sir. He did not say.’
Skilgannon thanked the man and waved him away. ‘I shall tell him you need to speak with him when he returns,’ he said, ‘though I fail to see how a retired actor could be of help to you.’
‘We shall see,’ said Boranius, rising. ‘There is also a warrant for the arrest of your friend, Askelus.’
Now Skilgannon was truly shocked. ‘Why?’
‘Like his father he is also a traitor. His father was disembowelled this morning in Leopard Square.’
‘Askelus is no traitor,’ said Skilgannon, also rising. ‘We have spoken often. He is a huge admirer of the Emperor Gorben, and he has talked, like me, of serving in Bokram’s army. Not once have I heard him say a word of criticism against the King. Quite the reverse, in fact.’
‘Then — sadly — he will perish for the sins of his father,’ said Boranius coldly.
Skilgannon had stared then at the young man who had been his hero.
The young athlete of his memory disappeared. In his place stood a cold-eyed soldier, bereft of emotion, save perhaps malice. Memories flooded Skilgannon then, moments that had seemed insignificant at the time, but now shone bright in the glow of sudden understanding. The casual discarding of friendships, the sarcastic comments, the meanness of spirit. Skilgannon had seen Boranius through the golden gaze of hero worship. Now here was the reality. Boranius held the power of life and death, and he revelled in it. Anger swelled in Skilgannon’s heart, but he quelled it, and smiled. ‘I have much to learn, my friend,’ he said. ‘I thank you for taking the time to visit me.’
Boranius chuckled then and slapped Skilgannon on the shoulder. ‘When you have your final papers — assuming they are Firsts — come and see me. I will find a place for you in my regiment.’
‘You do me great honour.’
With that he walked Boranius and his men to the front door, and waited as they mounted their horses and rode away.
Sperian came out and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I thought we were all to be arrested,’ he said.
‘The man is a viper,’ said Skilgannon.
‘Aye, your father thought that. Never liked the family.’
‘Can you get a message to Greavas tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell him not to come home for a while. Go through the market.
Tomorrow is auction day. There will be hundreds there. You should be able to slip through unnoticed.’
Sperian looked uncertain. ‘You think I might be followed?’
‘It is a possibility.’
‘My eyes aren’t good, Olek. I am not skilled at this sort of thing.’
‘No, of course you aren’t. Foolish of me. I will take it myself.’
Now Sperian looked even more worried. ‘He doesn’t want you involved, sir. He would be most put out if I told you where he was.’
Skilgannon put his hand on the retainer’s shoulder. ‘If he comes out into the open he will be arrested. Probably executed. Most certainly tortured. I don’t think you should concern yourself with his annoyance at your disclosure.’
‘It’s not just that, sir. It’s who he’s with.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He has the Empress and her daughter hidden. He’s looking for a way to get them out of the city.’
Skilgannon was jerked from his memories as the reeds rustled and shook. The Swords of Night and Day flashed from their scabbards. A small dog darted by him, sniffed the ground, then ran on towards the circle. A little girl called out a name and the dog barked and scampered over to her.
Skilgannon let out his breath, and continued his walk.
There was no sign of the beasts. Turning back towards the refugees, he saw the massive figure of the axeman emerge from the long grass. Beside him was the boy, Rabalyn.
CHAPTER NINE
SKILGANNON ORGANIZED THE EIGHTY 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 centre. 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 centre, then he dropped back to where the brothers travelled. They were an odd pair, he thought, noting how the bearded Nian constantly held on to the blue sash at Jared’s waist. Druss had said they were fighting men, and Rabalyn believed it, despite their odd appearance.
Towards 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 meagre rations. Druss had wandered off with Skilgannon, and the strange girl was sitting alone on the hillside, staring out towards 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 axe 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, awe in his voice. ‘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 Skein.’
‘Skein?’ queried Rabalyn. ‘But we lost at Skein.’
‘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 Skein, with the Immortals.’
‘I think you misheard, lad. Druss was with the Immortals once. At Skein 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 agains
t just about anyone. Not against Druss, though. Nor that Skilgannon either, come to that. How did you come to be travelling 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 grey, 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. He filled it at the stream, then made his way back to the twins. 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 grey 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.’
People had begun to gather around the unconscious Nian. Some women from the column enquired what was wrong, but Jared waved them away.
Garianne came over and sat beside Nian, gently stroking his cheek.
Rabalyn hesitated for a moment, watching her, but then he stood and walked away, up the hillside to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking.
The older warrior looked round as Rabalyn approached, and smiled at him. ‘Is it Nian? 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.’
Rabalyn turned to Skilgannon. ‘Jared says we have to wait until Nian wakes up.’
‘Aye. He’ll sleep for an hour — maybe two,’ added Druss.
‘It will be dusk by then,’ said Skilgannon. ‘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 axe and walk beside me.’
Skilgannon 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 towards 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.’
As he approached the trees around a half-mile from the base of the hill Skilgannon slowed. The short run had warmed and loosened his muscles, but 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 by the beasts had been sustained and cunning. The creatures had darted in from different directions, as if operating to a plan.
Several times during the night he had seen the colossal grey one 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 towards 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 could just make out the spires of Mellicane, and the tents of the besieging armies of Datia and Dospilis. Out towards 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, rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.
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 avoid 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 centre 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 moustache that overran his chin. Skilgannon, upon reaching the park, had stretched his muscles and begun 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 at 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 moustache 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-panelled 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 hot water gushed over rocks to fill a series of artificial pools that had been created 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 centre 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.’
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