Surely all danger would be over now? It was an inviting thought. Charis gazed down at the sleeping man.
He is old and blind, she told herself. What can he do without help? How will he find Harad and the tattooed man? The beast will do it for him, argued an insistent voice in her mind. He said they were friends once. Leave him. Save yourself!
The thought was more than tempting. It was right!
Slowly she rose, so as not to disturb him. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, and in its harsh light she saw the frailty of the sleeping man. His eyes were sunken, his face seamed with wrinkles so deep they appeared as scars.
He will die out here without me, she realized, with cold certainty.
In the near distance she could hear the sound of running water. Another thought came to her then, and she quietly slipped away from the campsite. The stream was close by, bubbling over rocks, and tiny waterfalls. Slowly she followed its path until she came to a wider pool, some thirty feet across. She sat by it for a while, then stood and removed all her clothes. Shivering, she stepped into the water and carefully waded out towards a deeper section, surrounded by rocks. Then she stood, statue still, her hands beneath the surface. After a while she saw the sleek form of a fish swim by, then another. Charis did not move. For what seemed an age no fish swam close enough. But then a long, fat fish glided over her hands. In a flash Charis swept it up and hurled it out onto the bank, where it flopped and twisted. Then she froze once more, waiting patiently. She failed in several more attempts, then succeeded, landing a second large fish. After several hours, her teeth chattering with the cold, she waded back to the bank.
Drying herself with her shirt she climbed into her long green skirt and threw her cloak around her shoulders. There were six fat fish on the bank. Charis smiled. Her father — who had taught her this technique when she was a child — would have been proud of her skill. Using her shirt as a makeshift pack, she carried the fish back to the campsite. Gamal and the beast were still sleeping. Charis lay down alongside the old man and slept dreamlessly.
She awoke with the dawn. Gamal slept on. She glanced at the beast, who began to stir. It rolled to its feet, sniffing the air. Charis took a calming breath and rose.
‘I have food for you, Longbear,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘Do you eat fish?’
‘Fish good,’ said Longbear, his nostrils quivering.
Putting two fish aside, she carried the others over to him and laid them on the ground. Longbear stared at her, but she avoided his eyes.
‘How you catch fish?’ he asked.
‘With my hands. My father taught me.’
He said no more, but squatted down, lifted a fish and tore a huge chunk from it.
‘Be careful of the bones,’ she said, and walked back to where Gamal lay. From her pack she took a small tinderbox, then began to set a fire.
Chapter Ten
Skilgannon paused on the hilltop above the village, and gazed down at the people working below. He could see Harad on a rooftop, stripping away burned timbers. All around the settlement there was bustle and activity, as the survivors sought to repair the damage caused by the raid. They had buried the bodies of their neighbours, and were now seeking to restore some semblance of normality to their community.
Skilgannon admired them for it, even as he admitted that it was futile — although utterly human — to struggle against the inevitable. More raiders would come. The enemy would send more troops to capture Askari.
The settlement would burn again, and more deaths would follow. Skilgannon had tried to explain this to the wounded Kinyon.
‘What else can we do but rebuild?’ Kinyon had asked. ‘These are our homes.’
Leaving them to their work, Skilgannon had scouted to the south, seeking signs of fresh invasion. He had found nothing. It would take time before whoever sent the raiders realized something had gone wrong. How long? A day? Two days? Then they would come again, with a larger force. It filled Skilgannon with both anger and sadness.
Landis Kan had told him the world had changed beyond anything Skilgannon could imagine. What nonsense that was.
There was no change. True, there were more Joinings now, but the world of man was as it always had been. Violent and cruel. Greed and a lust for power dominated all endeavours. His thoughts swung to Askari. Cool and courageous, she had fought to protect young Stavut from the beasts. At her age Jianna would have done the same. How, Skilgannon wondered, could such natural heroism have become so perverted? Jianna had evolved into the Witch Queen, a terrible, cold and malicious woman who casually ordered the deaths of thousands. Sitting on the hilltop he pondered the question. In order to regain her throne Jianna had been forced to fight, to gather armies and conquer enemies. At first she had been magnanimous in victory, offering the defeated a chance to join her. Skilgannon remembered a young prince who had accepted this offer, but then had betrayed her, pulling his men from the battlefield to join the forces of Boranius. Some months later he had been captured, with his family, trying to escape into Tantria.
Skilgannon had not been present at the execution. He was fighting in the east. But when he returned he heard what had happened. Jianna had gathered her army and addressed them. Then the traitor and his family had been brought out before them. She had his five children killed first, then his two wives. Lastly she had approached the grief-stricken prince. ‘Such is the price of treachery,’ she told him. ‘Now join your family.’ With that she had cut his throat.
Once back with the main army he had gone to her, unable to believe she had ordered children murdered.
‘It weighs heavily on me, Olek,’ she had said. ‘Yet it was necessary. Seven innocents died. Their deaths will ensure such treachery does not occur again. In this war men must be made to realize the consequences that will follow if they betray me.’
Yes, he thought, that was the beginning. After that more such executions followed, until, by the end, the population of an entire city was annihilated. On that day he became the Damned, for it was his men, under his orders, who carried out the slaughter.
He remembered a conversation with the seeress, Ustarte. ‘We all of us carry the seed of evil in our hearts and souls,’ she told him. ‘Even the purest, even the most holy. It is part of the human condition, born into us. We cannot root it out. All we can do — at best — is prevent it from germinating.’
‘And how do we do this?’ he had asked her.
‘We give it no sustenance. The seed will flower if it is fed on hatred, or malice. It sprouts like a cancer within the dark places of the soul.’
‘And what if we have already fed it? Is it then too late for us?’
‘It is never too late, Olek. You have already begun to prune it back, to starve it. Jianna never will, I fear.’
He had felt his heart grow heavy. ‘There is so much good in her, you know? She could be kind and loyal and courageous.’
‘And monstrous, murderous and chilling,’ she added. ‘It is the curse of absolute power, Olek. There is no-one to admonish you, no laws save those you make. We like to believe there is something special, even alien, about evil. We like to think that tyrants are different from the rest of us. That they are somehow inhuman. They are not. They are merely unchained, unfettered; free to do as they please. How often does an ordinary person grow angry at a neighbour, and, for a moment only, consider causing them harm? It happens all the time. What stops them from carrying out an attack? Usually it is fear of repercussion, punishment or imprisonment. What repercussions does Jianna face for her evils? None.