The two priests came to the small bridge over the river. Braygan trod on the hem of his pale blue robe and stumbled. He would have fallen, but Brother Lantern’s hand grabbed his arm, hauling him upright.
‘Thank you,’ said Braygan. His arm hurt from the iron grip and he rubbed it.
There were some people moving through the rubble. Braygan tried not to stare at them — or at the two bodies hanging from the branches of a tall tree. They looked like foreigners, he thought. ‘I am frightened, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘Why do people do such hateful things?’
‘Because they can,’ answered the tall priest.
‘Are you frightened?’
‘Of what?’
The question seemed ridiculous to Braygan. Brother Labberan had been beaten close to death, and there was hatred everywhere. In the capital, Mellicane, a group known as the Arbiters had grown in power. Priests there had been murdered, or accused of treason and hanged. Now a representative of the Arbiters had arrived in Skepthia, touring taverns and meeting halls, speaking out against the church and its priests. And the terror continued to grow.
Crossing the bridge, Braygan and Lantern moved past the smouldering buildings and on to the main street. Braygan was sweating now. There were more people here, and he saw several dark-garbed soldiers standing in a group by a tavern door. Some of the townsfolk stopped to stare at the priests as they made their way to the apothecary’s. One man shouted an insult.
Sweat dripped into Braygan’s eyes and he blinked it away. Brother Lantern had reached the apothecary’s door. It was locked. The tall priest tapped at the wooden frame. There was no answer. A crowd began to gather. Braygan tried not to look at the faces of the men. ‘We should go, Brother Lantern,’ he said.
Somebody spoke to Braygan, the voice angry. He turned to answer, but a fist struck him in the face and he fell clumsily to the ground. A booted foot caught him in the chest and he cried out, and rolled towards the wall of the apothecary’s.
Brother Lantern stepped across him, and blocked the path of Braygan’s attacker. ‘Beware,’ said Lantern softly.
‘Beware of what?’ asked the man, a heavily built and bearded figure, wearing the green sash of the Arbiters. It was the representative from Mellicane.
‘Beware of anger, brother,’ said Lantern. ‘It has a habit of bringing grief in its wake.’
The man laughed. ‘I’ll show you grief,’ he said. His fist lashed out towards Lantern’s face. The priest swayed. The blow missed him. The attacker stumbled forward, off balance, and tripped over Lantern’s outstretched leg, falling to his knees. With a roar of rage he surged upright and leapt at the priest — only to miss him and fall again, this time striking his face on the cobbles. There was blood upon his cheek. He rose more warily, and drew a knife from his belt.
‘Be careful,’ said Lantern. ‘You are going to hurt yourself further.’
‘Hurt myself? Are you an idiot?’
‘I am beginning to think that I might be,’ said Lantern. ‘Do you happen to know when the apothecary will be arriving? We have an injured brother and are in need of herbs to reduce his fever.’
‘You’re the one who’ll need the apothecary!’
‘I have already said that I need the apothecary. Shall I speak more slowly?’
The man swore loudly then rushed in. The knife lanced for Lantern’s belly. The priest swayed again, his arm seeming to brush against the charging man’s shoulder. The Arbiter surged past Lantern and struck the apothecary’s wall head first. Slumping down, he screamed as his knife blade gouged into his own thigh.
Lantern walked over and knelt beside him, examining the wound.
‘Happily — though I suppose that is arguable — you have missed the major artery,’ he said, ‘but the wound will need stitching.’ Rising, he turned towards the crowd. ‘Does this man have friends here?’ he called. ‘He needs to be attended.’
Several men shuffled forward. ‘Do you know how to treat wounds?’
Lantern asked the first.
‘No.’
‘Then carry him into the tavern. I will seal the cut. And send someone to fetch the apothecary. I have many duties today and cannot tarry here long.’
Ignored by the crowd Braygan pushed himself to his feet, and watched as the injured man, groaning in pain, was carried to the tavern. Lantern glanced back. ‘Wait for the apothecary,’ he said. ‘I will return presently.’
With that he strolled towards the tavern, the crowd parting for him.
Braygan felt light-headed and vaguely sick. He took several deep breaths.
‘Who was that?’ asked a voice. It was one of the black-armoured soldiers, a thin-faced man with deep-set dark eyes.
‘Brother Lantern,’ answered Braygan. ‘He is our librarian.’ The soldier laughed. The crowd began to drift away.
‘I do not think you will be further troubled today,’ said the soldier.
‘Why do they want to harm us? We have always sought to love all people, and I recognized many in the crowd. We have helped them when they were sick. In the famine last year we shared our stores with them.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘Not for me to say.’
‘Why do you not protect us?’ asked the priest.
‘Soldiers obey their rule, priest. The martial code does not allow us to obey only those orders we like. Were I you I would leave the monastery and journey north. It will not be long before it is attacked.’
‘Why would they attack us?’
‘Ask your friend. He seems to be a man who knows which way the wind will blow.’ He paused. ‘During the fight I saw he had a dark tattoo upon his left forearm. What kind was it?’
‘It is a spider.’
‘I thought so. Does he perhaps also have a lion or some such upon his chest?’
‘Yes. A panther.’
The soldier said nothing more, and walked away.
For three years now Skilgannon had sought to recapture that one perfect moment, that sense of total clarity and purpose. On rare occasions it seemed tantalizingly close, like a wispy image hovering at the corners of vision that danced away when he tried to focus upon it.
He had cast aside riches and power, and journeyed through the wilderness seeking answers. He had entered the priesthood here at the converted castle of Cobalsin, enduring three mind-rotting years of study and examination, absorbing — and largely dismissing — philosophies and teachings that bore no relation to the realities of a world cursed by the presence of Man.
And each night the dreams would haunt him. He would be wandering through a dark wood seeking the white wolf. He would catch a glimpse of its pale fur in the dense undergrowth and draw his swords. Moonlight would glisten on the blades, and the wolf would be gone.
Instinctively he knew there was a link between the swords and the wolf.
The moment he touched the hilts the beast would disappear, and yet such was the fear of the wolf that he could not resist the lure of the blades.
The monk known as Lantern would awake with a start, fists clenched, chest tight, and roll from his narrow pallet bed. The small room with its tiny window would seem then like a prison cell.
On this night a storm was raging outside the monastery. Skilgannon walked barefoot along the corridor and up the steps to the roof, stepping out into the rain. Lightning blazed across the sky, followed by a deep rumble of thunder.
It had been raining that night too, after the last battle.
He remembered the enemy priest, on his knees in the mud. All around him were corpses, thousands of them. The priest looked up at him, then raised his thin hands to the storm. Rain had drenched his pale robes. ‘The tears of Heaven,’ he said.