‘Well,’ said the sergeant, ‘let’s find out the worst.’
The earthquake had felled several trees ahead, but Gilden rode at them with speed, leaping his mount over the obstructions until he drew level with the waiting horse. He glanced up at the rock-slide ahead, and saw Alahir sitting there.
‘Nice afternoon for a nap,’ said Gilden, trying to keep the relief from his voice. Alahir did not respond.
One by one the other riders gathered at the foot of the slide. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Something you need to see,’ Alahir told him. ‘Come up. Bring Barik and Bagalan with you. The others can take turns later.’
Gilden dismounted and scrambled up the slope. ‘What’s wrong with you, lad?’ he asked.
‘Nothing and everything. You’ll understand. Follow me.’
Alahir led the three Drenai soldiers through the half-covered entrance and along the corridor beyond.
Once into the inner chamber all three men stopped, and stared at the Armour of Bronze.
‘That cannot be what I think it is?’ said Gilden at last.
‘It is,’ Alahir told him.
‘No, it is a hoax of some kind,’ said Barik. ‘You don’t stumble on the answer to your dreams in a rockslide.’
‘I have always wanted to know what it really looked like,’ said Alahir, his tone reverential. ‘I never dreamed it would be so beautiful.’
‘What good is it, though?’ asked Bagalan. ‘Locked in crystal.’
‘It is not crystal,’ Alahir told him. ‘It is some sort of illusion. Try it. I have already done so.’
Bagalan strolled over to the huge, shimmering crystal and thrust out his hand towards the winged helm.
He cried out as his fingers cracked against the cold, hard block, and stared accusingly at Alahir. ‘I could have broken my hand.’ Gilden walked to the block and reached out. The surface was cool and firm and seamless. Carefully he ran his hand over the entire front. There was no opening. Alahir stepped forward, and Gilden could see the reluctance in his every movement. Slowly the captain reached out his hand. It passed through the crystal, his fingers curling round the winged sword hilt. The weapon slid free of the scabbard.
‘How in the name of the Source did you do that?’ asked Bagalan, still rubbing at his bruised fingers.
Alahir sighed and passed the blade to Gilden. Then he moved across the chamber and sat down on a shelf of rock. ‘It is all wrong,’ he said.
Gilden sat beside him. ‘Tell it all, lad. What is going on here?’
He listened as Alahir talked of the voice that led him to the Armour, and how it had said he should don it. Then he stopped. ‘There is more,’ prompted Gilden.
‘She said I was the Earl of Bronze, by blood and by right.’
‘And that has dispirited you?’
‘Of course it has,’ said Alahir. ‘I’m not a Druss the Legend, Gil. I’m just a soldier. I was third from last in my class at the academy. You’re a better swordsman, and Barik a finer archer. The voice was wrong. I’d follow the Earl of Bronze into fire. I’d willingly give my life for the Drenai. But I am not good enough for this.’
‘You are probably right,’ Gilden told him. ‘We are none of us worthy of our ancestors. They were giants. You said it yourself, lad, only yesterday. They had Druss, we have you and me. You say you’d ride through fire for the Earl of Bronze. There’s not one of us who wouldn’t ride into Hell itself if you gave the order.’ Clapping Alahir on the shoulder he rose. ‘Now come on, do as she bid — whoever she was. Don the Armour. I’ll help you.’
Alahir returned to the block and removed the scaled breastplate, with the flaring eagle motif, then the mail shirt and leggings, and the winged helm. Removing his own chain mail he donned the shirt. Gilden lifted the breastplate. Alahir opened his arms, allowing Gilden to buckle it into place. Then he added the wrist guards and the gauntlets. Gilden settled the scabbard belt round his waist, thrusting the sword back into its bronze sheath. Lastly Alahir lifted the winged helm. He was about to place it on his head when he stopped. ‘I feel as if I am desecrating something holy,’ he said.
‘You are not, lad. You are honouring it. Put on the helm.’
A rumble began in the stone beneath their feet. Dust fell from the ceiling, and a huge chunk of rock fell
— and bounced from the now empty crystal block.
‘Another earthquake!’ shouted Barik.
‘Everyone out!’ ordered Alahir.
They ran back through the tunnel. Gilden fell. Alahir hoisted him to his feet. Just before they reached the entrance there came what sounded like a clap of thunder from behind them. The entire roof collapsed. Then the side wall of the tunnel split open, a massive slab of rock sliding away.
Gilden, Barik and Bagalan scrambled out onto the open slope. The tremor faded away and Gilden saw the rest of the troop standing below them, looking up in awe. He turned. Standing in the new cave mouth, dust billowing around him, was a golden figure. Gilden knew it was Alahir. He had helped him don the armour. Yet now, in the bright sunlight, it seemed that a hero of legend had emerged from the bowels of the earth, his arrival heralded by an earthquake. He was Alahir no longer.
This golden man on the mountainside was the Earl of Bronze.
Memnon stood quietly in Landis Kan’s upper apartments as the Eternal and Unwallis spoke. It always fascinated the slender minister to see how men reacted around the Eternal. Whenever he did so he found himself grateful for his own lack of sexual desire. Men became such fools as they moved into the orbit of her beauty. Memnon had always rather admired Unwallis. The man had a fine intellect, but it was so obvious that the Eternal had taken him once more to her bed. He fawned around her like an ageing puppy. It had, though, Memnon conceded, improved his dress sense. Clothes were Memnon’s second obsession: delicate silks, rich satins, fine wools; brilliant and beautiful dyes. He adored designing new tunics and gowns, employing the finest embroiderers and artists. Since becoming the Eternal’s lover for the second time Unwallis had put aside the grey, lacklustre clothes that were his trademark, and was now wearing a quite delightful shirt tunic of blue silk, over cream leggings and grey boots. It seemed to Memnon that the boots were an inspired choice, complementing the silver grey of Unwallis’s hair.
The Eternal had taken less care with her appearance, but then when someone had such natural beauty it would not matter were they to dress in sackcloth. Her knee-length tunic was simple white wool, the only adornment being a filigree gold belt, with small ornaments hanging from it. Several of them were quite exquisitely fashioned, but, Memnon decided, would look better against the backdrop of a darker dress or gown.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stood quietly, arms folded, his fingers stroking the soft sleeves of his own, ankle-length gown of rich blue silk.
Unwallis was concerned about the prophecy. He had studied more of Landis Kan’s notes, and had become convinced — as had Landis — that Skilgannon could threaten the reign of the Eternal. Jianna did not share his conviction. ‘He is one man. No army, no magic. Even with the Swords of Night and Day he could not overcome a regiment of Jiamads, or even a troop of lancers.’
‘The prophecy says. .’ began Unwallis.
‘To hell with prophecies,’ she snapped. ‘This one is merely wish fulfilment. Can you not see it? An ancient crone talks of Skilgannon’s return, so Landis Kan brings him back. Even Landis had no idea how the prophecy could be fulfilled. You think Skilgannon will know?’
‘What I do know, Highness, is that the Blessed Priestess was a genuine seer.’