“I am not the man for this task, Ustarte.”
“No, you are not. And you may fail, Olek. But you are the only one I can use.”
“Take me to her,” he said.
Skilgannon found himself standing before an immense thicket of thorns. He felt disoriented. The sky above shifted and swam with swirling colors, clouds of purple and green, shot with lightning streaks of yellow and crimson. The ground below his feet writhed with long roots, squirming up from the earth like questing snakes.
Moving back from the thorns he sought out firmer ground. Ustarte had told him that the world he now inhabited was entirely the creation of the eight-year-old Elanin. It existed only in the depths of her subconscious. “It is her last defense against the horrors of the real world,” the priestess had said.
“What can I do there?”
“You have no ability to change her world. Everything you do must be consistent with the world she has created. If there is a stream you can drink from it or bathe in it. If there is a lion you can run from it or battle it. I cannot help you there, Olek. If you cannot find her, or you are in danger, merely speak my name and I will draw you clear.”
Moving back from the writhing roots, he stared at the forest of thorns. He felt the weight of his swords upon his back and considered cutting his way through. It seemed the most logical course. Yet, he did not.
Instead he looked around, and saw an area of flat stone. He walked to this and sat down, staring at the thorns. Some of the limbs of the forest were as thick as a man’s thigh, the thorns sprouting from them long and curved like Panthian daggers. He looked more closely. In fact, they were daggers.
This was a quandary. The child had created the thorn barrier as a defense. Were he to slash and cut at them he would be attacking her, causing her even more fear. She needed to believe in her strength. Swinging the scabbard from his back, he laid it down on the stone. Then he removed his fringed jerkin and his shirt. Leaving the weapons behind, he carefully picked his way through the writhing roots until he reached the first of the thorn limbs. These too were moving.
“I am a friend, Elanin,” he said, aloud. “I need to speak with you.”
A wind picked up. The thorns swayed and slashed. “I am coming through the thorns,” he said.
With great care he eased himself past the first of the limbs. A thorn dagger slashed across the top of his shoulder, the wound burning like fire. “You are hurting me, Elanin,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “My name is Brother Lantern. I am priest from Skepthia. I mean you no harm.”
Pushing further into the thorns he struggled to stay calm. A dagger sliced across his thigh. Another embedded itself in his forearm. “I have come to help you. Please do not hurt me.”
Gripping the dagger thorn in his arm, he pried it loose and moved on. Pain roared through him, igniting his anger. Fighting to hold it back, he stepped over a low limb. Searing agony shot through his back. Looking down he saw a long dagger thorn protruding from his belly. Panic touched him. This was a death wound. He was about to utter the name of Ustarte when he saw that the deep gouge on his arm had disappeared now. “Please take this thorn from me, Elanin,” he said. “It hurts greatly.”
The dagger was ripped from him. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. Looking up he saw a narrow pathway between the thorns. Touching his fingers to his belly, he found no blood, nor any sign of a wound. Pushing himself to his feet, he moved down the winding path. A savage roar made the ground tremble beneath his feet. He walked on.
The thorn wall ended. Before him was a clearing. At its center stood a huge bear with slavering fangs. Skilgannon stepped to meet it—and saw that he once more held his swords in his hands.
“No!” he shouted, hurling them from him. “I don’t want them!”
The beast charged. Skilgannon instinctively dived to his right, rolling on his shoulder and coming smoothly to his feet. “I will not hurt you, Elanin,” he shouted. “I am here to help.”
The beast reared and moved toward him. Skilgannon stood very still. “I have come with Uncle Druss to find you,” he said, scanning the undergrowth for signs of the child.
The bear loomed above him, and he looked up into its huge brown eyes.
“Where is Uncle Druss?” it asked, with the voice of a small girl.
“He is coming to the citadel.”
“Does he have an army?”
“No. I am with him. And Diagoras and Garianne. Two friends of Uncle Druss.”
The bear sat down. Its shape shimmered and changed. The ground shifted. Walls reared up around the clearing. Within moments Skilgannon found himself sitting in a high room, with a wide window overlooking the sea. It was a child’s room, full of toys and books. On the bed by the window sat a blond girl, with large, blue eyes. “Hello, Elanin,” he said.
“Where is my father?” she asked. “I cannot find him.”
Skilgannon sighed. “May I sit with you?” he asked.
“You can sit in the chair.”
He did as she bid. “I am Brother Lantern,” he said. “I am . . . I was . . . a priest. I am also called Skilgannon. I do not know your father. I have never met him. Uncle Druss tells me he is a fine man.”
“They killed him, didn’t they? They killed Father. Ironmask told me. He said they turned him into a wolf and he was killed in the Arena.”
“Ironmask is an evil man. But you must be strong. We will come for you.”
“He wants to kill me too. But he won’t find me here.”
“No, he won’t.”
The little girl looked into Skilgannon’s eyes. “If you haven’t got an army you won’t win. There are lots of soldiers with Ironmask. Big men with big swords. More than a hundred. I saw them from my window.”
“I have seen them too. It will be difficult. Tell me, little one, do you know the way back to the citadel?”
“I’m not going there! You can’t make me!” The room shimmered, thorn limbs sprouting from the walls.
“No one is going to make you do anything,” he said, swiftly. “Is that the harbor outside? Do you have a boat there? I have always liked boats.” The thorns withdrew. Elanin rose from the bed and walked to the window.
“Father doesn’t like boats. They make him feel sick.”
“I sometimes feel sick in boats. But I still like them.” He knelt down in front of her. “When we come to rescue you in the citadel we need to be able to call you home. We need . . . a secret password so you know it is safe.”
“I am not coming home. Father isn’t there. I shall stay here.”
“That is one plan,” he agreed. “I think it will make Uncle Druss sad.”
“Then he can come here.”
“And what of your friends back in Dros Purdol? They can’t come here. This is your special place. I only came because I have a special friend who showed me the way.”
“Ironmask killed Mother too. He cut her up.” Tears welled in the child’s eyes. Instinctively Skilgannon reached out and drew her in to a hug. He stroked her hair and patted her back.
“I cannot bring her back,” said Skilgannon. “I cannot take away your suffering. But you are strong. You are a very brave girl. You will make your own decisions. Let us agree on a password. You can then decide whether to stay here, or come back to Uncle Druss and me.”
“I think you should go now,” she said. “It is getting late.”
The room spun. Skilgannon was flung through the air, in total darkness. He landed heavily on the ground—just in front of the thorn forest.
“I will see you soon, Elanin,” he called. Then he whispered the name of Ustarte.
Skilgannon opened his eyes. Ustarte was standing by the balcony’s edge, looking at him intently. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Weary.”
“Drink a little of our water. It will revive you.” The sun was shining brightly, and a cool breeze flowed across the balcony. Skilgannon filled a crystal goblet and drained it. His limbs felt leaden, as if he had run a great distanc
e.
“You suffered much,” said Ustarte. “I will be honest, you have surprised me, warrior. You almost died in there.”
“You warned me it could be dangerous.” Strength was seeping back into his limbs.
“That is not what surprised me. Even Druss, I think, would have taken his ax to that thorn thicket. He would certainly have fought the bear.”
“It doesn’t matter. I failed. She is too terrified to come out.”
“You have planted a seed. You could do no more. You should rest for a while.”
“Not yet,” said Skilgannon. “Can you take me to the citadel once more? I need to see exactly how many soldiers there are, and what their duties are.”
“I can tell you the numbers.”
“With respect, lady, I need to see for myself. Four warriors cannot attack the citadel. If we merely needed to enter and kill Ironmask we could do it. However, I have now seen the child, and the most important duty we have is to rescue her, to bring her safely home. If that is to be even remotely possible I need to know the movements of their troops, their methods, and their duties. I need to understand their loyalties. Do they fight for love of Boranius, or for plunder? Everything is against us at this moment. Had we arrived in secret we might have spirited the child away, and then returned for Boranius. But we are not arriving in secret. He knows we are coming. And I know Boranius. He is not a fool. From what I saw of the citadel there are only four approaches. He will have scouts out, watching for us. Once we are seen on the open road he will send riders to intercept us. Even with twenty Druss the Legends we would be overcome, by arrows and spears, if not by swords.” He looked up at her. “So I ask again that you take me back.”
“Would it make a difference to your plans if I told you that you cannot win, Olek?”
“No,” he said, simply.
“And why is that?”
“Not an easy question to answer, lady, and I am too weary to debate it.”
“Then I shall take you back to the citadel, Olek. Close your eyes.”
19
* * *
Morcha sat outside the bedroom. The groans of pain were easing now as the surgeon applied narcotic salves to Boranius’s ruined face. The burns were severe, and yet strangely had only affected the discolored skin. The rest of his face and his eyes were completely untouched. After a while the surgeon Morcha had brought from the market town emerged from the bedroom. “He is sleeping now,” he said. “I have never seen a wound like it.”
“Nor I,” said Morcha. The sandy-haired officer rose from his seat. “I thank you for coming,” he said. The surgeon, a thin-faced man with rounded shoulders looked at him curiously. Morcha felt embarrassed suddenly. The man had had no choice. When Ironmask issued a command you either obeyed or died. Sometimes you did both.
“I will need a room close by. When he awakes the pain will return. I need to be here.”
“Of course,” said Morcha.
“I am amazed his sight is not affected. There are no burns to the skin around the eyes. How did this accident occur?”
“I was not present, sir. The Nadir was burned to ashes. Not a bone remained. My lord was mutilated as you saw. Some of the men heard screams from the Roof Hall and ran to the room. The door was barred. They heard voices from within—one of them a woman’s. When they finally broke in the woman was gone.”
“Were there other exits?”
“No.”
The surgeon shivered. “I need to know no more about this,” he said, making the sign of the Protective Horn. “Show me where I may sleep.”
Morcha took him to a small room on the ground floor. “I shall send you some food and drink,” he said. “I hope you will be comfortable.” Once again the surgeon looked at him strangely.
“If you don’t mind me asking, young man, how is it that you are here?”
“I do mind you asking,” said Morcha, giving a short bow and leaving the surgeon.
As he walked out into the night the question continued to burn in his mind. He strolled across the open ground, then wandered past the warehouses and storage areas, coming at last to the low barracks which housed the soldiers who still followed Boranius. Alongside the barracks was the Long Tavern, where the men relaxed at day’s end. The sounds from within were raucous. Morcha did not feel like joining them. He walked on, coming to the now near-deserted Nadir area. The death of Nygor had been seen by most of the warriors as an evil omen—especially coming so soon after the killing of the men sent after Deathwalker. Of the sixty Nadir warriors who had inhabited this section only four scouts now remained. The rest had saddled their ponies and ridden off toward the north.
Morcha made his way to the outer defensive wall and climbed to the ramparts. He found the two sentries on this section in deep conversation. One of them saw him and leapt to his feet. The other merely stared at Morcha and remained where he was. “There are still enemies out there,” said Morcha. “We need to be alert.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the standing soldier. “We were just talking about the attack on Ironmask.”
“And the fact that we’re all out of luck,” said the second. “We should be quitting this place, Morcha. If we don’t we’ll die here.”
“There are merely a handful of warriors out there, Codis. Druss may be a legend, but even he cannot defeat us all.”
“No, he can’t,” agreed the man, rising to his feet. “But what next? A few years back we were soldiers of the king. Shemak’s balls, man, we were the elite. Then we lost, and barely got out with our lives. What have we been since then? Truth to tell, Morcha, I wish you had never come to me and said Boranius was still alive. I wish with all my heart that I’d stayed quietly in Dospilis. Not one of the promises has been met.”
Morcha sat down on the crenellated battlement. “You weren’t saying that, Codis, while we were gathering riches in Mellicane.”
“Does this look like Mellicane to you?” sneered Codis. “This is a crumbling ruin. What is the point of having sentries on the walls, when there are at least ten full breaches, and other areas where a man could just walk in unobserved? We have trees which come almost to the edge of the walls. When the enemy get here they will just walk in. We’ll see them only when the blood-letting starts. I say we take off and head into the hills. We can plunder a few caravans, make some money, and then strike east toward Sherak. They are hiring mercenaries. We could do well there.”
“Aye, we could. Perhaps you would like to put that view to Boranius?”
“Perhaps we all should,” said Codis. “Perhaps we should go to him now and put him out of his misery.” Codis fell silent, and the words hung in the air. He looked into Morcha’s eyes. “He’s never going to win back power, Morcha. He had a chance in Mellicane, but not now. What are we? A band of robbers. Sooner rather than later the Datians will come for us. We used to be part of an army of thousands. Now there are seventy of us. We’re out of gold, out of opportunities, and out of luck.”
“Luck can change,” said Morcha.
“Aye, it can. For us though its likely to move from bad to worse. I spoke to the three Nadir who survived the attack on Druss. Have you heard?”
“I heard they were massacred.”
Codis suddenly chuckled. “Ah yes, you’ve been in the north. You haven’t heard the best news then?”
“Just tell me.”
“Well, the Nadir made camp the night before the attack. A lone swordsman walked in, killed a bunch of them, then rode out on one of their ponies. The swordsman had two curved blades, with white ivory hilts. One of the Nadir recalled he had a tattoo of a spider on his forearm.”
“So?”
“So?” echoed Codis. “Who do you think that is likely to be? We’re not just facing Druss the Legend. Skilgannon is coming.” He stared intently at Morcha, then his expression hardened. “You knew. You damned well knew!”
“He is one man. As you said yourself, we are seventy.”
“Oh yes, one man! If he was to walk in here now
how many of us would he take down before we stopped him? Five? Ten? I don’t want to be one of those ten.”
“You won’t be, Codis,” said Morcha, with a smile. Easing himself off the battlements, he suddenly laughed. “I can guarantee that.”
“Oh yes, and how exac—” Codis grunted. His knees buckled. Morcha powered the dagger further into Codis’s chest. The soldier sagged against his killer. Morcha stepped back. Codis fell face first to the stone. The other soldier stood by silently. Morcha rolled the body to its back and retrieved his dagger.
“Keep watch,” said Morcha. “I’ll send another sentry to join you. Best you don’t fall into conversation again.”
“I won’t, sir.”
“I believe you.”
Morcha wiped his dagger clean on the dead man’s tunic, then sheathed it. Descending the rampart steps, he walked back to the tavern, where he located an officer and ordered him to send some men to retrieve Codis’s body.
Then he returned to the citadel. Remembering the surgeon, he ordered one of the cooks to take the man some food, and sat alone in the deserted dining hall. The cook returned after a while and brought Morcha a tankard of cold beer. Morcha thanked the man.
His mind flowed back over the years, recalling the day that he and Casensis had followed the youth, Skilgannon. He still remembered fondly the time at the bathhouse. How neatly the boy had fooled them, and how priceless had been the disguise the princess had adopted. The whole city had been searching for Jianna, and there she was, dressed as a whore, and standing before two of the men charged with capturing her. Morcha smiled at the memory.
How cool the young Skilgannon had been. Morcha admired him. More than that he had liked him. He had even been secretly pleased when the lad escaped the city with the girl. With luck they would have kept on moving, and drifted out of the pages of history. But no. The rebellion had begun. Boranius had been delighted. The prospect of battles and glory had thrilled him. Thoughts of defeat had entered no one’s head. The forces of the princess had been small, offering mere pinpricks and irritation to Bokram. A few outlying forts were taken, a few caravans seized. The attacks were hit-and-run and small in scale. The first year had seen little more than bee stings against the body of Bokram’s army. The second year much the same. Then two more tribal leaders had joined Jianna’s army. They had blocked the high passes in the west of Naashan, effectively liberating a region containing two cities and a score of silver mines. Looking back, that was the beginning of the end for Bokram. Though none of us saw it at the time, recalled Morcha.