Part 16 (1/2)

As he rode Skilgannon scanned the land. He could see no sign of the beasts. Transferring his gaze to the refugees he saw two swordsmen walking at the head of the column. Both were tall, with close-cropped black hair, and both were heavily bearded. They paused as he rode up. Leaping from the saddle, Skilgannon approached them. 'Are you in charge here?'

he asked the first warrior. The man c.o.c.ked his head and looked confused, then swung to the other swordsman.

'Are we in charge, Jared?'

'No, Nian. Don't worry about it. What is it you want?' he asked Skilgannon. People were milling around now, anxious to hear whatever news the newcomers had brought.

'There is great danger here,' Skilgannon told Jared. 'It will be upon us at any moment.'

Turning away from him Skilgannon pulled Braygan from the saddle, and slapped the rump of the horse. Surprised, it began to run towards the reeds. It had travelled no more than a hundred yards before it swerved to the right. A Joining reared up from the long gra.s.s and leapt at it. The horse bolted. Screams of shock came from some of the refugees.

'Be silent!' roared Skilgannon, his words booming out. The power in his voice cowed the crowd. They stood silently awaiting instructions. 'Gather together. Get into as tight a circle as you can. Now! Your lives depend upon it!' As the crowd began to move Skilgannon shouted again. 'Every man here with a weapon come to me.' Men began to shuffle forward.

Some had swords, others knives. Several had wooden clubs, or scythes. Turning to the swordsman, Jared, he said: 'Move to the other side of the circle. Stay on the outside of it.

Do it now!' Skilgannon turned his attention to the gathering men. 'There are beasts abroad - Joinings who have escaped from the arena in Mellicane. Already they have killed many refugees. Spread yourselves around the circle, facing outwards. When the beasts come make as much noise as you can. Scream, shout, clash your weapons. Do not be drawn away from the circle.'

There were less than twenty armed men. Not enough to form a protective ring round the refugees. Skilgannon called out to the women. 'We need more for the fighting circle,' he said. 'Do any women here carry weapons?' Around a dozen women moved forward. Most had long knives, but one had a small hatchet. 'Move alongside the men,' Skilgannon told them. 'Everyone else sit down. When the attack comes, take hold of the person closest to you. Keep low to the ground. Do not let any children panic or run. And do not break the circle.'

Braygan stood where he was, staring anxiously towards the reeds, no more than four hundred yards distant. Skilgannon grabbed him by the arm. 'Go and sit with the women and children,' he said. 'You can do nothing here.'

The little priest did as he was bid, easing his way into the huddled refugees and sitting down. He gazed around the circle. It was some thirty feet in diameter. All around it stood the warriors, both men and women, Skilgannon had gathered. Braygan was still in shock.

He had seen Brother Lantern fight, but this was a man he had never seen. He watched as Skilgannon moved around the outer edge of the circle, issuing orders. People were hanging on his every word. He radiated power and authority.

The light was beginning to fail. A weird howling arose from all around them. Children screamed in panic and some people began to rise, ready to run.

'Be still!' bellowed Skilgannon. Braygan saw him draw his swords.

A huge Joining reared up and ran at the circle. Skilgannon leapt to meet it. The beast sprang at him. The golden sword in Skilgannon's right hand flashed out, slicing across the Joining's belly. Ducking under a sweep of its taloned arm Skilgannon spun. The silver blade in his left hand clove deep into the beast's neck. It fell to all fours, blood gouting from its wounds. The swordsman, Nian, charged in, bringing his long, two-handed broadsword down onto the Joining's skull. The creature slumped dead to the ground.

'Do not break the circle!' shouted Skilgannon. 'Hold your line.'

All around them now the beasts were gathering.

'Stand firm!' the priest heard Skilgannon shout. His voice was all but drowned out by a dreadful howling that chilled the blood.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SITTING BY THE FIRE, THE SOFT SCENT OF WOODSMOKE HANGING IN the night air, Rabalyn felt suddenly free of fear. In its place came a sweet melancholy. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and softer, safer days when she would mix stale bread with milk, dried fruit and honey and bake a pudding. They would sit in the evenings by the fire and cut deep slices, savouring each mouthful. In those days Rabalyn dreamed of being a great hero; of striding across the world carrying a magical sword. Of freeing maidens in distress and earning their undying love.

Now he had fought a beast, alongside a truly great warrior. He gazed down at the sleeping man. Druss had come seeking a friend. A kind of quest. Just like old Labbers had said.

Warriors were always on quests, according to Labbers. Mostly they were hunting for magical jewels, or other items of sorcery. Or they were really kings in disguise. Rabalyn had loved the stories - even the stupid ones. He could never understand why a succession of otherwise sensible rulers would always send their eldest son on a quest. Surely they knew the first to go always died or got captured. The second eldest would go. He'd fall down a pit, or get eaten by wolves, or seduced by witches. Finally the king would send his youngest, most inexperienced son. He would finish the quest, find the princess, and live happily ever after. If Rabalyn was a king he would send the youngest son first. He had often giggled during story time. Labbers had grown frustrated. 'What is so funny, child?'

Rabalyn could never explain. He would just say: 'Nothing, sir.'

Sometimes the king had no sons. Only daughters. These stories were great favourites among the other children. Rabalyn didn't like them. The king would be looking for a suitor for his prettiest daughter. Every handsome, rich n.o.bleman would ride in. Of course, they were doomed to failure. The man who would win the hand of the princess would be a kitchen lad, or a stable boy, or a young thief. He would naturally have to prove himself by slaying a dragon, or some such, and he would do it in a sneaky way that the children loved.

Rabalyn's dislike for those tales centred on the endings. It always turned out that the stable lad was the secret son of a great king, or a wizard. Princesses, it seemed, just didn't fall in love with common folk.

Beside him the axeman was snoring softly. 'You are not really a light sleeper,' whispered Rabalyn.

'Don't let appearances fool you,' answered the axeman. Rabalyn laughed, and added a chunk of wood to the fire. Druss sat up and yawned.

'Were you the youngest son?' asked Rabalyn.

The old warrior shook his head and scratched at his black and silver beard. 'I was the only son.'

'Did you ever fall in love with a princess?'

”No. My friend Sieben was the man for loving princesses. Well, princesses, d.u.c.h.esses, maids, courtesans. Anyone, really. He ended up marrying a Nadir warrior woman. That's when he started to lose his hair.'

'Did she put a spell on him?'

The axeman laughed. 'No, boy, she just wore him out.' For a while they talked. The fire was warm, the night peaceful. Rabalyn told the axeman about his Aunt Athyla and their little house, and how he had always dreamed of being a great warrior.

'All boys want to be warriors,' muttered Druss. 'That's why so many of them die young. We don't achieve anything, you know, Rabalyn. At best we fight so that other men can achieve something. We're not even important.'

'I think you are important,' objected Rabalyn.

The axeman laughed. 'Of course you do. You're young. A farmer ploughs the land, and grows crops. The crops feed the cities. In the cities men make laws, so that youngsters like you can grow in peace and learn. People marry and have children, and they teach them to respect the land and their fellow citizens. Philosophers and poets spread knowledge. The world grows. Then along comes a warrior, with a s.h.i.+ning sword and a burning brand. He burns the farm and kills the farmer. He marches into cities and rapes the wives and maidens. He plants hate like a seed. When he comes there are only two choices. Run away - or send for men like me.'

'But you are not like the killers and the rapers.'

'I am what I am, boy. I try to make no excuses for my life. I wasn't strong enough to be a farmer.'

This confused Rabalyn, who had never seen a stronger man. No farmer could have stood against the beasts as this man had. Rabalyn threw some sticks on the fire and watched them blaze.

'How did the Immortals lose at Skein?' he asked.

'They faced better fighters on the day.'

'Better fighters than you?'

'You are a bottomless pit of questions.'

'There's so much I don't know.'

'Ah, well, we are not so unalike then, Rabalyn. There is so much I don't know.'

'But you are old and wise.'

The axeman stared hard at the boy. 'I'd be happier if you stopped talking about my age.

Bad enough living this long, without there being constant reminders.'