“No more than I expected. I had not intended to return. If that is all you have to tell me, Olek, then you had best leave now.”
“I thought you would need help.”
“Aye, I do need help,” said Greavas. “But this is not a boy’s game. This is not some schoolboy adventure. The stakes here are high. Torture and death await failure.”
Skilgannon said nothing for a moment, calming himself. He looked again at the yellow-haired girl he had taken for a prostitute, then back at the fearful woman in the doorway. “The disguise is a good one,” he said. “It still leaves you with the problem of smuggling a mother and her daughter from the city, when soldiers have been given your description.”
“I intend to cut my hair and dye it black,” said Greavas, “but you are right. They are searching for a woman and her young daughter. Nothing I can do about that.”
“Of course there is. You can separate them. As a whore the princess can travel anywhere without suspicion. Without her daughter the empress can travel as your wife.”
“All the gates are guarded,” replied Greavas, “and there are faithless former retainers stationed at all of them, ready to betray the royal family for gold. There is no escape, Olek. Not yet.”
“They should still separate,” said Skilgannon. “And I do have a plan.”
“This I would love to hear,” said the princess.
Ignoring the contempt in her voice, he pressed on. “If I get back to the bathhouse swiftly, the men who followed me will still be there. I shall do as I proposed and buy them a meal. If the princess is outside the bathouse in three hours, and approaches me as a whore, they will see her. They will also see me engage her services and take her home. They will make their report. Olek Skilgannon is not linked with traitors. He is more interested in playing with whores. She will be invisible to them—well, invisible as a princess anyway.”
Greavas sat down at a small wooden table and rubbed his chin. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It is a good plan,” said the princess. “I like it.”
“It has dangers,” Greavas told her. “First you must get to the bathhouse. The road there is packed with men. You will be accosted all the way. Secondly there are already whores at the bathhouse. They will defend their territory—harshly. They will want no strangers coming in and stealing their trade. Thirdly you do not sound like a whore. Your voice is refined. And lastly you might still be recognized, despite the disguise, and that will lead to your capture and death, and the death of Olek.”
“The alternative is to sit in this appalling closet of a house until we are discovered, or we die of boredom,” said the princess. “And do not concern yourself about my refined speech. I spent enough time with my father’s soldiers to know how to speak roughly. And Malanek trained me well enough. I can deal with angry whores. I assure you of that.”
Greavas looked uncertain, but he nodded. “Very well. Olek you get back as swiftly as you can. And may the Source watch over you both. I will get a message to you when it is safe to move. Go now.”
Skilgannon sped back to the bathhouse. Less than an hour had passed, but he was still worried that Morcha and Casensis might have left. He located the girl he had spoken to and asked her if she had passed on his message. She said she had not, for they were still in the booths with the body maidens. Relieved, Skilgannon thanked her and settled down to wait. Morcha emerged first, arm in arm with a buxom blond girl. Leaning down he kissed her cheek. She smiled at him and walked away.
“Man oh man,” said Morcha, “this is a day I shall remember fondly.” He sat down and leaned back against the wall, fingering the thick, soft cloth of his robe. “How the rich live,” he said.
“I am ashamed to say I had not considered it,” said Skilgannon, with sincerity.
“Not your fault you are rich, lad. Gods, I don’t blame you for it.”
Casensis emerged from another booth. The girl curtsied to him, but did not smile as she left. He wandered out, looking sour and unhappy, and asked Morcha if had bedded his girl. “Indeed I did,” said Morcha, happily. “And she did not charge me.” Casensis swore.
“Knew I should have chosen her,” he said.
“Some men have no luck,” said Morcha, with a wink at Skilgannon.
“Join me for a meal,” Skilgannon offered. Both men accepted and, once they had donned their clothes, he led them up the stairs to the dining hall. An hour later, having devoured several roast pheasants in a berry sauce, plus consuming a tankard of fine wine, the two soldiers were in good spirits. Even Casensis had a smile on his surly features.
As they left the building by the main entrance Skilgannon felt tense, and, for the first time that day, uncertain. The plan had seemed so good when he had thought of it. But Greavas was right. This was no schoolboy game. What if the princess was recognized by Morcha or Casensis? What if she could not play the role? Added to which he himself had now become a traitor to the new order. What future would there be for him now? Be calm, he told himself, remembering his father’s advice. “A man should stand by his friends—unless they do evil—and hold always to what he believes in.” Could Greavas’s actions in protecting two women from death be considered evil? Skilgannon doubted it. Therefore there was only one course of action.
There were around a dozen whores in the marble square. One of them was sitting down, nursing a cut lip and a swollen eye. Others were clustered together, staring malevolently at a slim, beautiful newcomer. As the three men emerged several of the whores moved toward them, smiling provocatively. Casensis stopped to chat to them, while Morcha stood back.
The slim girl approached Skilgannon. She walked with a subtle sway of the hips. She tilted her head and smiled at him. It was as if he had been struck in the chest by a hammer. Gone was the violent, scornful girl in the garden. Here was the most devastatingly attractive woman he had ever seen. “You look like a man in need of a little company,” she said, linking her arm in his. Her voice was rough and uncultured, and her smile full of dark promise. Skilgannon’s mouth was dry, and he could think of nothing to say. Morcha laughed good naturedly.
“I’d take her up on it, lad. I may not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but she looks like something special to me.”
Skilgannon was about to speak when the girl slipped her hand under his tunic, fondling him. He leapt backward and almost fell. “Be careful with him, darling. He’s young and I’d reckon a little inexperienced,” said Morcha.
“My home is close by,” was all Skilgannon could say. He felt like an idiot, and knew he was blushing.
“Can you afford me? I don’t come cheap.”
“I don’t think I can,” he said, “but I’ll sell the house.”
“That’s the way, boy,” said Morcha, with a booming laugh. “Damn, but I wish I hadn’t sported in the bathhouse now. This is a girl I’d willingly fight you for. Go on, go off with you. Enjoy!”
The princess took his arm and led him away. He glanced back to see Morcha and Casensis watching him. Morcha waved. Casensis looked sour.
And so it was that Skilgannon met the love of his life, and took her home.
Sitting in the tree, overlooking the distant city of Mellicane, Skilgannon recalled the day. Despite the horror and death that had followed that meeting he found he could not regret it. Before that afternoon, it seemed to him, the sky had been always gray, and after it he had experienced the beauty of the rainbow.
Jianna shone like the sun, and sparkled like a jewel. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He still recalled the scent of her hair as they walked together arm in arm.
He sighed at the memory. Then she had been a beautiful young woman, no older than he. Now she was the Witch Queen and wanted him dead.
Pushing such somber thoughts from his mind he climbed down from the tree.
Cadis Patralis had been a captain in the army of Dospilis for a mere four months. His father had purchased his commission, and he had taken part in only one action, the routing of a small gr
oup of Tantrian archers at a bridge some twenty miles from Mellicane. Now, it seemed, the war was over, and for young Cadis the prospect of glory and advancement was receding by the hour.
Instead of fighting the enemy, and earning respect, admiration, and increased rank, he now led his forty lancers across the hills, seeking escaped Arena beasts. There was no glory to be had in hunting down these abominations, and Cadis was in a foul mood. It was not helped by the sergeant who had been foisted on him. The man was insufferable. The colonel had assured Cadis that the sergeant was a sound fighter and a veteran of three campaigns. “He will be invaluable to you, young man. Learn from him.”
Learn from him? The man was a peasant. He had no understanding of philosophy or literature, and he swore constantly—always a sign of ill breeding.
At nineteen Cadis Patralis cut a handsome figure in his tailored cuirass and golden cloak. His chain mail glistened, and his padded helm fitted to perfection. His cavalry saber had been made by the greatest swordsmith in Dospilis, and his thigh-length boots, reinforced around the knee, were of finest shimmering leather. By contrast Sergeant Shialis looked like a vagabond. His breatsplate was dented, his cloak—once gold, but now a pale urine yellow—was tattered and much repaired. And his boots were beyond a joke. Even his saber was standard issue, with a wooden hilt, strongly wrapped with leather strips. Cadis glanced at the man’s face. Unshaven, his eyes red rimmed, he looked ancient and worn out. How such a man could have fooled the colonel was beyond the understanding of Cadis Patralis.
Leaning forward in the saddle, Cadis heeled his gray gelding up a slope, pausing at the crest and scanning the land. Some quarter of a mile to the south he saw a group of refugees struggling across a valley.
“Rider coming, sir,” said Sergeant Shialis. “It’s the one of the scouts.”
Cadis swung in his saddle. A small man riding a pinto pony rode up the hill, drawing rein before the officer. “Found ’em,” he said. “Wish I hadn’t.” Cadis fought to control his temper. The man was a private citizen, paid to scout, and therefore not obliged to salute or follow military protocol. Even so the lack of respect in his manner was infuriating.
“Where are the others?” he asked the man.
“Dead. I would have been too, if I hadn’t stopped to piss.”
“Dead?” echoed Cadis. “All three of them?”
“Rode into a trap. They came from all sides. Tore down the horses, then butchered the men. Almost had me. I grabbed the pommel of me saddle and let the pinto drag me clear of them.”
“How could beasts have sprung a trap?” snapped Cadis. “It is preposterous.”
“I agree with you, General. I wouldn’t have believed it myself unless I’d seen it.”
“I am not a general, as you well know, and I will not tolerate insubordinate behavior.”
“Tolerate what you like,” replied the man. “I’m quitting anyway. There’s no amount of money that would take me back to those creatures.”
“How do you know it was a trap?” asked Sergeant Shialis.
“Trust me, Shialis. Four of them were crouched down in the long grass. Didn’t emerge until the others had ridden by. It’s the gray one. I tell you, he’s smart that one. When the others attacked he just stood back and watched. Gives me the shivers just to remember it.”
“How many were there?” asked the sergeant.
“If you don’t mind I will conduct this interrogation,” said Cadis, glaring at the soldier. A silence grew. He stared hard at the scout. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“How many were there?”
“Fifteen—counting the gray one.”
“And where was this?”
“Twenty miles northeast, just where the land rises toward the mountains.”
“There were more than twenty reported missing,” said Cadis.
“Aye. We found three of them dead back in the woods to the south. Looked like they’d been struck by an ax—or a damn big sword. Don’t think there’s no live ones around here now.”
“Twenty miles northeast, you say. That is out of our jurisdiction,” said Cadis. “I’ll report this back to the colonel. You will make yourself available for his interrogation.”
At that moment the first of the refugees began to emerge onto the hillcrest. Cadis stared at them. Many of the women and children were glancing nervously at him and his men. A child began to cry. The sound was shrill and spooked Cadis’s mount. “Shut that brat up!” he snarled, jerking on the reins. The horse reared. Cadis fell back, his feet slipping from the stirrups. He landed on the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Furious, he lurched to his feet, the sound of hastily curbed laughter from his soldiers adding fuel to the flames of his rage. “You stupid cow!” he yelled at the frightened woman, who was trying to comfort the child.
A tall man stepped between them. “Control yourself,” he said, softly. “These people are frightened enough.”
Cadis blinked. The man was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, obviously well made and expensive, and good quality leggings and boots. The officer looked into the man’s eyes. They were startlingly blue and piercing. Cadis stepped back a pace. The silence grew. Cadis became aware that his men were waiting for him to say something. He felt foolish now—and this brought back his anger.
“Who do you think you are?” he stormed. “You don’t tell me to control myself. I am an officer in the victorious army of Dospilis.”
“You are a man who fell off your horse,” said the newcomer, his voice even. “These people have been attacked by beasts, and also by men who behaved like beasts. They are weary, frightened, and hungry. They seek only the shelter of the city.” Without another word the man walked past Cadis and approached Sergeant Shialis. “I remember you,” he said. “You led a counterattack on a bridge in Pashturan five . . . six years ago. Took an arrow in the thigh.”
“Indeed I did,” said Shialis. “Though I don’t remember you being there.”
“It was a brave move. Had you not held that bridge your flanks would have been turned and what was merely a defeat would have become a rout. What is it that you do here?”
“We’re hunting beasts.”
“We fought them last night. They moved off toward the north.”
Behind the two men Cadis Patralis had almost reached breaking point. He had fallen from his horse, been laughed at, and now he was being ignored. Gripping the hilt of his cavalry saber, he made to move forward. A huge hand descended on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
“Been a soldier long, laddie?” Cadis turned and looked into eyes the color of a winter sky. The face that framed them was old, deep lines carved on the features. The man had a black and silver beard, and wore a black helm, emblazoned with an ax, flanked by grinning silver skulls. “I’ve been a soldier most of my life,” continued the man. “I’ve carried this ax across . . . well I don’t rightly know how many lands.” The warrior raised the weapon and Cadis found himself looking at his own reflection in the shining blades. “Never learned as much as I should. One truth, though, that I have found, is that it’s always best to leave anger at home. Angry men are stupid men, you see, laddie. And in wars it’s usually the stupid who die first. Not always, mind. Sometimes the stupid ensure that others die first. But the principle remains. So, how long have you been a soldier?”
Cadis felt a trembling begin in his stomach. There was something about the man that was leeching away his courage. He made one last attempt to regain control of the situation. “Unhand me,” he said. “Do it now.”
“Ah, laddie, if I do that,” said the man, amicably, his voice low, “then within a few heartbeats you’ll be dead. And we don’t want that, do we? You’ll insult that fine young fellow talking to your sergeant, and he’ll kill you. Then matters will turn ugly and I’ll be obliged to use old Snaga on your troops. They seem like good boys, and it would be a shame to see so much unnecessary bloodshed.”
“There are forty of us,” said Cadis. “It would be insane.
”
“There won’t be forty at the close, laddie. However, I am now done talking. What happens now is up to you.” The huge hand lifted from Cadis’s shoulder and the massive figure stepped away.
The young man stood for a moment, then took a deep breath. A cool breeze touched his skin and he shivered. Cadis looked across at the woman and the child. He saw the fear in her eyes and felt the first heavy touch of shame. Cadis walked over to them, offering a bow. “My apologies, lady,” he said. “My behavior was boorish. I am sorry if I frightened your child.” Then he walked to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Angling his mount he rode alongside his sergeant. “Time to leave,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Cadis led the troop back down the hill and off toward the northwest and the waiting city.
“What did he say, sir?” asked Shialis, riding alongside.
“Who?”
“Druss the Legend.”
Cadis felt suddenly light-headed. “That was Druss? The Druss? Are you sure?”
“I knew him, sir. Years ago. No mistaking him. What did he say? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind, Sergeant. He gave me some advice about soldiering. Said to leave anger at home.”
“Good advice. You mind if I say something else, sir?”
“Why not?”
“That was a noble gesture, when you apologized to the mother. A lesser man wouldn’t have done that.” Shialis suddenly smiled. “Advice from Druss the Legend, eh? Something to tell the kids one day.”
There would be no children to tell.
Four months later Cadis Patralis would die fighting, back to back, with Shialis against the invading army of the Witch Queen.
Rabalyn missed the company of the twins. They had said good-bye at the city gates, and had left with Garianne, heading for the southern quarter. He had enjoyed talking with them. Jared treated him like an adult, never speaking down to him. And Nian, though simple, was always warm and friendly.
His feeling of loss soon evaporated, replaced by a sense of wonder. Having never before seen a city, Rabalyn could scarce believe his eyes. The buildings were monstrously large, towering and immense. There were temples, topped by massive statues, and houses boasting scores of windows and balconies. Rabalyn had always believed that the three-story home of Councillor Raseev had been the height of magnificence. Here it would look like a tiny hovel. Rabalyn stared at one palace as they passed, and counted the windows: sixty-six. It was hard to believe that any family could have grown so large as to need a home like this.
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