He wanted nothing more than to get inside the cottage and warm himself by the fire.
Backing down the alley he ran through Market Street, cutting through the smith’s yard. Searching around he found a foot-long rod of rust-speckled iron in a pile of discarded metal. Hefting it he crept on, climbing a low wall and emerging between two lines of houses. From here he could see two young men crouched behind the miller’s wagon. One was indeed Bron. The other was Cadras, whose father worked for Todhe’s family as a general servant. Cadras was a decent enough lad, neither malicious nor vengeful. But he was malleable and followed Todhe’s lead in everything. Rabalyn waited. After a while Bron ducked down and crept back to the hedge outside Aunt Athyla’s cottage. Rabalyn saw Todhe emerge and haul Bron down. The iron rod felt heavy in Rabalyn’s hand. It was comforting to be armed, and yet he did not want to use the weapon.
Todhe’s father, Raseev, virtually ran the council and any harm to his son would be swiftly, and harshly, punished.
Rabalyn decided to outwait them.
Which might have worked had a fourth youth not crept up behind Rabalyn and leapt upon him, pinning his arms.
‘He’s over here!’ shouted the youth. Rabalyn recognized the voice as that of Archas, Bron’s older brother. Rabalyn leaned forward, then threw his head back into Archas’s face. The hold round his chest loosened. Rabalyn squirmed clear, then spun and hit Archas across the cheek with the iron rod. The youth was thrown from his feet.
Rabalyn could hear the others pelting towards him. He should have run, but his blood was up now, and a raging fury swept through him. With a cry he leapt to meet them. The iron rod cracked against Bron’s skull, causing the youth to stumble. Rabalyn ducked to his right and swung the rod again — this time at Todhe. The big youth threw up his arm to protect his head. The rod hammered against the upraised limb causing Todhe to scream in pain. A fist struck Rabalyn in the back. He stumbled and swung towards the new assailant. It was Cadras. Rabalyn hit him in the belly, then leapt in and head-butted him. Cadras cried out and fell. Rabalyn backed away from them, holding the rod high. Todhe was already running away. Bron had struggled to a sitting position and was looking dazed.
Suddenly he leaned forward and vomited. Cadras pushed himself to his knees and put a hand to his smashed nose. Blood was running over his mouth and chin. Rabalyn stood looking at them both. Beyond the injured pair Archas was lying unconscious. Dropping the iron rod Rabalyn moved to where the youth lay on his face. Gently turning him he was relieved to hear Archas groan. ‘Lie still,’ said Rabalyn. ‘Gather your wits.’
There was blood on Archas’s face, and a huge lump over his left eye.
‘I feel sick,’ said Archas.
‘Best you sit up,’ said Rabalyn, helping the youth to the wall. Bron struggled over, then slumped down beside his brother. Neither of the young men spoke and Rabalyn left them there.
He had tackled four attackers and defeated them. He should have felt uplifted and empowered. Instead his heart was heavy, and fear of retribution clung to him.
Skilgannon made his way to the high battlements, and felt a moment of irritation when he saw that he was not alone. Brother Naslyn was already there, leaning on the crenellated wall. He was a big man, wide-shouldered and powerful. Turning, he saw Skilgannon and nodded a greeting. ‘A fine night, Brother Lantern,’ he said.
‘What brings you to the old tower?’ asked Skilgannon.
‘I wanted to think.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your thoughts.’ Skilgannon turned away.
‘No, do not leave, Brother. I was hoping you would come. I have seen you here exercising. I know some of the moves. We practised them in the Immortals.’
Skilgannon looked at the man. It was not hard to imagine him in the black and silver armour of the Emperor’s elite regiment. Invincible in battle, they had carried Gorben to victory after victory for decades. They had been disbanded after the defeat at Skein. ‘Were you there?’ asked Skilgannon. Such was the awesome reputation of that dreadful battle, and its aftermath, that the question could have referred to nothing else.
‘Aye. I was there.’ He shook his head. ‘The world ended,’ he said, at last.
Naslyn was a quiet, solitary man. He needed to talk now, but only in his own time. Skilgannon began to stretch, easing the muscles of his shoulders and back. Naslyn joined him, and together they quietly moved through the familiar routines of the Shooting Bow, the Locust, the Peacock and the Crow. It had been some time since Naslyn last practised the moves, and it took him a while to rediscover his balance. Then they faced one another, bowed, and began to shadow fight, spinning and leaping, hands and feet lancing out, the blows landing on target areas lightly. Skilgannon was faster than the heavier man, but Naslyn moved well for a while until fatigue overtook him. At the last he stepped back, and bowed once more.
Sweat covered his face and dripped from his short black beard. They stretched once more, then sat quietly on the battlements.
‘I still dream of it,’ said Naslyn, after a while. ‘It was one of those impossible moments where, when you replay it in your mind, you are convinced the outcome will be different.’ He turned towards Skilgannon.
‘We couldn’t lose, Lantern. We were the best. Not only that but we outnumbered the enemy ten — perhaps twenty to one. There was no way they could stand against us. No way.’
‘The Drenai are fine warriors, they say.’
‘Aye, they are,’ snapped Naslyn. ‘But that’s not why they won. Three men were responsible for our downfall that day. And the odds against what happened are so enormous they are incalculable. The first was Gorben, bless him. I loved that man — even though the madness was on him at the end. We had taken losses in the eastern battles and he promoted fresh recruits to our ranks. One of these was a young soldier named Eericetes — may his soul be cursed to wander for eternity, the coward.’ He fell silent and stared out at the silhouetted mountains.
‘Who was the third?’ asked Skilgannon, though he knew the answer.
‘The Silver Slayer. Druss. They call him Druss the Legend now. Man, but he earned it that day. We struck their line like the hammer of Heaven. It buckled and damn near broke. And then just as victory was in our grasp.
..’ Naslyn shook his head in remembered disbelief ‘.. Druss charged. One man, Lantern. One man with an axe. It was the pivotal moment. He was unstoppable. The axe blade clove into our ranks and men fell. He couldn’t have stood for long. No one man could. But then the coward Eericetes threw down his shield and ran. Around him other new recruits panicked and did the same. Within a dozen heartbeats the line broke and we were all retreating. Unbelievable. We were the Immortals, Lantern. We didn’t run. The shame of it burns like fire in my heart.’
Skilgannon was intrigued. Tales of Druss the Legend had abounded in Naashan, ever since the death of the champion Michanek. ‘What was he like? Is he a giant?’
‘No taller than me,’ said Naslyn, ‘but more heavily built. It wasn’t his size, though. It was the sheer power he radiated. Him and that damned axe.’
‘They say he fought alongside the Immortals years ago,’ said Skilgannon.
‘Before my time, but there were some who remembered him. They told incredible tales of his skill. I didn’t believe them then. I do now. The retreat was awful. Gorben went totally mad and demanded his generals kill themselves for the dishonour. Instead they killed him. Ventria was finished then. And look at us now, tearing ourselves apart.’
‘Why did you become a priest?’