“How could his wife wield such power in Mellicane?” asked Skilgannon.
“Through her lover,” answered the Old Woman, still facing Druss. “You met him, axman, after you arrived in Mellicane. At the banquet held in your honor. Shakusan Ironmask, the lord of the Arbiters, the captain of the king’s Warhounds. While you drank with him your friend was in chains in the dungeons below.”
For a few moments there was silence. Then Druss took a deep breath. “If we could find Orastes could he become human again?”
“No, axman. When the Nadir cast the melding spell they first cut the throats of the human victims, then lay them alongside dogs or captured wolves. Even if the meld could be reversed—which the Nadir say is impossible—I would imagine that only the wolf or dog would survive. The man was, after all, already dead when the meld took place.”
“Then Orastes is lost.”
“He may already be dead. Did you not slay several of the beasts yourself? Perhaps you have already killed your friend.”
“Oh, how you are enjoying this, you hag!” said Skilgannon. “Does your malice have no ending?” The atmosphere in the room chilled. Garianne looked shocked, and even Druss seemed uneasy. For a moment no one moved, then the Old Woman spoke.
“The facts are what they are,” she said, softly. “My enjoyment of them changes nothing. I never liked fat Orastes. So stiff and pompous. One of the heroes of Skeln! Pah! The man almost wet himself with fear throughout the battle. You know this, Druss.”
“Aye, I know it. He stood though. He did not run. Yes, he was pompous. We all have our faults. But he never harmed anyone. Why would you hate him?”
“There are very few men I do not hate in this world of violence and pain. So, yes, I laughed when Orastes was melded. As I will laugh when you meet your doom, Druss. At this moment, however, it is not your death I seek. We now share a common enemy. Shakusan Ironmask destroyed your friend. He also caused the death of someone close to me.”
Druss’s face was set, and his eyes blazed with cold fire. “Where do I find this Ironmask now?” he asked.
“Ah, this is better,” said the Old Woman. “Rage and revenge are such sweet siblings. It does my heart good to feel such purity of emotion. Ironmask is heading into the Pelucid Mountains. There is a stronghold there. Be warned, though, axman, Ironmask has seventy riders with him, hard men and ruthless. At the stronghold there will be a hundred more Nadir warriors.”
“The numbers do not interest me. How far is this place?”
“Two hundred miles northwest. I shall furnish you with maps. Pelucid is an ancient realm, containing many mysteries, and many perils. There are places where all the natural laws are bent and twisted. Your journey will not be without incident.”
“Just give me the maps. I will find Ironmask.”
The Old Woman rose from her chair and slowly straightened. Taking a long staff she leaned upon it. Her breathing was harsh and caused the black veil to billow gently. “You also need to travel northwest, Olek Skilgannon. The temple you seek is in Pelucid, and close to the stronghold. It is not easily found. You will not see it by daylight. Look for the deepest fork in the western mountains, and wait until the moon floats between the crags. By its light you will find what you seek.”
“Can they accomplish what I desire?” asked Skilgannon.
“I have been there only once. I do not know all they are capable of. The priestess you will need to convince is called Ustarte. If she cannot help you, then there is no one I know of who can.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked. “What trick is there? What evil lurks behind this apparent goodwill?”
“My reasons are my own,” said the Old Woman. “You will travel with Garianne and the twins.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because it would be kind of you,” she snapped. “Jared also needs to find the temple. His brother has a cancer inside his head. I have held it at bay with herbs and potions, and even a spell or two. It is now beyond my skills.”
“And why Garianne?” asked Skilgannon.
“Because I ask it. You have reason to both hate and fear me, Olek Skilgannon. But you also owe me the life of the woman you love. If you succeed in Pelucid you will also owe me the life of the woman who loved you.”
Skilgannon sighed. “There is truth in that. Although I doubt you wish me to succeed. Be that as it may, I shall take Garianne.”
“I think she will surprise you,” said the Old Woman. “And now let me fetch you the maps.” Leaning heavily on her staff she made several steps toward an open door. Then her head turned and she stared at the silent Rabalyn. “What a handsome young man,” she said. “Can you recite the code, Rabalyn?”
“Yes, mistress,” he answered. “I think so.”
“Say it.”
Rabalyn glanced at Druss, then drew himself up. He licked his lips and took a deep breath. “Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat, or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak . . . I don’t remember the rest exactly, but it’s something like don’t allow money to make you evil.”
The Old Woman nodded. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil. The iron code of Shadak. The simplistic philosophy of Druss the Legend. And now it is yours, Rabalyn. Do you intend to live by it?”
“I do,” said Rabalyn.
“We will see.” Then she moved away.
At first Rabalyn was pleased to be outside the ruined tavern and back on open streets under a clear sky. The atmosphere inside had been sinister and more than a little frightening. When the ghastly face under the gauze veil had turned toward him Rabalyn had felt sick with dread.
Now, however, as the small group moved through the crowded streets, Rabalyn was less happy to be outside. He cast nervous glances at the hostile faces of the citizens as they passed. Skilgannon and Druss seemed unconcerned, and chatted quietly. The youth looked at Garianne. She was muttering to herself and nodding and shaking her head.
They moved on, more slowly now through the mass of people, coming at last to a wider square. Here several men were standing on the back of a wagon and addressing the crowd. The words were angry, and, every so often, the crowd would cheer loudly. The speaker was railing against the iniquities suffered by the populace, and how the rich were to blame for the shortage of food and the anguish of the citizens.
No one accosted the group, and they eased their way through, and out onto a wider avenue. Rabalyn moved alongside Skilgannon. “There is so much anger,” said the youth.
“Hunger and fear,” said Skilgannon. “It is a potent mix.”
“That man back there was saying the rights of the citizens had been taken away.”
“I heard him. A few weeks ago that same man would have been blaming foreigners for their plight. In a few months time it might be people with green eyes, or red hats. It is all a nonsense. They suffer because they are sheep in a world ruled by wolves. That is the truth of it.”
Skilgannon sounded angry, and Rabalyn fell silent. They walked on, coming at last to the gates of the Embassy Quarter. Crowds had gathered here too, and they had to force their way through to the front. The gates were locked, and beyond them stood around forty soldiers, some in the red cloaks of the Drenai, others in the thigh-length chain mail and horned helms of Vagria. Beyond the soldiers were bowmen, arrows notched. The gates were high, and tipped with iron points. On each side were high walls, but already some in the crowd had scaled them and were sitting on the top, shouting down at the soldiers.
Skilgannon tapped Druss on the shoulder. “They won’t open the gates for us,” he said. “If they did the crowd would storm them.” Druss nodded agreement, and the small group eased their way back through the mob, moving off to the side to a jetty overlooking a canal. Stone steps led down to the water’s edge. Skilgannon led them down to the water side. The angry shouting from above was more muted here, and Rabalyn sat down with his b
ack to the stone wall, and stared out over the water. In the distance he could see more ships anchored in the harbor, awaiting their turn to be unloaded.
“They are going to storm the gates,” said Garianne.
“I don’t believe they will during daylight,” Skilgannon replied. “They may be angry, but no one wants to die. They will shout and curse for a while. That is all. Tonight may be different.”
Druss stood silently by. Skilgannon approached him. “You seem deep in thought, my friend.”
“I do not like that woman.”
“Who could? She is a malevolent crone.”
“What did you make of what she said?” The older man’s eyes locked to Skilgannon’s gaze.
“Probably the same as you.”
“Say it.”
Skilgannon shrugged. “She knew too much about what your friend was seeking. How? My guess would be that Orastes went to her, seeking her help, and that she then betrayed him to this Ironmask.”
“Aye, that would be my reading also,” said Druss. “Though I cannot work out why. If she hates Ironmask, why would she deliver a potential enemy to him?”
“She is a subtle creature, Druss. She wants Ironmask dead. How better to do that than to make him an enemy of Druss the Legend?”
“There could be truth in that. However, this is a woman who once sent a demon to kill a king. I fought that demon, and, by Missael, it almost had me. Why does she not simply send another after Ironmask? She has the power.”
“The answer to that,” replied Skilgannon, “probably lies in what she did not say. Tell me about this Ironmask. She said you met him.”
“Yes, when I came here three months ago. As she said it was at a banquet. The king did not attend, and Ironmask greeted the guests. He is a big man, but he moves well. There is an arrogance in him—a physical arrogance. I’d say he was a fighting man, and a good one.”
“What was his role here?”
“He led the king’s bodyguards and also supervised the creation of the Joinings. The plan was to use them in war, but they could not tame them sufficiently. Ironmask was also the lord of some group calling themselves Arbiters. Strange bunch. Every one of them I met looked at me as if I was a demon. They have a hatred of foreigners. Diagoras thinks it ironic—since Ironmask is also a foreigner.”
“Where is he from?”
“No one seems to know. Probably Pelucid.”
“Why do they call him Ironmask?” asked Skilgannon.
“He wears a metal mask, which covers his face. Did I not mention that?”
“No.”
“It is a close-fitting and well-made piece, beautifully crafted.”
“He is disfigured then?”
“Not really. I saw him remove it at the feast. It was hot in the hall and he wiped his face with a cloth. He bore no scars. The skin on his nose and the right side of his face is discolored, dark, almost purple. Like a large birthmark. The mask is just vanity.”
“You say he supervised the creation of the Joinings. Is he a sorceror himself?” Skilgannon asked. Druss shrugged.
“No one knows. Diagoras thinks not. He says Ironmask brought a Nadir shaman to the city. From what the Old Woman said I would guess he is from a stronghold in Pelucid.”
Skilgannon turned away and gazed out over the harbor for a while. Then he swung back. “I too know little of magic, Druss, but I would think it is this shaman who prevents the Old Woman sending demons after Ironmask. A summoned demon must be paid in death. If the attack is repulsed the demon will return to the sender and take her life. If this shaman is powerful—and judging by his creation of Joinings he is—then the Old Woman dares not attack Ironmask directly with sorcery. If the shaman repulsed her spell she would die. Therefore she needs a mortal weapon.”
From above them the shouting increased. Then someone screamed. People began running down the steps to the water’s side. Others fled along the quayside. Datian soldiers in full battle garb, of breastplate and shining helms, appeared on the steps, swords in their hands. As they marched down the steps the milling city dwellers below panicked and begun to hurl themselves into the water. One man put his hands in the air. “I meant no harm,” he shouted. A short sword plunged into his belly. A second soldier slashed a blade through the man’s neck as he fell.
Several more soldiers, swords drawn, advanced on Druss and Skilgannon. Rabalyn was terrified. Then Skilgannon spoke, his voice calm, his attitude relaxed. “Is the path to the gate now open?” he asked. “We have been stuck here for an age.”
The soldiers hesitated. Skilgannon’s easy manner made them unsure. One of them spoke: “You are from one of the embassies?”
“Drenai,” said Skilgannon. “My compliments on the efficiency of your action. We thought to be waiting here all day. Come, my friends,” he said, turning to the others. “Let us go through before the mob returns.”
Rabalyn scrambled up and moved alongside Garianne. Together they followed Skilgannon and Druss. No one moved to stop them. Soldiers were still massed upon the steps. “Make way there,” called Skilgannon, climbing the steps and easing past the swordsmen.
On the square above there were bodies lying sprawled upon the stone. One moved and groaned. A soldier stepped alongside him and drove his sword through the injured man’s throat.
Skilgannon and Druss approached the gates, which were still shut. “Open up, lads!” called Druss.
And then they were through.
As they walked on Druss clapped Skilgannon on the shoulder. “I like your style, laddie. We’d have taken a few bruises if we had to fight our way through them.”
“One or two,” agreed Skilgannon.
Later that afternoon Diagoras took Druss to see Orastes’ servant, Bajin, but they learned little of consequence. Bajin was a gentle man, who had served Orastes for most of his adult life. His mind had been all but unhinged by his experiences in the Rikar Cells. Heavily sedated he had wept and trembled as Druss tried to question him. One fact did emerge. Orastes had indeed sought help from the Old Woman.
Diagoras led Druss out into the gardens of the embassy. The Drenai soldier’s head was pounding. “I’m never going to drink with you again,” he said, slumping down on a bench seat. “My mouth feels like I tried to swallow a desert.”
“Aye, you look a little fragile today,” agreed Druss, absently.
Diagoras looked up at the axman. “I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “Orastes deserved a better fate.”
“Aye, he did. One fact I have learned in my long life is that what a man deserves rarely has any bearing on what he gets. As I walked this land I saw burned-out farms, and many corpses. None of them deserved to die. Yet it will go on, as long as men like Ironmask hold sway.”
“You still intend to go after him?”
“Why would I not?”
Diagoras rose from the bench and walked to a well in the shade of a high wall. Drawing up a bucket he dipped the ladle into the water and drank deeply. Then he thrust his hands into the bucket, splashing water to his face. “Why would I not?” Ironmask had more than seventy men with him, and was heading into a stronghold friendly to him. That stronghold would be packed with Nadir fighters. There were no more terrifying foes than the Nadir. Life was cheap on the steppes and the tribesmen were raised to fight and die without question. Rarely did they take prisoners during battle, and if they did it was to torture them in ways too ghastly to contemplate. He glanced back at Druss. The axman had walked over to a red rose bush and was removing those of the flowers that were past their best. Diagoras joined him. “What are you doing?”
“Deadheading,” said Druss. “If you allow the blooms to make seed pods the bush will cease to flower.” He stepped back and examined the bush. “It has also been badly pruned. You need a better gardener here.”
“So, what is your plan, old horse?” asked Diagoras.
Druss walked across to a second bush, a yellow rose, and repeated the deadheading maneuver, nipping off the faded blooms with thumb an
d forefinger. “I shall find Ironmask and kill him.”
“That is not a plan, that is an intent.”
Druss shrugged. “I never was much for planning.”
“Then it is just as well I’ll be traveling with you. I am famous for my planning skills. Diagoras the Planner they called me at school.”
Druss stepped back from the rose bush. “You don’t need to come, laddie. We are no longer searching for Orastes.”
“There is still the child, Elanin. She will need to be taken back to Purdol.”
Druss ran a hand through his black and silver beard. “You are right. But I think you are a fool to volunteer for such an enterprise.”
“I am also famous for my foolish ways,” Diagoras told him. “Which I expect is why they didn’t make me a general. I think they were wrong. I would look spectacularly fine in the embossed breastplate and white cloak of a Gan. Will the Damned be traveling with us?”
“Part of the way. He has no score to settle with Ironmask.”
“The man makes me uncomfortable.”
“Of course he does,” said Druss, with a smile. “You and he are warriors. There is something in you that yearns to test yourself against him.”
“I guess that is true. Is it the same for him, do you think?”
“No, laddie. He no longer needs to test himself against anyone. He knows who he is, and what he is capable of. You are a fine, brave fighter, Diagoras. But Skilgannon is deadly.”
Diagoras felt a flicker of irritation, but suppressed it. Druss always spoke the truth as he saw it, no matter what the consequences. He looked at the older man and grinned as his natural good humor returned. “You never mix honey with the medicine, do you Druss?”
“No.”
“Not even velvet lies?”
“I don’t know what they are.”
“A woman asks you what you think of her new dress. You look at her and think: “It makes you look fat and dowdy.” Do you say it? Or do you find a velvet lie, like . . . “What a fine color it is,” or “you look wonderful”?
“I will not lie. I would say I did not like the dress. Not that any woman has ever asked me about how she looks.”