Four more souls had been despatched on the long, dark journey.
Two years of suppressed rage had been released in a few terrifying heartbeats. Brother Lantern was a role he had tried so hard to play. His father’s face appeared in his mind, as he always saw it, the broad features framed in a bronze helm, a transverse horse hair plume of white glinting in the sunlight.
‘ We are what we are, my son.’
Skilgannon had never forgotten those words. His father, Decado, had not been wearing the armour of a mercenary when he had spoken them.
He had been on one of his rare visits home, recovering from a wound to his upper thigh and a broken wrist. Skilgannon had been sent home from school in disgrace after fighting two boys and knocking them both senseless. ‘Blood runs true in our family line, Olek. We are warriors.’
Decado had chuckled. ‘People are like dogs, boy. There’s the little, tubby fat ones everyone likes to pet, and the tall, rangy ones we watch race and bet upon. There’s all kinds of house dogs with wagging tails. Then there’s the wolf. It is strong. It has powerful jaws, and it is ferocious when roused.
We are what we are, my son. And wolves is what we are. And all them little waggy-tail beasts best walk wary around us.’
Two months later his father was dead.
Trapped on a ridge by two divisions of Panthian infantry Decado had led a last charge down the slope. The few survivors talked of his incredible courage, and how he had almost reached the Panthian King. When the main body of the army arrived at the battlefield they found all but one of the corpses impaled on stakes. Decado was still sitting his horse, which had been tethered nearby. At first the relief force had thought him to be alive. When they reached him they saw he had been strapped to his saddle, his back held upright by three lengths of wood. His swords had been sheathed at his side, his rings still upon his fingers. In one closed fist they found a small gold coin, bearing the Panthian crest.
A rider brought the coin to Skilgannon. ‘It is the toll for the Ferryman,’
he told the boy. ‘The Panthians wanted to ensure that he crossed the Dark River.’
Skilgannon had been horrified. ‘Then what will he do now? You took the coin from him.’
‘Do not worry, lad. I buried him with another coin — one of ours. It is still gold and the Ferryman will accept it. I wanted you to have this one.
The Panthians honoured him, and this is the symbol of that honour.’
‘ We are what we are, my son. And wolves is what we are.’
Skilgannon the Damned was who he was, and who he would always be.
Hearing movement behind him he looked back, and saw the runaway priests returning, moving sheepishly back into the main building. It is all a nonsense, he thought. In all likelihood only Cethelin truly believed in the all-healing power of love. The rest? Naslyn wanted redemption, Braygan safety. Anager and the other runaways had probably chosen the priesthood as one might choose between being a tailor or a bootmaker. It was just a profession.
He could not find it in himself to hate Raseev Kalikan or the captain Seregas. At least there was purpose in their actions.
Skilgannon had stood beside Cethelin, and almost convinced himself that he would stand passively by and let the mob do as they would. The world would not be a poorer place without me, he had thought. Yet when the foul baker had stabbed Cethelin something had snapped inside Skilgannon. The darkness had been released.
Brother Anager crept alongside him, saw the bodies before the gates and made the sign of the Protective Horn. ‘What happened here, Brother?’
he whispered.
‘I am not your brother,’ said Skilgannon.
He walked back to his room and pulled the narrow chest from beneath the bed. From it he took a cream-coloured shirt of linen edged with white satin. It was collarless and sleeveless. He draped it across the bed and pulled clear a pair of leather leggings and a broad brown belt. These he laid alongside the shirt. Stripping off his blood-drenched robes, he tossed them to the floor and put on the clothes from the chest. He tugged on a pair of knee-length brown riding boots, then stood and stamped his feet.
The boots felt tight after two years of wearing open sandals. Lastly he lifted clear a riding jacket of greased buckskin. This was also sleeveless, but long leather fringes, tipped with silver, had been placed over both shoulders. The silver was tarnished now and black, as were the silver rings
— five on each side — which decorated the outer sides of his boots from knee to ankle. Donning the jacket, he strolled from the room without a backward glance.
Brother Braygan was waiting in the courtyard. ‘It was a nasty gash,’ he told Skilgannon. ‘Naslyn stitched it. I think he will be fine.’
‘That is good.’
‘You are leaving us?’
‘How can I stay, Braygan? Even without the deaths they know who I am.
Hunters will come, killers seeking bounty.’
‘So you really are the Damned?’
‘I am.’
‘It is hard to believe. The stories must be… exaggerated.’
‘No, they are not. Everything you have heard is true.’
Moving away from him Skilgannon mounted the steps to Cethelin’s chambers. He found him upon his bed, Naslyn beside him. The black-bearded priest rose as he entered and left quietly. Skilgannon approached the bed and looked down at the grey face of the elderly abbot.
‘I am sorry, Elder Brother.’
‘As am I, Skilgannon. I thought my dream meant a candle of love. It did not. It meant a warrior’s flame. Now everything we set out to do here is sullied. We are the priests who killed to save ourselves.’
‘Would you sooner have died out there?’
‘Yes, Skilgannon, I would. Or rather the priest that I am would. The man that I am is grateful for a few more days, months or years of life. Go to the closet over there. At its base you will find a bundle wrapped in an old blanket. Fetch it here.’
Skilgannon did as he was bid. As he touched the bundle he knew instinctively what was hidden within it. His pulse began to race. ‘Open it,’
ordered Cethelin.
‘I do not want them.’
‘Then take them from here and see them destroyed. When first you gave them to me I felt their evil. I hoped that you would become free of the dark power. I watched you suffer, and I took pride in the strength you showed.
But I could not discard them, or sell them as you suggested. It would have been like loosing a plague on a troubled world. They are yours, Skilgannon.
Take them. Take them far from here.’
Laying the bundle on a nearby table Skilgannon loosed the thongs that bound it and lifted clear the blanket. Lying there were the Swords of Night and Day. Sunlight from the window gleamed on the carved ivory handles, and glinted upon the single polished black sheath. Taking hold of the silver-edged baldric connecting both ends of the sheath he swung the weapons to his back. There was something else in the bundle, a bulging leather pouch. He hefted it.
‘There are twenty-eight golden raq in that pouch,’ said Cethelin. ‘All that remains of the money from the stallion I sold for you. The rest was used to purchase food for the poor during the drought year.’
‘Did you know who I was when I came here, Elder Brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why then did you let me stay?’
‘No man is beyond redemption. Even the Damned. It is our duty to love the unlovable, and by so doing open their hearts to the Source. Do I regret it? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes. You recall I asked you if you would grant me a favour? Do you still hold to that?’
‘Of course.’
‘I am sending Braygan to the elders in Mellicane. Go with him and see him safely into their charge.’
‘Braygan is a pure soul. Do you not think he might be corrupted by my evil?’