‘Where did you come from?’ asked the second man.
‘From Hell, laddie. Let’s look at your wound.’ The soldier had taken a heavy hit on the lower leg, which was broken. ‘You’ll live,’ said Druss. ‘Your friend might not. Depends how tough he is.’ He stared hard at the young soldier with the chest wound. ‘Are you tough, laddie?’
‘Damn right,’ said the man, gritting his teeth against the pain. Druss grinned.
‘I believe you. Normally when I hit a man that hard, the axe cleaves all the way to the backbone. You were lucky. Caught me on a poor day.’
Stavut gazed around the battle site. There were hundreds of fallen guardsmen, and the road was slick with blood.
And noon was still hours away.
Skilgannon struggled to rise. The old priest knelt by his side. ‘Do not move, my son. Conserve your strength. Hold on to life and I will help you as best I can.’ Skilgannon felt liquid in his throat, choking him.
He coughed and sprayed blood to the floor. The priest drew the golden chain from round his neck.
Turning Skilgannon onto his back he placed the black and white crystal on the bleeding wound. ‘Lie still; let its power work.’
Breathing was becoming difficult, and Skilgannon’s vision swam. His hands and feet grew cold, and he knew death was close. Then a gentle warmth began in his chest, and slowly flowed through his body. His palpitating heart grew more rhythmic in its beat.
He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and cursed himself for a fool. Askari never travelled without her bow, and the few arrows in her quiver would have meant nothing to the Legend Riders. Feeling stronger he placed his hand over the crystal and sat up. His shirt was ripped, and he pulled it open. Smearing away the blood he found no wound below it. He turned to the priest. ‘My thanks to you. .’ he began.
Then he stopped. The old man was sitting on the floor with his back against the desk. His face was waxen, his breathing ragged. Skilgannon moved to his side, holding out the crystal. Then he saw that it no longer glittered, and was instead merely a lump of black stone.
‘The Moon has been growing weaker,’ said the old priest, his voice a dry whisper. ‘It is because I have not taken it to the shrine to pray. It always gleamed when I did that.’
‘You allowed me to take all its power,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Why?’
‘To pay a debt. I am the oldest of the brethren, Skilgannon. The last of them. You look at me now and you see a twisted ancient. I looked different when you rescued me from the Nadir. I was young then, and full of idealism. Did you keep in touch with little Dayan?’
‘No.’
‘A sweet girl. She wed a young man and went to live in Virinis. I visited her there several times. She had seven children. Her life was happy, and she gave joy to all who knew her. She was over eighty when she died. A full life, I think.’
‘That is good to know.’
‘Do not let the evil one desecrate the shrine.’
‘Her evil will end today. I promise you that.’
Skilgannon rose, drew the Swords of Night and Day, and walked from the room.
Outside the sun was beginning to set.
Chapter Twenty-One
It took several hours for columns of unarmed men to climb the high road, and carry away the Guard dead and wounded. Stavut walked back to the poolside, where a number of the veterans were trying to staunch the wounds of the Drenai injured. Many of the older riders carried needle and thread, but so great were the numbers of wounded that many were unattended. Stavut removed his hauberk and helm, casting aside his sabre. He moved to a young man who was trying vainly to stitch a wound in his own side. The cut extended over his hip and round to his back. Stavut ordered the man to lie down, and then took the needle from his hand. ‘The chain mail parted,’ said the soldier.
‘Lie still.’
‘It was made for my great-grandfather. Some of the rings were badly worn.’
‘There’ll be plenty of mail to choose from after today,’ Stavut told him, glancing across to the pile of hauberks that had been removed from the dead, and stacked against the cliff wall. Stavut drew the last flaps of flesh together, drawing the thread tight, and then knotting it. Taking the man’s knife from his belt he cut the excess thread clear. The rider’s face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his face.
‘My thanks to you, Stavut,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt of pain.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find a new hauberk.’ The man staggered off. Stavut saw him sifting through the discarded armour.
Stavut moved on to the next wounded man, only to find that he had bled to death. A number of the injured had broken arms, or legs. Several Drenai soldiers brought enemy shields back to the poolside, and began breaking them up to make splints. Even as he stitched wounds and offered comfort to the bleeding men Stavut found himself wondering why. The beasts were coming, and there was no way they could be turned back. All this effort was a waste of energy. Every man here would be killed when the end came. Yet around him he could hear wounded men making jokes, and chatting to one another.
He worked on. Druss came by to talk to the wounded, then stripped off his armour and waded into the pool, washing the blood from his face and body.
Druss.
Stavut no longer thought of him as Harad. How could he? What he had seen today had been awesome. The axeman had stood like a great rock against an onrushing sea. The immovable against the unstoppable. Druss emerged from the pool and sat in the sunshine for a while. Then, once dry, he pulled on his clothing and hauberk. There was still blood upon his face. The water had washed away the forming scabs. Stavut walked over to him. ‘I’ll stitch those cuts,’ he said.
‘Just the one above the eye,’ said Druss. ‘It was damned annoying trying to fight and blink away the blood.’
‘What will happen to Harad?’ asked Stavut.
‘Do not fret, laddie. When this day is done he will return. I am not a thief.’
‘I didn’t think you were. Not for a heartbeat,’ said Stavut, with a smile.
‘He didn’t have the experience to survive this — especially not with a cracked skull.’
Stavut suddenly laughed. ‘You really still think we are going to win?’
Druss looked at him. ‘Winning is not everything, Stavut. Men like to think it is. Sometimes it is more important to stand against evil than to worry about beating it. When I was a young man, serving with Gorben’s Immortals, we took a city. Its ruler was a vile man. I heard a story there. His soldiers had rounded up a group of Source priests, and they decided to burn them all. One citizen stepped out from the crowd and spoke against the deed. He told them that what they were doing was evil, and that they should be ashamed of themselves.’
‘And did he save the priests?’
‘No. And they killed him too. But that’s what I am saying, laddie. I remember that man’s deed and it inspired me. Others who saw it would have been inspired too. Evil will always have the worst weapons.
Evil will gather the greatest armies. They will burn, and plunder and kill. But that’s not the worst of it.
They will try to make us believe that the only way of destroying them is by becoming like them. That is the true vileness of evil. It is contagious. That one man reminded me of that, and helped me keep to the code.’