‘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. ‘Night time is for stars.’
Rabalyn closed his eyes, and the bearded simpleton ambled away. The most talking came from Druss. Rabalyn enjoyed it when the axeman 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 one 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 close 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 axe. 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 for ever, 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 bandages 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 round 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 to Diagoras, trying to calm him, but the Drenai officer had lost control. Shrugging off the restraining hand he strode to stand before the axeman. ‘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 to 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 round 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 wit
h 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 axeman.
‘Fetch his axe,’ 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 axe, and Druss took it from her. In the moment of passage between them the axe seemed to lose all weight. Druss hefted it, then stood.
‘Nadir?’ he asked.
‘No. The beasts have returned.’ Skilgannon drew his swords. Garianne notched two bolts to her bow.
Some twenty paces to the south a huge grey form rose from behind a jumble of boulders. It stood, massive head swaying from side to side.
Garianne lifted her crossbow.
‘No, girl,’ said Druss. ‘It is Orastes.’ Laying down his axe he took a deep breath, then walked slowly towards the creature. Skilgannon fell in behind him, but Druss waved him back. ‘Not this time, laddie. It doesn’t know you.’
‘What if it comes for you?’
Ignoring him, Druss continued to walk towards the creature. It gave out a ferocious roar, but remained where it was. Druss began talking to it, his voice low and soothing. ‘Long time since I’ve seen you, Orastes. You remember the day by the lake, when Elanin made me that crown of flowers? Eh? Have I ever looked more foolish in my life? I thought you would laugh fit to bust. Elanin is close to here. You know that, don’t you?
We will fetch her, you and I. We will find Elanin.’
The beast reared up and howled, the sound echoing eerily in the mountains.
‘I know you are frightened, Orastes. Everything seems strange and twisted. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what you are. But you know Elanin, don’t you? You know you must find her. And you know me, Orastes. You know me. I am Druss. I am your friend. I will help you.
Do you trust me, Orastes?’
The watching travellers stood stock still as the axeman reached the beast. They saw him raise his hand slowly, and lay it on the creature’s shoulder, patting it. The beast slowly sagged over the face of a boulder, its great head resting on the rock. Druss scratched at the fur, still speaking.
‘You need to have the faith to come with me, Orastes,’ said Druss.
‘There is a magic temple, they say. Maybe they can… bring you back.
Then we’ll find Elanin. Come with me. Trust me.’
Druss stepped away from the beast, and began to walk back towards Skilgannon. The Joining reared up, letting out a high-pitched scream.
Druss did not look back, but he raised his hand. ‘Come on, Orastes. Come back to the world of men.’
The beast stood for a moment, then shuffled out from behind the rocks and padded after the axeman, keeping close to him, and snarling as they neared the others. Up close he was even larger than he had appeared.
Garianne approached him, and he reared up on his hind legs and roared.
He towered over Druss, who put out his hand and patted him. ‘Stay calm, Orastes,’ he said. ‘These are friends.’ Then he glanced at Garianne and the others. ‘Best stay back from him.’
‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ said Diagoras.
As the moon cleared the western crags the spell faded away.
Skilgannon gazed in amazement at the massive building, with its windows and columns and turrets.
The gates opened, and five golden-clad priests began to run towards them over the rocky ground.
Half an hour earlier the priestess Ustarte had stood at the high tower window, gazing down over the gloomy, dusk-shrouded valley. Her heart was heavy as she saw the people there, gathered round the wagon.
They do not see us yet,’ said her aide, the slender, white-robed Weldi.
She glanced at him, noting the lines on his careworn face.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. Not until the moon is higher.’
‘You are tired, Ustarte. Rest a little.’
She laughed then, and the years vanished from her face. ‘I am not tired, Weldi. I am old.’
‘We are all getting old, priestess.’
Ustarte nodded and, gathering her red and gold silk robes in her gloved hands to raise the hem from the floor, slowly shuffled to the curiously carved chair at her reading desk. There was no flat seat, merely two angled platforms, one against which she could kneel, while the other supported her lower back. Her ancient bones would no longer bend well, and her legs were stiff and arthritic. Not all the vast range of medicines she knew, or had perfected, could fully keep the ravages of time from her body. They might have done, had her flesh not been corrupted and altered, genetically twisted and melded in those dreadful long-ago days. She sighed. Not all her bitterness had been put behind her. Some traces had escaped the vaults of memory.
‘Do you remember the Grey Man, Weldi?’ she asked, as the servant brought her a goblet of water.
‘No, Ustarte. He was in the time of Three Swords. I came later.’
‘Of course. My memory is not what it was.’
‘You have been waiting for these travellers for some time now, priestess.
Why do you make them wait for the moonlight?’
‘They are not yet complete, Weldi. Another is coming. A Joining. You know, I miss Three Swords. He made me laugh.’
‘I only knew him when he was old. He was crotchety then, and he did not make me laugh. To be honest he frightened me.’
‘Yes, he could be frightening. We went through much together, he and I.
For a while we thought we could change the world. Such is the arrogance of youth, I suspect.’
‘You have changed the world, priestess. It is a better place with you in it.’ Clumsily he took her gloved hand and kissed it.
‘We have done a little good. No more than that. Yet it is enough.’
She gazed around the room, at the scrolls and books on the shelves, and the small ornaments and keepsakes she had gathered during her three hundred and seventy years. This tower room was her favourite. She had never really known why. Perhaps it was because it was the highest room in the temple. Closer to the sky and the stars. ‘You will remember at least two of the travellers,’ she told Weldi. ‘The conjoined twins?’
‘Ah, yes. Sweet children. That was a wonderful day, when they walked in the garden, separate but hand in hand. I shall never forget that.’
‘Hard to imagine those babes with swords in their hands.’
‘I find it hard to imagine anyone who would choose to have a sword in their hands,’ said Weldi.
‘Garianne is with them too. You said she would come back one day.’
‘You never did answer my question about her affliction.’
‘What question was that? I forget.’
‘No you don’t. You are teasing me. Are the voices real, or imagined?’
‘They are real to her. They could not be more real.’
‘Yes, yes! But are they real? Are they the spirits of the dead?’
‘The truth is,’ said the elderly priestess, ‘that I do not know. Garianne survived a dreadful massacre. She lay hidden, and listened to the screams of the dying. All that she loved, all that loved her. When she emerged from the hole in which she had been concealed she felt a terrible guilt for having survived. Did that guilt unhinge her mind? Or did it open a window in her soul, allowing the spirits of the dead to flow in?’
‘Why did you let her steal the Grey Man’s crossbow? You went through many dangers to bring that here.’
‘You are full of questions today. I have one for you. Why is the priestess still hungry, when her servant promised her a meal some time ago?’
Weldi grinned and bowed low. ‘It is coming, Ustarte. I shall run all the way to the kitchen.’
Ustarte’s smile faded as soon as he had left the room. She felt terribly tired. The magic needed to maint
ain the cloak of confusion over the temple took a heavy toll on an ageing priestess. It had been such a simple spell two hundred years ago, using merely a fraction of her power. It was merely a matter of reshaping and blurring refracted light so that the red stone of the temple appeared to merge with the towering mountain of rock from which it had been carved. Only in the brightest moonlight did the spell fade sufficiently for men to be able to observe the vast building. Even then the gates were strengthened by spells which — when activated -
caused immense forces to build up in metal. Swords would stick to shields, battering rams could not be swung. Men in armour would feel as if they were wading through the thickest mud. Ustarte knew that no castle on earth was completely impregnable. The Temple of Kuan did, however, come close. No-one could enter uninvited.
Her legs rested, she eased herself to her feet and returned to the window. Closing her eyes she concentrated her power, reaching out until she could feel the life forces of the travellers flickering around her, gossamer moths drawn to the light. Gently she examined each of them, coming at last to the youth. His heart had failed. Poison had entered his bloodstream, carried there by the filthy sword blade and the small sections of cloth from his tunic which had been driven into his body. Staying calm and focused Ustarte sent a bolt of energy into the still heart. It flickered, then failed again. Twice more she pulsed energy into the stricken muscle.
It began to beat — but irregularly. Ustarte’s spirit flowed through Rabalyn’s lymphatic system, boosting it with her own life force. The adrenal glands, overworked and undernourished, had also failed. These too she worked upon. The eerie howling of a wolf cut through her concentration momentarily. Ignoring it she continued to replenish Rabalyn’s energy. The dead youth was alive once more, and would survive until she could work on him inside the temple.
The moon was beginning to rise.
Ustarte drew back from Rabalyn and pulsed a message to Weldi. He was climbing the lower stairs, carrying a tray of food for her.
Leaving the tray upon a step he ran back to the inner hall to summon four priests, clad in yellow robes, who were dining there. Together they made their way swiftly through the corridors and halls of the temple, pushed open the gates, and ran across the open ground towards the travellers.
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