Battleaxe

  “Then read it, BattleAxe, read it to us,” said Ogden quietly, his eyes riveted on Axis’ face.

  Axis took a deep breath, and when he started to read, his voice took on a low-timbred musical quality, almost as if he were singing to himself.

  A day will come when born will be

  Two babes whose blood will tie them.

  That born to Wing and Horn will hate

  The one they call the StarMan.

  Destroyer! rises in the north

  And drives his Ghostmen south;

  Defenceless lie both flesh and field

  Before Gorgrael’s ice.

  To meet this threat you must release

  The StarMan from his lies,

  Revive Tencendor, fast and sure

  Forget the ancient war,

  For if Plough, Wing and Horn can’t find

  The bridge to understanding,

  Then will Gorgrael earn his name

  And bring Destruction hither.

  Axis paused a moment, although he didn’t take his eyes from the page. “Tencendor?”

  “I will explain in a moment,” Ogden said quietly, placing a gentle hand on Axis’ shoulder. “Finish. Please.” Axis resumed reading.

  StarMan, listen, heed me well,

  Your power will destroy you

  If you should wield it in the fray

  ’Ere these prophecies are met:

  The Sentinels will walk abroad

  ’Til power corrupt their hearts;

  A child will turn her head and cry

  Revealing ancient arts;

  A wife will hold in joy at night

  The slayer of her husband;

  Age-old souls, long in cribs,

  Will sing o’er mortal land;

  The remade dead, fat with child

  Will birth abomination;

  A darker power will prove to be

  The father of salvation.

  Then waters will release bright eyes

  To form the Rainbow Sceptre.

  “There is a break,” Axis said quietly, “then begins another verse.” He felt very strange, almost as if he were in the grip of a dream. The melody running through his mind had become louder, more insistent. He was thankful for the pressure of Ogden’s hand on his shoulder, and did not notice it tighten in shock the moment he continued to read.

  StarMan, listen, for I know

  That you can wield the sceptre

  To bring Gorgrael to his knees

  And break the ice asunder.

  But even with the power in hand

  Your pathway is not sure:

  A Traitor from within your camp

  Will seek and plot to harm you;

  Let not your Lover’s pain distract

  For this will mean your death;

  Destroyer’s might lies in his hate

  Yet you must never follow;

  Forgiveness is the thing assured

  To save Tencendor’s soul.

  For a long moment there was silence. Then Axis reluctantly tore his eyes away from the beautiful page. His vision blurred, then cleared again as he blinked at Ogden. The melody had disappeared as strangely as it had come.

  “I don’t understand,” Timozel said, his face confused. He looked apologetically at Ogden and Veremund. “I was never good at my book learning, Brothers. I preferred to spend time with my weapon instructor.”

  “Axis seems to have been very good at his book learning,” Gilbert muttered very quietly to himself. Gilbert was sitting next to Axis as he read and yet as carefully as he had studied the page he could not decipher the writing—and he had far more training than Axis had ever had. How had Axis managed to read what he could not?

  “Tencendor,” said Veremund, “was the ancient name of Achar when all three races lived together in harmony. The followers of the Plough, the Wing and the Horn. The Prophecy of the Destroyer, as these verses were known, refers to a time when Gorgrael, the Destroyer, will drive his forces of ice and cloud down from the north in an attempt to conquer Tencendor, ah, Achar.”

  “Destroyer rises in the north and drives his Ghostmen south,” Axis mused. “Brothers, are these Ghostmen the wraith-like creatures that have been attacking the patrols? And the creatures made of ice that attacked Gorkenfort and Gorkentown…ice creatures of this Gorgrael?”

  Ogden nodded.

  “It’s completely ridiculous!” Gilbert exclaimed, amazed that Axis could be taking these lines seriously. “This is a heretical book, BattleAxe! You cannot listen to these words!”

  Axis turned his pale blue eyes on Gilbert. “I don’t care if we listen to the words of a pox-ridden whore whose brain is riddled with the diseases of her trade, Gilbert, just as long as they make some kind of sense.” He turned back to Ogden and Veremund. “Brothers, I can understand the reference to the Destroyer, and the troubles in the north, but the rest of it? It’s a riddle.”

  “I’m afraid that prophecies tend to be a little like riddles, Axis. Easy enough to interpret when you know the answer, almost impossible when you don’t.” And dangerous, he thought, dangerous when you misinterpret them.

  “But,” Timozel frowned and leaned forward. “Doesn’t the Prophecy refer to a man who can stop this Destroyer? The ‘StarMan’?”

  Veremund frowned. “And tied by blood to the Destroyer. A brother, perhaps.”

  Gilbert laughed incredulously, his pimply face scornful as he looked at the two elderly Brothers. “Oh? So you now tell us that we not only face some mythical Destroyer, a legend of the Forbidden, but that we have to put our trust in his brother? If the Destroyer is born of Wing and Horn then he is one of the Forbidden himself. His brother can only be of the Forbidden too. My friends, I think you have been too long closeted with your books. The Seneschal will not allow the Forbidden back into Achar. Never.”

  Veremund stood and started to clear away the dishes. He shuffled around the table, and placed his hands briefly on Arne and Timozel’s shoulders. They had heard enough for one night. “My friends. You are tired after your long ride. It is late, and we need to sleep on this. All will seem clearer in the light of the morning.”

  Timozel yawned hugely and Arne followed suit an instant later. Both stretched. “Come,” Veremund touched Axis lightly on the arm and brushed Gilbert’s back with his fingers as he walked past. “I will prepare you a sleeping chamber on one of the upper levels. All will be well in the morning.”

  Axis finally felt his weariness come crashing about him. He realised he could no longer think clearly. Veremund spoke sense.

  “I really think we should…” Gilbert began, but then his body was wracked with a gigantic yawn. “Perhaps you are right, Brother Veremund,” he finished lamely. “I do feel somewhat tired.”

  “Then come,” Veremund smiled. “Let me lead you to your beds.”

  Fifteen minutes later all four men were sound asleep in the small chamber Veremund had prepared for them. They had paused only long enough to remove their outer clothes and boots and had then crawled into their blankets. Veremund waited at the door until he could hear the men taking the deep, slow breaths of sleep, then walked thoughtfully back down the stairs.

  Ogden was still sitting at the table by the slowly dying fire, his hand resting lovingly on the text of the Prophecy of the Destroyer. “Well, Brother,” he said as Veremund sat slowly down at the table, careful of his arthritic limbs, “have we waited our time out?”

  Veremund took a deep breath, his eyes on the embers in the grate. “No Acharite has been able to read those words for almost a thousand years.” He raised his eyes to Ogden. “No one can read them, lest he or she be of Icarii blood.” Veremund had told Gilbert only half the truth earlier when the Brother had asked him about the language of the Forbidden. Although all three races, Acharite, Icarii and Avar, spoke a common language, the Icarii also spoke a sacred language reserved only for the most holy or important occasions. The Prophecy had been composed in that sacred tongue.

  “And, what is more, o
f the Icarii line of Enchanters. The final verse of the Prophecy was heavily warded. Not even we have heard it before now.”

  Both were silent for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “It is our task to be heedful,” Ogden finally whispered.

  “Watchful,” Veremund whispered back.

  Neither spoke out loud the thought that had gripped them the moment Axis had started to recite the words of the last verse—that final verse had been meant for the eyes of one person only. It had stood unread since the ink and the spells of warding were still wet on the page. Now the Prophecy of the Destroyer was awake and walking the ancient land of Tencendor. And, by the look of the BattleAxe, it had been doing so for some thirty years.

  15

  SILENT WOMAN NIGHT

  Faraday lay sleepless in her bedroll, listening to her mother’s gentle snores. The night lay heavily upon her, and Faraday felt oppressed, trapped in this tiny tent. She twisted over to her other side and closed her eyes, trying to find sleep, but ten minutes later she was twisting back the other way, eyes wide open again.

  She sighed and sat up. What she needed was some fresh air. Quietly, so as not to wake her mother, she turned the blanket of the bedroll back and fumbled in the dark for her shoes. The air was cold, and once she stood up Faraday reached for her heavy cloak to wrap around her nightgown as she slipped through the flap in the tent. Outside she pulled the hood of the cloak over her face. No use attracting attention to herself.

  Her tent was right in the middle of the encampment. About her lay the huddled forms of several thousand warriors. Faraday smiled to herself. Under what other circumstances would her mother consent to her bedding down amid so many men? She picked her way carefully through the camp. Clouds scudded across the night sky but enough moonlight broke through for Faraday to see her way.

  At the edge of the camp Faraday paused. She had expected one of the sentries to stop her before now. But all was quiet. Not sure whether to go back to her tent, or to go on further, suddenly a glimpse of white in the grass a few paces in front of her caught Faraday’s attention.

  “Puss?” she whispered. “Puss?”

  She hadn’t seen the cat for a day or so. Perhaps if she took the warm cuddly animal back to bed it would help her to sleep. She stepped past the boundaries of the camp and reached down for the cat. But just as her fingers brushed its back the cat sprang forward a few more steps.

  “Puss!” Faraday muttered irritably and walked after it, but the cat jumped away from her again. Faraday was now engrossed in catching the cat. Some time later she looked up and fear gripped her heart for an instant, until she spun around and spotted the low campfires in the distance. She wasn’t so far away, after all. The cat purred about her legs and she bent down and picked it up.

  But as Faraday turned back to the camp several dark figures loomed out of the night. She squealed in terror and convulsively gripped the cat to her breast. It squawked with indignation and squirmed out of her arms. She turned to run, but tripped over her long cloak and tumbled down into the grass, skinning the heels of her hands as she fell.

  A tall, dark figure bent down over her.

  “Get away from me!” Faraday hissed, trying to scrabble out of his reach on her hands and buttocks.

  The figure leaned back. “‘Tis only me, lady,” a soft burred country voice said. “Jack the pig boy. Won’t do no-one no harm. Jack Simple’s the name.”

  Faraday held her breath ready to scream. The clouds thinned over the moon and she caught a look at his face. He was in early middle-age, sparse blond hair tumbling down over his forehead, his skin weather-lined and tanned, friendly eyes over a wide grin. Faraday stared at him, trying to work out what was wrong with his face, then she realised. Jack the pig boy had the face of a friendly and completely harmless simpleton. In one hand he held a heavy wooden staff that topped him by a full handspan; it had a heavy carved knob of some kind of dark metal on its top. The other dark shapes behind him resolved themselves into large but equally harmless pigs, staring at her curiously.

  The white cat, purring loudly enough to attract the attention of every sentry about the camp, was weaving itself ecstatically around Jack’s legs. He bent down and picked the cat up.

  “Pretty puss,” he murmured, “pretty, pretty.” Jack held her in the crook of his arm and stroked her back in long sensual strokes. He had nice hands, long fingers, square fingernails.

  Faraday recovered her composure and scrambled to her feet. She pulled her cloak about her again and carefully tried to brush the dirt out of her grazed hands.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked harshly, still not completely recovered from the shock he had given her.

  Jack looked downcast and shuffled his feet a little. “Didn’t mean you no harm, lady. Taking my friends for a walk, I was. Nice night, yes, for a walk.”

  Faraday looked at the pigs. There was a small herd of about fifteen standing patiently behind Jack. They all looked fat and well-fed. Faraday supposed he came from a distant farmstead, and perhaps spent most of his time minding the pigs as they roamed the plains, fattening themselves for market.

  “You scared me,” she said shortly, and wished as soon as she’d said it that she had not sounded so petty.

  Jack looked contrite, lines of distress creasing his forehead. “M’lady. Please, I meant no harm.”

  “It’s all right, Jack. I know you meant no harm. Why,” she said, to turn Jack’s mind away from his guilt at startling her, “the cat adores you.” To be honest, Faraday was feeling just a little jealous of the cat’s attentions to Jack. Up to now the cat had showed a preference only for her or Axis. It had been a tie to bind them.

  Jack smiled broadly, wiping away all the worry lines from his face. “Yr, her name is, Lady. It’s been a long time since I saw Yr. Many, many years. More years than pigs I have here. Twice as many, surely.”

  Faraday smiled tolerantly at him. The cat had undoubtedly never been out of Carlon before this time, and was certainly not more than fifteen years old, let alone thirty. Poor Jack, he must live in a wonderful fantasy world.

  “What are you doing here?” Faraday repeated, although she kept her voice light this time.

  “We’re come from the Woods, lovely lady.”

  Faraday gaped at Jack. “You’ve come from the Silent Woman Woods? Jack! Those Woods are bad! Don’t you know that?”

  “Woods are good, lady. People tell me the Woods are bad, but the Woods and I get along just fine. Pigs can find lots of nice nuts and cones to eat in the Woods. No, no,” he shook his head emphatically, “people don’t know what the Woods are really like.”

  Faraday glanced over his shoulder, finally realising just how close they were to the Woods. Worry lines etched her face.

  “No, no, pretty lady,” Jack said anxiously as he watched her frown. “No need to be afraid. Let Jack show you.” He took her hand and started to pull her towards the Woods.

  “No! I can’t go in there!” Faraday cried. “Let my hand go!”

  Jack instantly dropped her hand. “Lady, I mean you no harm! The Woods don’t mean no harm, neither. Not unless you mean them harm. No,” Jack dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “trees’ll tell you secrets, lady. They are magic trees. If you ask them nicely, sometimes they will tell you your future.”

  “Really?” asked Faraday doubtfully, her interest piqued nevertheless. What if she could find out her future? Would she see herself surrounded with her and Borneheld’s children? Her husband loving and attentive at her side? Perhaps if she could see that it would still her fears about her marriage. “Really?” she asked Jack again, her tone less doubtful than curious. “How close do we have to get?”

  The two creatures that had assumed the forms of Ogden and Veremund paused briefly at the door to the sleeping chamber. Their eyes glowed the soft gold of the lake outside.

  “They are asleep,” the one who called himself Ogden said quietly.

  “Yes,” said his compan
ion. “They will sleep well.”

  They stepped lightly into the room and stood either side of Timozel, curled tightly in his blankets, only his tousled dark head showing. Veremund leaned down and placed his splayed hand and fingers over the man’s face, covering it from chin to forehead.

  “Ah,” Veremund said softly. “This one has a good heart, though it is shadowed with some unhappiness.” He shook his head slightly. “He will endure yet more unhappiness and uncertainty. He will have troubled choices.”

  They moved on to Gilbert. Both hesitated above him, but finally Ogden leaned down and placed his hand over the man’s sleeping face.

  “Ah,” he hissed almost instantly. “I knew I did not like this one. His heart is full of holes and snakes reside there. His mind is a maze, and waits to trap the innocent. He will not be true; Artor has too strong a hold on this one.” Ogden let go of Gilbert’s face with a grimace and wiped his hand down his habit. He looked at Veremund. “What can we do?”

  Veremund shook his head sadly. “Our task is simply to watch and be heedful. We cannot act, though perhaps we can warn. Come,” he stepped over to Arne, who lay arms akimbo atop his blankets. “I wonder if he will do?”

  He bent down and rested his hand over Arne’s face. “Another good-hearted man. Stolid, and it will take much to change his mind. He will not like what lies around the corner and the secrets that will be revealed. But in the end his loyalty will keep him true. He would follow his BattleAxe to the grave if that is where Axis asked him to go. Yes, he will do well.” His voice changed slightly, and now he spoke directly to Arne. The tips of his fingers glowed slightly golden where they touched Arne’s face. “Good man, listen to these words. One day your BattleAxe will face great danger. Watch carefully those around him, especially those who pretend friendship and profess loyalty. Treachery will dog his footsteps. Watch your lord’s back, good man, and protect him from those who would do him harm.”