Diagoras had listened as Skilgannon outlined his plan. It was a good plan — if you were talking of it theoretically. It was a dreadful plan if you actually had to carry it out. There was no way they could accomplish what was required and escape unscathed. Diagoras gazed at the others. Jared and Nian were sitting apart from the rest. Nian’s head was causing him pain, and Jared had given him some powder, and was sitting alongside his brother, his arm round his shoulder. Garianne was lying down, apparently asleep, and Druss and Skilgannon were talking in low voices. Diagoras stared at the huge, grey beast crouched down at Druss’s side. He kept trying to tell himself that this was Orastes, but it was almost impossible to hold on to this thought. Fat Orastes was a jolly and timid fellow, the butt of many jokes when they had soldiered together. He never seemed to take offence. This massive beast, with its slavering jaws and its coldly glittering, golden eyes, made Diagoras’s blood run cold. It amazed him that Druss could be so calm around it. Diagoras believed that at any moment it might rend and rip at them.
Returning his gaze to the Citadel he shuddered. I might be looking at my tomb, he thought. A rider emerged through the gateway. Diagoras ducked further back into the trees. The horseman galloped past the stand of trees, heading back towards Khalid Khan’s mountains.
One less, thought Diagoras, trying to force himself to be cheerful. You survived Skein, he reminded himself. Surely this can’t be any worse. No, of course it can’t. All you have to do is walk into an enemy fortress, and defend the Citadel entrance against around seventy swordsmen. Diagoras glanced across at the brothers. Nian had said he would sooner die than live as a simpleton. Now Jared was aiming to grant him that wish. They weren’t here to rescue Elanin. They were here to die together.
Dusk was less than an hour away.
Diagoras strolled over to where Skilgannon and Druss were talking.
Carefully he skirted the beast. ‘Would it not be better to wait until full nightfall?’ he asked Skilgannon. ‘At least some of them will be sleeping then.’
‘Dusk will be better,’ said Druss.
‘Why?’
‘Less traditional,’ said the axeman.
‘What does that mean?’
Skilgannon stepped in. ‘Night attacks are standard. They know we are coming. Because we are so few they will expect either that we stay close to the Citadel and ambush them, or that we attack at night and seek to surprise them. Therefore night is when they will be ready for us.’
‘I don’t wish to sound critical at this late juncture,’ said Diagoras, ‘but how many of us do you expect to survive this plan?’
‘I would be amazed if any of us did,’ said Skilgannon.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I intend to survive,’ said Druss. ‘That little girl needs to be taken home.
I think it a good plan.’
‘If we are still discussing its merits tomorrow I will agree with you,’ said Diagoras.
‘Cheer up, laddie. Nobody lives for ever.’
‘Oh, I expect you will, Druss, old horse. It’s the mortals around you who always seem to kiss the granite.’
‘Once Boranius is dead his men will be less likely to want to go on fighting,’ said Druss. ‘Simple fact of life among mercenaries. No-one to pay them, then they don’t fight. We just need to get to him fast. Anyhow, there won’t be seventy men inside. They’ve got men in the hills scouting for us. I’d say there were around forty inside. Maybe less.’
‘I am hugely comforted,’ muttered Diagoras sarcastically.
Druss grinned at him. ‘You can always wait here, laddie.’
‘Don’t tempt me!’ He glanced at the setting sun. Just under an hour to wait. Diagoras guessed the time would race by.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IPPELIUS WAS NINETEEN YEARS OF AGE. HIS FATHER HAD BEEN
A CAPTAIN in the King’s army, killed in the last battle, when Bokram fell.
The months following the Witch Queen’s victory had been harsh for the families whose men had served the King. Ippelius’s mother had been driven from the family home, her goods and wealth seized by the crown. A crowd had gathered outside, hurling dirt and dung at the family as they were marched away. Ippelius had been thirteen years old, and hugely frightened. Many of the widows had left the capital, seeking sanctuary with relatives in outlying towns and villages. Others had journeyed to Naashanite communities in other lands. His mother had gone to Mellicane.
Ippelius had finished his education there. It was a fine city, and the horrors of the past, though powerful in his nightmares, seemed insubstantial in the city sunlight. When Ironmask had come to power he promised a chance for revenge. One day the outcasts would return to Naashan. The Witch Queen would be overthrown. It seemed to Ippelius a golden opportunity to avenge his father’s death, and his mother’s shame.
Now, as he sat in the miserable tavern, with some twenty or so soldiers, he realized the dream was dead. As dead as poor Codis on the walls. He had been stunned when Morcha stabbed his friend.
The action was sudden and murderous. Codis had been dead before he knew it.
Ippelius sipped his ale. It was sour and he did not like the taste. Yet all men drank it, and Ippelius did not wish to seem less than the men around him. Also if he forced himself to drink enough of it his fears did, at least, lessen. Codis had been like a brother to the young soldier, helping him in the early days, when he made a fool of himself during training. Ippelius was constantly tripping over his sword, and falling flat on his face. His horsemanship was not of the highest quality, and he would bounce around in the saddle like a sack of vegetables. Through it all Codis had offered advice and support. As had Morcha, who had always appeared to be good-natured and understanding. Ippelius felt his stomach churn. Codis had liked Morcha and respected him. How terrible it must have been to be killed by a man you liked.
Then there was Boranius. How impressed Ippelius had been when first he had been introduced to the general. A man of power and courage, who radiated purpose. When this man said they would overthrow the Witch Queen it sounded a certainty.
Ippelius shuddered. A little while ago he and Codis had been ordered to remove a body from the Citadel. It was wrapped in canvas, which had been hastily stitched. Blood was seeping through the cloth. Halfway down the stairs the canvas had split. What fell from it was the hideously mutilated body of a woman. Ippelius had vomited at the sight. He was no help to Codis, who forced the remains back into the canvas.
Later, after they had buried her, Ippelius had sunk to the ground in tears. ‘How could any man do that to a woman?’ he asked Codis.
‘Boranius is not any man.’
‘That is no answer.’
‘Gods, man, what do you expect me to say? I have no answers. He always was a torturer. Best to put it from your mind.’
Ippelius had gazed down on the grave. ‘There’s not even a marker,’ he said. ‘I thought they were lovers.’
‘They were lovers. Then he killed her. End of story. Now get a grip on your emotions, lad. We are not going to talk about this to anyone. You understand that? Boranius tortures men too. I don’t want to have my fingers cut off or my eyes put out.’
‘You think he killed the little girl too?’