‘We should go and get some food,’ he said, reaching out and taking Askari’s hand.
After they had gone Harad leaned his head back on the grain sack and closed his eyes.
‘I hear your woman died,’ said Decado.
Harad’s eyes snapped open. The last person he wanted to talk to about Charis was this demented swordsman.
‘Nice-looking girl. Beautiful eyes,’ said Decado. ‘I remember thinking how lucky you were. Brave too. Had she not rescued Gamal from the palace I would have killed him that first night. Took nerve.’ He glanced at Snaga. ‘I am surprised you still want to handle that weapon.’
‘Why would I not?’
Decado did not reply for a moment. ‘You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?’ he said at last.
‘No.’
‘Askari told me that when the tree struck you the axe flew from your hand. It was the axe that killed Charis. Now that is what you call bad luck.’ Decado stretched himself out on the deck and drew his cloak over his shoulders.
Harad sat very still, his grief now redoubled. If he had kept hold of the weapon Charis would still be alive.
It was as if he had killed her himself.
Skilgannon stood at the prow of the lead barge, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face. It had been a long time since he had led an army, and the weight of responsibility sat heavily on him. Most of the problems he faced were familiar to him. Men with no military experience believed that an army needed only courage and discipline to win a battle. Those with a little more insight might add that the quality of training, weapons and armour would be important. Both views were correct in part. Without those assets no army would survive for long. Yet in his long life Skilgannon had seen armies with fine weapons, good training, and strong leadership fall apart on a battlefield when faced by troops less well armed. Morale was the real key to success. Low morale would strip away the confidence of the best fighter, and, more often than not, good morale resulted from good provisions. Hunger caused discontent. The food he had purchased from the merchant would feed the force for some ten days. After that it would be down to foraging. Not a simple exercise in the desert environment they were heading for. The horses would need good water, the men full bellies. This problem was even more pressing for the Jiamads. Their appetites were prodigious.
A secondary morale problem was also worrying him. The Legend Riders loathed the Jiamads, and the beasts, in turn, sensing the hatred, were nervous and ill at ease. At the moment the problem was not serious, for the beasts travelled in separate barges. At night, when the Legend Riders took their mounts ashore for exercise and grazing, the Jiamads stayed well clear of them. Skilgannon had tried to talk to Alahir about the hostility, but he too was locked into age-old prejudices. Jiamads were demon spawn.
Jiamads were evil. Jiamads frightened the horses. It was equally difficult with Stavut, who seemed to consider his ‘lads’ as merely large puppies. And then there was Harad. Skilgannon had not known Druss as a young man, nor had he spoken to him at any length about the death of his wife. He had no idea how it had affected the Drenai hero. Had he too become unhinged when the tragedy struck? Harad spoke little to anyone now, save perhaps Askari.
Skilgannon wandered along the now empty deck and down the wide gangplank to the shore. The Legend Riders had gathered some hundred or so paces east, and were sitting round campfires, laughing and talking. The Jiamads had wandered off with Stavut. The countryside was still lush, and Skilgannon had seen game in the hills. Askari was sitting with Decado on the river bank. The swordsman was yet another concern for Skilgannon. Back at the merchant’s office Skilgannon had seen a look in the young man’s eyes that was disturbing. There had been a need in Decado to kill. For a brief moment Skilgannon had believed he would have to fight him. Then the moment had passed.
It might come again.
Skilgannon strolled towards the campfires. As he did so Stavut and a group of Joinings emerged from the woods some little way to the west. The grazing horses picked up the scent of the Jiamads and immediately began to run. Legend Riders surged up and rushed out into the meadow, seeking to calm them.
In the confusion that followed three Legend Riders approached Stavut, and a heated argument broke out. Skilgannon moved swiftly towards them, as other riders gathered. ‘Are you a complete idiot?’
shouted one of them. ‘Your vermin scare horses. How could you be so stupid?’ He leaned in towards Stavut, his manner threatening. A huge beast snarled and rushed at him, hurling the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the Jiamads. Legend Riders grabbed their bows. Others drew swords and rushed forward.
Skilgannon raced in. ‘Stand fast!’ he yelled.
The moment was tense. Many of the riders now had their bows bent. Skilgannon walked out to stand between them and the beasts. ‘This has gone far enough,’ he said, his voice ringing out. ‘And I am becoming sick of the stupidity around me. Yes, Stavut should have known better than to bring his pack so close to the horses. But you,’ he said, pointing to the man hurled to the ground, ‘demonstrated even greater stupidity. Worse, it showed a complete lack of judgement. How dare you use the word vermin?
Stavut’s pack chose to come on this quest. You understand the meaning of the word? Choice? He told them to stay behind, because this was not their fight. They chose to support you, to fight alongside you.
To die in your war. And this is how you repay them? Calling them vermin? You should be ashamed of yourself.’ One by one the bows were put down, the arrows returned to their quivers. ‘I’ll tell you something else. I lived during the time you are all so desperate to bring back. I walked with Druss the Legend. I fought alongside him. At a citadel, full of Nadir warriors and renegade Naashanites. There were not many of us. There were two brothers, a Drenai warrior named Diagoras, and a woman with a crossbow. There was Druss. There was me. And there was a Jiamad. We all fought together. Druss the Legend did not call the Jiamad vermin. He did not shy away from him. He did not look at him with disgust. Druss judged all creatures by their deeds. If he was here when the word vermin was used it would have been Druss who downed the idiot who spoke the word.’ He paused for a moment and looked at the still angry men. ‘I don’t want to hear how many of your friends have been killed by Jiamads, or how your grandfathers made blood oaths to keep them from the sacred lands of the Drenai.
This world is ancient. It has always had its share of evil. Evil, I think, was born in the heart of the first man. You don’t find evil in a leopard, or a bear, or a sparrow, or a hawk. We carry it. Men carry it. Out there,’ he said, gesturing towards the north, ‘is a place of magic. If we can find it, and locate the source of it, we can prevent the Eternal — or anyone else — from ever creating another man-beast. That is what we need to focus upon.’ He could see from their faces that his words had failed to sway them. And there was nothing more to say.
Alahir walked out from his riders and approached the towering Shakul. ‘I am Alahir, of the Legend Riders,’ he said. Shakul’s head swayed from side to side.
‘This is my friend, Shakul,’ said Stavut. The beasts milled around, uncertain and nervous. Stavut took Alahir to one side and spoke to him in a low whisper. Alahir suddenly laughed and turned to his men.
‘Follow our lead,’ he said. Then he and Stavut began to stamp their feet rhythmically on the ground.
With looks of bemusement, the Legend Riders copied the movement. Then Alahir called out: ‘We are pack! All of you say it! Together now!’
The response was at first weak and sporadic. ‘Louder, you whoresons!’ shouted Alahir, laughing as he gave the order.