A wagon had been seen on the road above the town. It was driven by a large, old woman. Five children had been riding alongside. Their mounts were described as shaggy hill ponies. The wagon had contained a large bundle of furs. Morcha flicked through the reports. They should have been reported twice, once on the High Road, and once when they approached the town below the citadel. Yet the only other wagon noted was driven by a crippled old man, traveling with four women and a simpleton. This wagon had three wolfhounds in the back.
Noting the names on both reports, Morcha strode from the office and walked back to the buildings being used as a barracks. He found the first of the men eating a meal in the tavern, and asked him if he recalled the wagon with the furs.
“Yes, sir. Strange bunch. They had no weapons. Just the furs.”
“What do you mean by strange?”
“Hard to say. Just odd, really. The sun was very bright. Hurt the eyes. Then this family rode through. No problem at all. Called for them to stop, and they did. Didn’t say anything. We checked the wagon, saw they weren’t armed, and let them through.”
“So what was strange?”
“I feel foolish saying it, sir. One of the children said something as they went by. And just for a moment everything blurred. I think it was just the sunlight being so bright. I thought I saw two eyes staring at me from the furs. I ran up to the wagon, but there weren’t any eyes. See what I mean? Just odd. Strange moment.”
“But you saw no other wagons?”
“Just that one, sir, during my watch. It came in around noon yesterday.”
The second of the men named on the report sheet rode in an hour before dusk. Morcha had left word for him to report to his office. He stepped into the room and saluted. Morcha questioned him about his report.
“Nothing special, sir. Crippled old man and four women. Oh yes, and a simpleton. Thought he was a woman at first, and when he spoke it was quite a shock. Don’t know how I could have missed the beard.”
“What did he say that made you realize he was a simpleton?”
The soldier shrugged. “Just his manner of speaking, sir. You know how they sound. Don’t recall what he said.”
“And there were dogs in the back of the wagon?”
“Yes, sir. Thought they were furs at first. I poked at them and then one of the dogs snarled at me. I jumped like a startled rabbit.”
“You walked up to the wagon and did not recognize three dogs?”
“Yes, odd isn’t it. The sun was very bright about then. Could hardly see.”
“And this was when?”
“A little after noon yesterday.”
Morcha shuffled through the reports, coming at last to the note concerning Skilgannon and the others reaching the temple. The Nadir scout said he had seen a large Arena beast, a Joining. It was crouched down alongside the old axman.
“Are you finished with me, sir? I could do with a meal.”
“Did you see all three dogs in the wagon?”
“Of course.”
“Think for a moment. You heard a snarl and jumped back. What happened then?”
“I saw the first dog snarling. The others were behind it.”
“You saw all their heads?”
“Yes.” The man hesitated. “Well . . . no. But there must have been at least three.”
“Forget the meal,” said Morcha, rising. “Saddle a fast horse, and take a spare. Find Naklian. He is with twenty men, guarding the nomad road. Tell him to bring his men back here as soon as possible. What you saw was not three dogs. Nor was it a bale of fur, as the other report stated. It was a Joining. It is traveling with Druss and Skilgannon. The enemy is here.”
“With respect, you are wrong, sir. There were no fighting men. Just the old cripple.”
“They came from the temple. There was a spell put upon you. That is why the sun seemed so bright. Trust me. The enemy is close.”
The soldier looked bemused. He was one of the newer recuits, from the Naashanite community in Mellicane. “Am I wrong, sir?” he asked. “There are only a handful of men coming after us, aren’t there?”
“Yes. Though two of them are more deadly than I could make you understand.”
“I appreciate that, sir. I have listened to the men talking about Skilgannon and Druss. But even so, they can’t attack the citadel, can they? If they are hunting Lord Ironmask, they’ll have to wait until he leaves the fortress. They’ll be looking for an ambush, surely?”
“I cannot anticipate what they’ll do,” admitted Morcha. “I fought against Skilgannon for years. What I learned was that he always found a way to attack. In every battle we were always, somehow, reacting to him. You understand? Action and Reaction. Action is what usually wins battles and wars. Reaction is almost always defensive. You think six men cannot attack a fortress? I agree with you. But what I think does not matter. The question is this: Does Skilgannon think he can attack the citadel?”
“It would be madness. They couldn’t survive.”
“Perhaps survival is not uppermost in their minds. There is no more time to debate, soldier. Find Naklian, and get him and his men back here as soon as possible.”
Survival was uppermost in the mind of Diagoras, as he waited for the sun to drop behind the mountains. The Drenai officer was standing in a grove of trees no more than a quarter of a mile from the citadel. From here the fortress looked impressive. True, the walls around it were crumbling and in disrepair, but the tall, round citadel itself, with its murder holes, through which archers could shoot barbed shafts down at attackers, and its ramparts, from which defenders could hurl down rocks and hot oil, seemed particularly daunting.
Diagoras had listened as Skilgannon outlined his plan. It was a good plan—if you were talking of it theoretically. It was a dreadful plan if you actually had to carry it out. There was no way they could accomplish what was required and escape unscathed. Diagoras gazed at the others. Jared and Nian were sitting apart. Nian’s head was causing him pain, and Jared had given him some powder, and was sitting alongside his brother, his arm around his shoulder. Garianne was lying down, apparently asleep, and Druss and Skilgannon were talking in low voices. Diagoras stared at the huge, gray beast, crouched down at Druss’s side. He kept trying to tell himself that this was Orastes, but it was almost impossible to hold to this thought. Fat Orastes was a jolly and timid fellow, the butt of many jokes when they had soldiered together. He never seemed to take offense. This massive beast, with its slavering jaws and its coldly glittering, golden eyes made Diagoras’s blood run cold. It amazed him that Druss could be so calm around it. Diagoras believed that at any moment it might rend and rip at them.
Returning his gaze to the citadel, he shuddered. I might be looking at my tomb, he thought. A rider emerged through the gateway. Diagoras ducked further back into the trees. The horseman galloped past the stand of trees, heading back toward Khalid Khan’s mountains.
One less, thought Diagoras, trying to force himself to be cheerful. You survived Skeln, he reminded himself. Surely this can’t be any worse. No, of course it can’t. All you have to do is walk into an enemy fortress, and defend the citadel entrance against around forty swordsmen. Diagoras glanced across at the brothers. Nian had said he would sooner die than live as a simpleton. Now Jared was aiming to grant him that wish. They weren’t here to rescue Elanin. They were here to die together.
Dusk was less than an hour away.
Diagoras strolled over to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking. Carefully he skirted the beast. “Would it not be better to wait until full nightfall?” he asked Skilgannon. “At least some of them will be sleeping then.”
“Dusk will be better,” said Druss.
“Why?”
“Less traditional,” said the axman.
“What does that mean?”
Skilgannon stepped in. “Night attacks are standard. They know we are coming. Because we are so few they will expect either that we stay close to the citadel and ambush them, or that we atta
ck at night and seek to surprise them. Therefore night is when they will be ready for us.”
“I don’t wish to sound critical at this late juncture,” said Diagoras, “but how many of us do you expect to survive this plan?”
“I would be amazed if any of us did,” said Skilgannon.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I intend to survive,” said Druss. “That little girl needs to be taken home. I think it a good plan.”
“If we are still discussing its merits tomorrow, I will agree with you,” said Diagoras.
“Cheer up, laddie. Nobody lives forever.”
“Oh I expect you will, Druss, Old Horse. It’s the mortals around you who always seem to kiss the granite.”
“Once Boranius is dead his men will be less likely to want to go on fighting,” said Druss. “Simple fact of life among mercenaries. No one to pay them, then they don’t fight. We just need to get to him fast. Anyhow, there won’t be seventy men inside. They’ve got men in the hills scouting for us. I’d say there were around forty inside. Maybe less.”
“I am hugely comforted,” muttered Diagoras, sarcastically.
Druss grinned at him. “You can always wait here, laddie.”
“Don’t tempt me!” He glanced at the setting sun. Just under an hour to wait. Diagoras guessed the time would race by.
20
* * *
Ippelius was nineteen years of age. His father had been a captain in the king’s army, killed in the last battle, when Bokram fell. The months following the Witch Queen’s victory had been harsh for the families of those whose men had served the king. Ippelius’s mother had been driven from the family home, her goods and wealth seized by the crown. A crowd had gathered outside, hurling dirt and dung at the family as they were marched away. Ippelius had been thirteen years old, and hugely frightened. Many of the widows had left the capital, seeking sanctuary with relatives in outlying towns and villages. Others had journeyed to Naashanite communities in other lands. His mother had come to Mellicane.
Ippelius had finished his education there. It was a fine city, and the horrors of the past, though powerful in his nightmares, seemed insubstantial in the city sunlight. When Ironmask had come to power he promised a chance for revenge. One day the outcasts would return to Naashan. The Witch Queen would be overthrown. It seemed to Ippelius a golden opportunity to avenge his father’s death, and his mother’s shame.
Now, as he sat in the miserable tavern, with some twenty or so soldiers, he realized the dream was dead. As dead as poor Codis on the walls. He had been so stunned when Morcha stabbed his friend. The action was sudden and murderous. Codis had been dead before he knew it.
Ippelius sipped his ale. It was sour and he did not like the taste. Yet all men drank it, and Ippelius did not wish to seem less than the men around him. Also if he forced himself to drink enough of it his fears did, at least, lessen. Codis had been like a brother to the young soldier, helping him in the early days, when he made a fool of himself during training. Ippelius was constantly tripping over his sword and falling flat on his face. His horsemanship was not of the highest quality, and he would bounce around in the saddle like a sack of vegetables. Through it all Codis had offered advice and support. As had Morcha, who had always appeared to be good-natured and understanding. Ippelius felt his stomach churn. Codis had liked Morcha and respected him. How terrible it must have been to be killed by a man you liked.
Then there was Boranius. How impressed Ippelius had been when first he had been introduced to the general. A man of power and courage, who radiated purpose. When this man said they would overthrow the Witch Queen it sounded a certainty.
Ippelius shuddered. A little while ago he and Codis had been ordered to remove a body from the citadel. It was wrapped in canvas, which had been hastily stitched. Blood was seeping through the cloth. Halfway down the stairs the canvas had split. What fell from it was the hideously mutilated body of a woman. Ippelius had vomited at the sight. He was no help to Codis, who forced the remains back into the canvas.
Later, after they had buried her, Ippelius had sunk to the ground in tears. “How could any man do that to a woman?” he asked Codis.
“Boranius is not any man.”
“That is no answer.”
“Gods, man, what do you expect me to say? I have no answers. He always was a torturer. Best to put it from your mind.”
Ippelius had gazed down on the grave. “There’s not even a marker,” he said. “I thought they were lovers.”
“They were lovers. Then he killed her. End of story. Now get a grip on your emotions, lad. We are not going to talk about this to anyone. You understand that? Boranius tortures men too. I don’t want to have my fingers cut off or my eyes put out.”
“You think he killed the little girl too?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Neither should you. We are going to bide our time and then get out of here.”
“Why can’t we leave now?”
“What, with patrols everywhere looking for Druss? How far would we get? No. When Druss is dead, and things calm down. Then we’ll slip away east. Head for the coastal cities.”
Ippelius drank more of his ale. The bitterness of the taste was passing now. He looked around him at the other soldiers. There was little laughter in the tavern this evening. The murder of Codis had affected them, as had the news that Skilgannon was coming. Some of them had fought against the man in the past. They all had stories to tell.
A burly soldier named Rankar came into the tavern. He strolled through the dining area and came to where Ippelius sat. Easing himself down he waved his hand at the barman, calling out for a jug of ale.
“How goes it?” he asked Ippelius.
“Fine. You?”
“Fine. Barracks is empty. They’ve moved a lot of the men into the citadel. I’m heading there after I’ve eaten.”
Ippelius looked at the man. His heavy face was pockmarked and a jagged white scar cut down from his brow to his cheekbone. His left eyelid drooped over a bright green eye. Ippelius found himself staring at the scar. “You were really lucky,” he said.
Rankar rubbed at the drooping lid. “Didn’t feel lucky at the time. But I guess you are right. You eaten?”
“No. I am not hungry.”
Rankar nodded. “Codis was a good man. We fought our way across Naashan together—and then fought our way out. They don’t come better.”
“I can’t believe that Morcha killed him.”
“Me neither. Goes to show you can’t trust anyone.”
At that moment the door at the far end of the tavern opened, and a powerful figure entered. Ippelius stared at him. He was wearing a round, silver-ringed helm, decorated with silver axes flanking a skull. His once-black beard was heavily speckled with silver. Upon his enormous torso he wore a black jerkin, the shoulders reinforced by silver steel. And in his right hand he carried a shining, double-bladed ax. The man walked into the middle of the room and paused by a table at which sat four soldiers. Spinning the ax he thudded it into the tabletop. “Let’s have a little quiet, lads!” he bellowed. “I’ll not take much of your time.”
Silence fell, as the twenty or so men stared at the newcomer. “I am Druss,” he said, laying his gauntleted hand on the black hilt of the ax, “and this is Death.” His gaze swept the room. Ippelius shuddered as the winter gray eyes fastened on his own. “Now I have come here to kill Boranius. I shall be doing that presently. I don’t much care if I have to kill every man in this room first. But I have always had a soft spot for soldiers. Good men, in the main. So I’m giving you an opportunity to live a while longer. I suggest you finish your meals, then gather whatever wealth there is in this flea pit of a fortress, and ride away. Any questions?”
The silence continued, as men stared at one another.
“Then I’ll leave you to your food,” said the man, wrenching the ax clear. As he turned to leave two soldiers drew knives from their belts and leapt at him. The silver ax clove thr
ough the chest of the first, and a left hook thundered into the face of the second. He flew across a table, hit the floor, and did not move.
“Anyone else?” said the axman. No one moved, though Ippelius could see a number of the men surreptitiously reaching for their weapons.
The axman moved toward the door. At that moment it burst open and a creature from Hell loomed in the doorway. It was an Arena beast, one of the largest Ippelius had ever seen. Its jaws opened and it gave out a long, bloodcurdling howl. Soldiers leapt from their seats, scattering tables as they drew back from the abomination in the doorway.
The axman walked up to it and patted it on the shoulder. The beast dropped to all fours and stared malevolently at the soldiers. Then Druss left the tavern, the creature following.
Ippelius sat very still. Rankar swore softly.
“What should we do?” asked Ippelius.
“You heard the man. Finish our food and then leave.”
Diagoras and the twins passed through the gate. The Drenai officer glanced up at the body of the dead sentry on the parapet steps. Garianne was kneeling over him, tugging at the black bolt in his chest. Swiftly Diagoras crossed the open ground to where Skilgannon was waiting at the citadel entrance. Druss came loping toward them, the Joining alongside.
“Now it begins,” said Skilgannon.
Suddenly the Joining gave out a howl. Running past Druss it leapt through the wide doors of the citadel entrance and on up the first flight of stairs. Druss called out to it, but the beast was gone.
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