Part 4 (1/2)

'They left to find work in Mellicane years ago. Said they'd send for me and my sister. They didn't. My sister died last year when the plague struck. Me and Aunt Athyla thought we'd get it, but we didn't. Brother Labberan gave us herbs and such. Told us to clean out the house and keep the rats away.'

'It was a harsh time,' said Cethelin.

'The Arbiters say the priests caused the plague.'

'I know. Apparently we also caused the war, and the harvest failures. Why is it that you don't believe the stories?'

The youth shrugged. 'Old Labbers, I expect. Always talking about love and such. Can't see him causing plagues. Makes no sense. Still, no-one cares what I think.'

Cethelin looked into Rabalyn's dark eyes. He saw strength there, and compa.s.sion. In that moment he also caught a glimpse of Rabalyn's memories: a woman being beaten by a harsh man, a small child fading towards death as Rabalyn sat by the bedside weeping. 'I care, Rabalyn. Old Labbers - as you call him - cares. I shall take care of the dog until such time as you return for him.'

'Jesper's not my dog. Belongs to Kalia. She brought him to me and asked me to hide him.

When all this blows over I'll get her to come and see you.'

'Walk with care, young man.'

'You too, Father. Best lock this gate, I'd say.'

'A locked gate will not keep out a mob. Goodnight to you, Rabalyn. You are a good lad.'

Cethelin watched as the boy sped off. The dog gave an awkward bound as if to follow him.

Cethelin called to him softly. 'Here, Jesper! Are you hungry, boy? Let us go to the kitchen and see what we can find.'

Rabalyn returned the way he had come, wading across the shallows of the river and making his way through the trees and up the old watchtower hill. From here he could see the fires burning in the northern quarter. It was here that most of the foreigners had settled, including fat Arren and his family. There were merchants from Drenan, and a few shops run by Ventrian traders. The mob, however, were more concerned with those whose family ties were in the east, in Dospilis or Datia. Both these nations were now at war with Tantria.

Rabalyn squatted in the ruins, his keen eyes scanning the area at the base of the hill. He doubted Todhe and his friends would be waiting for him now, not with another riot looming. They would be out chanting and screaming at those they now dubbed traitors.

Many of the houses in the northern quarter were empty. Scores of families had left in the last few days, heading west towards Mellicane. Rabalyn could not understand why any foreigners had chosen to stay.

A cool wind blew across the hilltop. Rabalyn's leggings and shoes were wet from wading the river and he s.h.i.+vered with the cold. Time to be getting home. Aunt Athyla would be worried, and she would not sleep until he was safe in his bed. The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also ma.s.sively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repet.i.tive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: 'Are you going to be warm enough?' If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: 'I don't know about that. It's enough to have food on the table today.' Her days were spent cleaning other people's sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create b.a.l.l.s of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fas.h.i.+oned into blankets. Some she sold. Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle.

The riots had unnerved her. When the first killings had taken place Rabalyn had run home and told her. At first she had disbelieved him, but when the truth was established Athyla refused to talk of it with the boy. 'It will all settle down,' she said. 'Best not to get involved.'

That evening she had sat with her b.a.l.l.s of wool, looking old and grey. Rabalyn had moved alongside her. 'Are you all right, Aunt?'

'We don't have any foreign blood,' she said. 'It will be all right. Everything will be all right.'

Her face was drawn and tight, just as it had been when Lesha had died - a mixture of bafflement and sorrow.

Rabalyn left the hilltop and made his way down towards the town.

The streets were deserted. He could hear the mob far off, chanting and screaming. The wind changed and he smelt smoke in the air. Pausing in a darkened alleyway arch he peered out across the short open stretch between the houses and his aunt's little cottage.

No-one was in sight, but Rabalyn decided to take no chances. Squatting down in the shadows he scanned the area. There was a dry stone wall running along the north side of the cottage, and a line of scrub bushes around the gate. Rabalyn waited silently. Just as he was convinced there was no danger he saw someone rise briefly from behind the bushes and creep across to the wagon outside the baker's house. It looked like Todhe's friend Bron. A touch of anger flared in Rabalyn. He was hungry and tired, and his clothes were still wet. He wanted nothing more than to get inside the cottage and warm himself by the fire.

Backing down the alley he ran through Market Street, cutting through the smith's yard.

Searching around he found a foot-long rod of rust-speckled iron in a pile of discarded metal. Hefting it he crept on, climbing a low wall and emerging between two lines of houses. From here he could see two young men crouched behind the miller's wagon. One was indeed Bron. The other was Cadras, whose father worked for Todhe's family as a general servant. Cadras was a decent enough lad, neither malicious nor vengeful. But he was malleable and followed Todhe's lead in everything. Rabalyn waited. After a while Bron ducked down and crept back to the hedge outside Aunt Athyla's cottage. Rabalyn saw Todhe emerge and haul Bron down. The iron rod felt heavy in Rabalyn's hand. It was comforting to be armed, and yet he did not want to use the weapon. Todhe's father, Raseev, virtually ran the council and any harm to his son would be swiftly, and harshly, punished.

Rabalyn decided to outwait them.

Which might have worked had a fourth youth not crept up behind Rabalyn and leapt upon him, pinning his arms.

'He's over here!' shouted the youth. Rabalyn recognized the voice as that of Archas, Bron's older brother. Rabalyn leaned forward, then threw his head back into Archas's face. The hold round his chest loosened. Rabalyn squirmed clear, then spun and hit Archas across the cheek with the iron rod. The youth was thrown from his feet.

Rabalyn could hear the others pelting towards him. He should have run, but his blood was up now, and a raging fury swept through him. With a cry he leapt to meet them. The iron rod cracked against Bron's skull, causing the youth to stumble. Rabalyn ducked to his right and swung the rod again - this time at Todhe. The big youth threw up his arm to protect his head. The rod hammered against the upraised limb causing Todhe to scream in pain. A fist struck Rabalyn in the back. He stumbled and swung towards the new a.s.sailant. It was Cadras. Rabalyn hit him in the belly, then leapt in and head-b.u.t.ted him. Cadras cried out and fell. Rabalyn backed away from them, holding the rod high. Todhe was already running away. Bron had struggled to a sitting position and was looking dazed. Suddenly he leaned forward and vomited. Cadras pushed himself to his knees and put a hand to his smashed nose. Blood was running over his mouth and chin. Rabalyn stood looking at them both. Beyond the injured pair Archas was lying unconscious. Dropping the iron rod Rabalyn moved to where the youth lay on his face. Gently turning him he was relieved to hear Archas groan. 'Lie still,' said Rabalyn. 'Gather your wits.'

There was blood on Archas's face, and a huge lump over his left eye.

'I feel sick,' said Archas.

'Best you sit up,' said Rabalyn, helping the youth to the wall. Bron struggled over, then slumped down beside his brother. Neither of the young men spoke and Rabalyn left them there.

He had tackled four attackers and defeated them. He should have felt uplifted and empowered. Instead his heart was heavy, and fear of retribution clung to him.

Skilgannon made his way to the high battlements, and felt a moment of irritation when he saw that he was not alone. Brother Naslyn was already there, leaning on the crenellated wall. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and powerful. Turning, he saw Skilgannon and nodded a greeting. 'A fine night, Brother Lantern,' he said.

'What brings you to the old tower?' asked Skilgannon.

'I wanted to think.'

'Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.' Skilgannon turned away.

'No, do not leave, Brother. I was hoping you would come. I have seen you here exercising. I know some of the moves. We practised them in the Immortals.'

Skilgannon looked at the man. It was not hard to imagine him in the black and silver armour of the Emperor's elite regiment. Invincible in battle, they had carried Gorben to victory after victory for decades. They had been disbanded after the defeat at Skein. 'Were you there?' asked Skilgannon. Such was the awesome reputation of that dreadful battle, and its aftermath, that the question could have referred to nothing else.

'Aye. I was there.' He shook his head. 'The world ended,' he said, at last.

Naslyn was a quiet, solitary man. He needed to talk now, but only in his own time.

Skilgannon began to stretch, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Naslyn joined him, and together they quietly moved through the familiar routines of the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peac.o.c.k and the Crow. It had been some time since Naslyn last practised the moves, and it took him a while to rediscover his balance. Then they faced one another, bowed, and began to shadow fight, spinning and leaping, hands and feet lancing out, the blows landing on target areas lightly. Skilgannon was faster than the heavier man, but Naslyn moved well for a while until fatigue overtook him. At the last he stepped back, and bowed once more. Sweat covered his face and dripped from his short black beard. They stretched once more, then sat quietly on the battlements.

'I still dream of it,' said Naslyn, after a while. 'It was one of those impossible moments where, when you replay it in your mind, you are convinced the outcome will be different.'

He turned towards Skilgannon. 'We couldn't lose, Lantern. We were the best. Not only that but we outnumbered the enemy ten - perhaps twenty to one. There was no way they could stand against us. No way.'

'The Drenai are fine warriors, they say.'

'Aye, they are,' snapped Naslyn. 'But that's not why they won. Three men were responsible for our downfall that day. And the odds against what happened are so enormous they are incalculable. The first was Gorben, bless him. I loved that man - even though the madness was on him at the end. We had taken losses in the eastern battles and he promoted fresh recruits to our ranks. One of these was a young soldier named Eericetes - may his soul be cursed to wander for eternity, the coward.' He fell silent and stared out at the silhouetted mountains.

'Who was the third?' asked Skilgannon, though he knew the answer.

'The Silver Slayer. Druss. They call him Druss the Legend now. Man, but he earned it that day. We struck their line like the hammer of Heaven. It buckled and d.a.m.n near broke. And then just as victory was in our grasp . ..' Naslyn shook his head in remembered disbelief '.. .