I don’t know how he found the strength to kill that awful creature.’
‘How did you wake him?’ asked Harad.
‘The swords,’ she told him. ‘You remember when Gamal woke. He shouted: “The swords.
Skilgannon.” When you ran out to fight the Jems I drew one of his swords and put it in his hand. His body jerked and he cried out. I helped him to stand, then we saw the beast coming. He drew the other sword, the golden one, and stepped out to meet it. I thought there was no way he could survive. He is an amazing man.’
‘I killed two of them and he’s the amazing man?’ grumbled Harad good-naturedly.
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good!’
Askari kept watch, and Charis slept for a while. Harad dozed beside her. After an hour Skilgannon woke. He sat up. The movement roused Harad.
‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Stronger. Thank you, Harad. I couldn’t have made it.’
‘It was a pleasure. So, what do we do now?’
‘You should take your lady and find somewhere safe. As for me? I’m going to fulfil a prophecy.’
Alahir was glad to be away from the encampment. The army of Agrias had swelled to around twelve thousand now — more than a third of them Jiamads. They were camped on high ground near a deserted and ruined city that had once been the capital of the Sathuli lands. Every day more troops arrived, along with an endless stream of supply wagons. Alahir found the encampment too noisy and far too unpleasant on the nose. Latrine trenches had been dug, but Jiamads tended to squat wherever and whenever they felt the need, and the stench was overpowering.
The tall cavalryman led his troop of fifty riders over a ridge, heading south. It was not a routine patrol, hunting runaways and scouting for any sign of enemy movement. Agrias had said the Eternal was moving her forces into the lands of Landis Kan, and there were reports of enemy cavalry moving through the mountain passes. So all the riders wore full armour: heavy, hooded mail shirts and breastplates, and horsehair-crested battle helms, with long bronze nasal guards. Each man possessed a recurve bow with fifty shafts, a heavy cavalry sabre, and a short sword in a scabbard fitted to the left shoulder. Agrias had said the final battle was approaching. His words were full of confidence about the outcome, but Alahir didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. There was fear there. He had expected a huge uprising to follow his rebellion, and it had not materialized. Alahir wouldn’t have cared one way or another who won, save that his own homeland was at risk.
The Last of the Drenai.
It was not just a romantic phrase to Alahir. It meant everything to the young soldier. The lands around the city of Siccus had been ruled by the descendants of the Drenai for more than three hundred years.
The borders were closed, and though the inhabitants paid lip service to the Eternal, sending taxes and maintaining her laws, the old ways remained paramount. Honour, nobility of spirit, courage and a love of the homeland were the first virtues instilled in the young. Lessons in Drenai history followed, to make the young citizens aware of the great ones in whose footsteps they would be expected to walk. Karnak the One-Eyed, who had held Dros Purdol against impossible odds; Egel, the first Earl of Bronze, builder of the great fortresses. Adaran, who had won the War of the Twins, and Banalion, the White Wolf, who had fought his way back from the disasters of the last Ventrian wars, and helped to rebuild a shattered empire. There were stories of villains too, not all of them power-hungry foreigners seeking to destroy the greatness of the Drenai. There was Waylander the assassin, who had sold his soul to the enemy and murdered the Drenai king, and Lascarin, the thief who had stolen the legendary Armour of Bronze.
Stories of men like these were told to stem the arrogance that might flower instead of pride in a Drenai youngster’s heart.
Alahir smiled. The tales of many heroes had been imparted to him, but few had touched his heart as had the tale of Druss the Legend.
He sighed and rode on.
The day was a bright one. The heavy clouds of the night before had moved on, and the air was clean and crisp.
They scouted for several hours, then Alahir headed to a campsite they had used before, and the men dismounted, picketed the horses and prepared cook fires for the midday meal. Alahir was happy to be out of the saddle. His favourite horse, Napalas, a speckled grey, had thrown a shoe, and he was riding a mount loaned to him by his aide, Bagalan. The beast was skittish. If Alahir’s cloak flared in the breeze the horse would rear and try to bolt. Several times he had glanced at his aide, and the youngster was trying hard not to chuckle.
‘It is the last time I borrow a horse of yours,’ he said, as they dismounted.
‘He has great speed,’ said the dark-haired youngster, trying to keep the smile from his face. ‘He’s just a little nervous.’ The boy was a practical joker of some renown, and Alahir only had himself to blame for trusting the lad. ‘Anyway, you always said you could ride anything you could throw a saddle on.’
Alahir untied the chin straps of his helm and lifted it clear. Then he brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume, knocking the dust clear. Removing his sword belt he pushed back his mail hood, sat down on the ground, and stretched out.
‘Are you tired, uncle?’ asked Bagalan, sitting alongside him.
‘Don’t call me uncle.’
‘Why is it you are always so scratchy after a night with the whores?’
‘I am not scratchy. And the whores were. . were fine.’
‘The one you went off with had a face like a goat.’
Alahir sighed and sat up. ‘I was drunk. I do not remember what she looked like. In fact I don’t care what she looked like. My sister promised me you would be a fine aide. She obviously has your sense of humour. Now go and get me some stew.’ The young man chuckled and moved off towards one of the cook fires. He was right. Alahir was scratchy, and the camp whores were ugly. But the two facts were not connected.
His sergeant, a twenty-year veteran named Gilden, approached him. ‘You want some time alone?’ he asked. Alahir looked up into the man’s thin, bearded face. Two white scars ran through the beard from the right cheekbone down to the chin, permanent reminders of a clash with renegade Jiamads three years before. Gilden also had scars on his chest, arms and legs. But none on his back. Not a man to run in the face of an enemy.
‘No, sit. Your company is always welcome.’
Gilden removed his sword and sat on the ground. ‘The boy is all right, captain. Just a little brash. You were much the same ten years ago.’
‘Ten years ago I thought I was saving the homeland. I believed I could change the world.’
‘You were eighteen. You’re supposed to feel like that at eighteen.’
‘You felt like that?’
Gilden spread his hands. ‘Too long ago to remember. I don’t like what’s happening now, though. Bad feel to it.’
Alahir nodded. There was no need for elucidation. Agrias had begun talking about the need to protect the port areas around Siccus against enemy invasion from the sea. The whole point of serving the man was to prevent the war from reaching the homeland, to protect the borders and keep Jiamads out.
‘The council will argue against the plan,’ said Alahir at last.
‘Old men. Once strong, now fragile. Lukan argued against Agrias. He was the best of them. True Drenai. Heart and soul. Deserved better than a knife in the back for his efforts.’
‘Shadowmen serving the Eternal. Nothing to do with Agrias,’ replied Alahir doubtfully.
‘Maybe. Even so there is no-one to stand against him now.’ Gilden swore, which was rare. Alahir glanced at him.