“You don’t need to worry about me, son,” said Seth. “I’m not interested in bounties.”
“Where did the villagers go?”
“Some headed for Mellicane, others went south. Some headed up into the high hills. The war is lost. No doubt of it. The soldiers who stole the horses were deserters. They told me that only the capital still holds out against the Datians.”
Seth flipped the bacon slices with a long knife. “You are a Naashanite?”
“No, but I was raised there.”
“Word was that the Witch Queen would send an army to help us. Never came.”
The bearded man pushed the bacon to the side of the large pan. From the larder he took a bowl of eggs, and, one by one, cracked six of them. Three of the yolks split, the golden centers seeping over the congealing mess in the pan. “Never was much of a cook,” said Seth, with a grin. “It will still taste good, though. Fine hens. Trust me.”
Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. “How long have you been here?”
“Twelve years this summer. Not a bad place, you know. People are friendly, and—before the war—the station was pretty busy. Postal riders and travelers. I built the sleeping quarters myself. At one time I was even turning business away. Twenty beds, full for a month. Thought I was going to get rich.”
“What would you do if you were rich?”
Seth laughed. “No idea, man. I’ve no taste for finery. Having said that there was a fancy whorehouse in Mellicane that I always hankered to try. There was a woman there who charged ten gold Raq for a single night. Can you believe that? She must have been something.” He glanced down at the mess in the pan. “Well, I think it’s ready.”
Serving the meal on to four wooden platters he and Skilgannon carried them back into the dining area, and they ate in silence—after Braygan had offered a prayer of thanks.
When they had finished Seth leaned back in his chair. “Second breakfast of the day for me,” he said. “Damned if it didn’t taste better than the first.”
“How will you survive here on your own?” asked Braygan.
“I have my hens, and I know how to hunt. There’s also quite a bit of grain hidden close by. I’ll do well enough—if this war ends by the summer. People will start coming back then. Business will pick up.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to go to Mellicane?” asked Braygan.
Seth looked at the priest and smiled. “Nowhere is truly safe in a war, young man. Mellicane is a city under siege. If it falls the slaughter will be terrible. Look what happened in Perapolis when the Damned took it. He killed everyone, men, women, babes in arms. No, I think I’ll stay here in my home. If I’m to be killed it’ll be in a place I love.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Braygan looked away.
“I’d like to purchase some supplies from you, Seth,” said Skilgannon.
For the next five days the travelers moved northwest, ever downward into lush valleys and low woodland. The temperature rose sharply, and both Braygan and Rabalyn found the going increasingly hard. Sweat itched and tingled on Rabalyn’s healing burns, and Braygan, unused to such sustained exercise, stumbled along, his legs painful. Occasionally he would suffer severe cramps in his calves and be forced to sit until the pain passed.
They saw few people in this time, though occasionally glimpsed riders in the distance.
On the morning of the sixth day they came across the smoking ruins of a small farm. Five bodies lay on the open ground. Crows were feasting on dead flesh. Braygan shepherded Rabalyn from the scene, while Skilgannon moved to where the bodies lay. As he approached, the crows flew away a little distance and waited.
There were three adults, one man and two women, and two small girls. Skilgannon examined the ground around them. The earth was churned by the hooves of many horses, and it was impossible to tell how many. At least twenty, he reasoned. The bodies were all close together, so it was likely they were led from the building and murdered. Otherwise—if they had tried to run—they would have been slain further apart. There was no indication that the women had been raped. They were fully clothed. Skilgannon rose to his feet. A cavalry group had ridden in, looted the farmhouse, then murdered the family who lived here. The farm had then been torched. In the distance Skilgannon could see other farms. These had not been set ablaze.
Calling to Braygan and Rabalyn he walked across the plowed fields toward the next farmhouse. It was deserted.
“Why did they kill that family?” asked Braygan.
“Any number of reasons,” Skilgannon told him. “The most likely is that such an act would spread terror. All the other families in this area, seeing the smoke, and perhaps even witnessing the killings, have fled. My guess is that by terrorizing the rural areas they are forcing more and more people to seek refuge in Mellicane.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Food, Braygan. Wars are not won merely by defeating enemies on the field of battle. Mellicane is a fortress city. Everyone there needs to eat. If you swell the numbers then food will run out more swiftly. Without food they cannot resist an enemy. The city might then surrender, and save the need for a sustained siege.”
Skilgannon left Braygan and Rabalyn at a deserted farmhouse, then set out to scout the area.
There were few farm animals anywhere. Skilgannon saw two pigs and several hens, but any sheep or cattle had been driven away, probably to feed the armies converging on Mellicane.
Pausing at a well he drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply.
Seth had talked of a Naashanite army that was supposed to come to the aid of the Tantrian king. It would come, Skilgannon knew, but intentionally too late. Centuries ago Tantria, Datia, and Dospilis had been part of the Naashanite empire. The queen desired those lands again. Better to let the three nations tear each other apart first, then move in to conquer them all.
He sat on the wall of the well and wished that he could just walk away, find a horse and head north toward Sherak. If the Temple of the Resurrectionists existed he would find it, then bring back to life the woman who had married him. “I wish I could have loved you more,” he said, aloud. Closing his eyes he pictured Dayan’s face, her golden hair bound in a braid of silver wire, her smile bright and dazzling. Then, without warning, another face appeared, long dark hair framing features of singular perfection. Dark eyes looked into his own, and full lips parted in a smile that clove his heart.
Skilgannon groaned and surged upright. Even now he could not picture Dayan without summoning the memory of Jianna.
“Do you love me, Olek?” Dayan had asked, on the night of their wedding.
“Who could not love you, Dayan? You are everything a man could desire.”
“Do you love me with all your heart?”
“I will try to make you happy, and I will take no other wives nor concubines. That is my promise to you.”
“My father warned me about you, Olek. He said you were in love with the queen. That all men knew this. Have you lain with her?”
“No questions, Dayan. The past is gone. The future is ours. This is our night. The servants are gone, the moon is bright, and you are the most beautiful woman in all the world.”
His thoughts were interupted by the sound of horses’ hooves. Glancing to the west he saw three riders approaching. They were soldiers, bearing white crests upon their helms. Skilgannon stood quietly as they approached. They were carrying small, round, unadorned shields, and he could not identify which army they fought for.
The lead rider, a tall man with a wispy blond beard, drew rein. He said nothing, but stared at Skilgannon with cold, blue eyes. His comrades drew alongside, waiting for orders. “Are you from this village?” asked the leader, after a few more moments of silence. The voice was low, with a soft burr that suggested the east. Probably Datian, thought Skilgannon.
“I am passing through.”
“A refugee then?”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I see no
reason to run and hide. Feel free to water your horses.”
A touch of anger showed in the rider’s eyes. “I am free to water my horses. I need no permission from you.”
“Were you in the group that murdered the farmer and his family?” asked Skilgannon, gesturing back toward the blackened farmhouse.
The man leaned back in his saddle, crossing his hands on the pommel horn. “You are very cool, stranger.”
“I am merely enjoying the sunshine and a sip of water from a well. I am at war with no one.”
“The whole world is at war,” snapped one of the riders, a young beardless man with long black hair, wrapped tightly into two braids.
“Tantria is not the world,” said Skilgannon. “It is merely a small nation.”
“Shall I kill him, sir?” asked the rider, looking toward the blond warrior. The man’s eyes held to Skilgannon’s gaze.
“No. Water the horses,” he said, dismounting and loosening his saddle girth. Skilgannon walked away from them and sat quietly on a fence rail. The leader, leaving his horse with the black-haired rider, moved to join him. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“South.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Mellicane.”
“The city will fall.”
“I expect that you are right. I’ll not be there long.”
The rider eased himself up on to the fence rail, and glanced back toward the smoldering farmhouse. “I was not with that group,” he said. “Though I could have been. What is your business in Mellicane?”
“I am escorting a priest who wishes to take his vows there, and a boy seeking lost parents.”
“Not a Naashanite messenger then?”
“No.”
“I see you sport the spider on your arm. Naashanite custom, is it not?”
“Yes. I served the queen for a number of years. Now I do not.”
“You realize I should either kill you or take you back to our camp?”
“You do not have enough men with you to attempt it,” said Skilgannon, softly. “Otherwise that is exactly what you would do.”
The rider smiled. “Exactly so. Would you explain to me how a warrior like yourself became engaged in so small a mission?”
“A man I owed asked it of me.”
“Ah, I see. A man should always honor his debts. We are nothing without honor. There is talk of a Naashanite army preparing to come against us. You think there is truth in the rumor?”
Skilgannon looked at the man. “You know there is.”
“Aye,” muttered the soldier, sadly. “The Witch Queen has played us all for fools. Together we could have withstood her. Now we have more than decimated our armies. And for what? Datia and Dospilis together are not strong enough to hold Tantria. How soon will they come, do you think?”
“As soon as Mellicane falls,” said Skilgannon. “It is no more than a guess. I have no contact now with Naashan.”
The soldier stretched then climbed to his feet and replaced his horsehair-crested helm. He tightened the chin strap then offered his hand to Skilgannon. “Good luck with your mission, Naashanite.”
Skilgannon stepped down from the fence and accepted the handshake. The rider gripped him hard. Then his left hand swept out from behind his back. A thin-bladed dagger flashed upward toward Skilgannon’s throat. Instead of trying to pull away Skilgannon threw himself forward, his forehead slamming into the bridge of the rider’s nose. The dagger thrust missed Skilgannon’s throat, the blade causing a shallow cut to the skin at the back of his neck. Still gripping the rider’s right hand Skilgannon spun to his left, lifting the trapped arm and twisting it. The rider cried in pain. Skilgannon released him, leapt back and drew the Swords of Night and Day.
The other two soldiers ran forward, swords drawn. Their captain rose to his feet.
“You are a skilled fighter, Naashanite. You realize that I had to make the attempt to kill you? My men here would have reported me had I merely let you go. No hard feelings, eh?”
“You are a stupid man,” Skilgannon told him, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I had no wish to kill you.You could have lived. Your men could have lived.” Even as he spoke he leapt forward. The first of the soldiers—the young man with black, braided hair—managed to parry the thrust from the golden blade, but the silver sword opened his throat to the bone. The second soldier charged in—only to have his chest skewered by a single thrust. Skilgannon dragged clear his blade and stepped back as the body toppled toward him.
The leader scrambled to his feet and backed away. Skilgannon cleaned his blades and sheathed them. Then he looked at the rider. Slowly the man drew his cavalry saber.
“I have struggled for years to put this vileness behind me,” said Skilgannon. “A man like you can have no understanding of how hard that was.”
“I have a wife and children,” said the man. “I don’t want to die. Not here. Not so uselessly.”
Skilgannon sighed. “Then walk away,” he said. “I will take your horses. By the time you send men after us we will be long gone.” With that he walked past the rider toward the waiting mounts.
For a moment it seemed the rider would let him go. Then, seeing Skilgannon’s back, he raised his saber and darted forward. Skilgannon spun. A shining circle of serrated metal tore through the rider’s throat. Blood gouted from the wound. The rider choked and stumbled, falling to his knees.
With scrabbling fingers he tried to close the wound. Skilgannon walked past him, gathered up the circle of steel, then returned to kneel by the dying man. The fallen rider began to tremble violently, then with one last gasp he died.
Skilgannon wiped the steel weapon clean on the dead man’s sleeve, then rose and walked to the horses.
You seem very sad,” said Rabalyn, moving to sit opposite Braygan at the dining table. The deserted house was cheerless, as if yearning for the people who had deserted it in fear.
“I am sad, Rabalyn. It hurts my heart to see such violence. That family back there were not soldiers. They grew crops and they loved one another. I cannot understand how people can commit such acts of evil.”
Rabalyn said nothing. He had killed Todhe, and killing was evil. Even so he now knew how such acts began. Rage, grief, and fear had propelled him into the murder of Todhe. And Todhe himself had been angry with him, which is why he had set fire to the house. Lost in thought Rabalyn sat quietly at the table.
Braygan stared around the large room. It had been carefully constructed, originally of logs, but the inner walls had been plastered. The floor was hard-packed clay, but someone had etched designs upon it, spirals and circles that had then been dusted with powdered red clay, creating crimson patterns. Everything about the room spoke of care and love. The furniture had not been crafted by a trained carpenter, but had been carved and adorned by someone trying hard to master the skills; someone willing to add small individual touches to the pieces. A clumsy rose had been carved into the back of one of the chairs, and what might have been an ear of corn had been started on another. A family had tried to make a life here, filling the room with evidence of their love. Initials had been carved into the beam above the hearth. “I think I would like the people who lived here, Rabalyn,” he said. “I hope they are safe.”
Rabalyn nodded, but still said nothing. He didn’t know these people, and, truth to tell, he didn’t much care if they were safe or not. Rising he wandered about the house, seeking any food that might have been left behind. In a deep larder he found some pottery jars with cork stoppers. Removing one he looked inside. It was filled with honey. Rabalyn dipped his finger into it and licked it greedily. The silky sweetness on his tongue was beyond pleasureable. Aunt Athyla had used honey in her baking, but Rabalyn’s favorite snack was to toast stale bread over the fire, then smear it with honey. Finding a wooden spoon Rabalyn sat down in the kitchen and scooped out several spoonfuls. After a while the sweetness began to cloy on his tongue. Putting aside the jar he walked outside to the well, and drew up
a bucket of water. Drinking deeply he washed away the sugary taste.
Then he saw Brother Lantern riding toward the house. He was leading two other horses.
He walked out to meet the warrior. The horses looked huge, quite unlike the shaggy ponies to be seen back in Skepthia. Rabalyn stepped aside as they passed. They loomed above him and he reached out to stroke the flank of the nearest. Its chestnut-colored coat gleamed and its powerful muscles rippled under his hand.
Brother Lantern rode past Rabalyn without a word and dismounted at the house, tethering the horses to a post. Rabalyn followed him as he walked inside. Braygan looked up. “Did you discover any more victims?” he asked.
“No. We have horses. Do you ride?”
“I once rode a pony around a paddock.”
“These are not ponies. These are warhorses, highly trained and intelligent. They will expect equal intelligence from you. Come outside. It will not be safe to stay here long, but we will risk a short training period.”
“I would just as soon walk,” said Braygan.
“There are three dead Datians back there,” said the warrior, “and they will be discovered before long. Walking is no longer an option. Follow me.”
Once outside he gestured to Rabalyn, and helped him mount the chestnut gelding he had stroked moments earlier. “Kick your feet from the stirrups,” said Brother Lantern. Rabalyn did so, glancing down as the warrior adjusted the height of each stirrup. “Gently take hold of the reins. Remember that the horse’s mouth is tender, so no savage jerking or pulling.” He led the horse away from the others, then glanced back at Rabalyn. “Do not grip with your legs. Sit easy. Now merely walk him around for a while.” Releasing his hold on the bridle Skilgannon moved back to where Braygan was standing.
“These horses don’t like me,” said Braygan.
“That is because you are standing there staring at them. Come forward. Keep your movements slow and easy.” He helped the priest to mount, then adjusted his stirrups, repeating the advice he had given to Rabalyn.
Lastly Brother Lantern stepped smoothly into the saddle of a steeldust gelding and rode alongside the two nervous novices. “The horse has four gaits,” he said, “walk, trot, canter, and gallop. Walking, as we are now doing, is simple. You just sit lightly in the saddle. The trot is not so simple. The horse will break into what is known as a two-time gait.”