on his God. He had honoured Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, and was personally acquainted with Kalianah, the Goddess of Love. And Gimlorie, the God of Music, had taught him how to sing.
“I didn't mean to,” Mikel said in a small voice that was almost drowned out by the storm.
The old man smiled and opened his arms wide. “Xaphista forgives you, my son.”
Mikel ran to him, sobbing. Wrapped in the warm embrace of the old man, he felt such an overwhelming love for his God that everything he had done in the past seemed insignificant. The Overlord was the one true God - the only God. He could not understand how he had ever lost sight of that fact.
After a long while, his tears ran out and he looked up into the eyes of the old man.
“What must I do?” he asked.
Mikel returned to the tavern in a state of elation. His whole being was filled with love for his God, his mind focused only on the task before him. The rain had eased as he let himself into the smoky taproom, and his small hand clutched his dagger. He was filled with purpose and the secure knowledge that this was
R'shiel still sat at the table talking with Mandah, although they had been joined by another man. He could hear what they were saying, but the voices were muffled as if he was listening through a waterfall.
“The Defenders are planning to cross the Glass River at Testra,” R'shiel was telling them. “If you meet them on this side at Vanahiem, you can tell them which way we went. Hopefully, by the time they cross the river, the roads will be clear and they can get straight through to Hythria.”
The innkeeper must have overheard them. He hurried forward, pushed Mikel out of the way and bowed to R'shiel, his expression horrified.
“Forgive me, my Lady, if I misunderstood you, but surely you're not planning to bring these men through here?”
“Why not?”
“But the Kariens will be pursuing them! We'll be slaughtered if they think we were harbouring traitors.”
Mandah looked up at the overwrought tavern keeper with a smile. “Woran, you've been harbouring rebels here since before I was born.”
“That's not true! This is a respectable establishment.”
“This is a flea-ridden, rat-infested hovel,” the man at the table laughed.
“But if the Karien priests should hear of it... And what of the other people here in Roan Vale? Can't you send the Defenders by another route?”
“It will be all right, Woran,” Mandah assured him.
Mikel moved closer to the table. The dagger felt warm and comforting in his hand. Mandah spied him and frowned. “Look at you, child, you're drenched!”
R'shiel looked up at him with a shake of her head. “Go stand by the fire, Mikel. You'll catch your death if you sleep in those wet clothes.”
Mikel did not answer. He stared at the demon child, seeing nothing but the woman who was destined to destroy his God.
“Mikel? What happened to you?”
He turned slightly to find Jaymes standing behind him. His brother seemed a stranger. Everyone in the room seemed to be a stranger.
“Come on,” Jaymes said. “Let's go dry you out.”
Mikel let Jaymes lead him to the fire without resisting. He looked over his shoulder at R'shiel, but she had resumed her conversation with Mandah and the other rebel. The dagger burned with unfulfilled longing in his grasp.
“What were you thinking?” Jaymes asked as he peeled Mikel's sodden cloak from his shoulder. “Look at you! You're blue with cold and stiff as a board.”
The demon who had been hiding in the woodpile chittered at him in concern as Jaymes shook out his dripping cloak. Mikel stared at the creature for a moment in confusion. Its appearance made him lose his train of thought and he suddenly began to notice how cold and wet he was. He moved closer to the fire and glanced across the room at R'shiel. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
He smiled back with the odd feeling that he had meant to do something important, but could not for the life of him remember what it was. He realised then that his hand was still clutched around the hilt of his dagger, his grip so tight that his fingers were cramping.
Mikel let it go, wondering why he was holding it.
PART 2
THE MEN WHO
WOULD BE KINGS
CHAPTER 11
Krakandar turned out to be nothing like Adrina imagined. She had somehow developed the impression that Damin's home was some sort of isolated, rustic abode with minimal amenities and barely literate servants, all scurrying about in rat-infested, thatch-covered huts. Well, perhaps that
Krakandar's population numbered close to twenty thousand. The city had been carefully planned and was laid out in a series of concentric rings. Not only that, but it was, even to the untrained eye, impregnable. There were three rings, each one protected by progressively more complex defences. The inner ring housed the palace and most of the government buildings, including a huge store, which was filled as insurance against a siege each year at harvest time. Just prior to the harvest, the past year's grain was distributed to the poor, and come harvest, Damin explained, the warehouses were filled again for the following year. The central ring was mostly housing, the residences progressively more imposing the closer one got to the inner ring. The vast outer ring was the home to the markets and industries of the city.
Built on a small hill, the palace commanded a view of the entire city, which sprawled across the surrounding slopes with geometric precision. The city was well maintained and constructed of the local dark-red granite, which they quarried not far from the city and formed one of Krakandar's major exports.
Damin told her this as they rode towards the city, the pride in his voice taking her by surprise. He obviously loved his home, and as they rode under the massive portcullis that protected the main gate, it was apparent the citizens of Krakandar loved their Warlord in return.
Almodavar had sent word ahead that they were coming and for entirely selfish reasons, Adrina was looking forward to finally reaching their destination. More than a month in the saddle, living off trail rations and what meat they had been able to hunt along the way, had left her tanned and fit - but desperate for the trappings of civilisation. She had even managed to put on a bit of weight, she thought with despair. When Krakandar came into view, all she could think of was a hot bath, clean hair and the smell of something else besides leather and horses.
As word spread through the city that the Warlord had returned the citizens of Krakandar lined the streets to catch a glimpse of him. It was only a few at first but as the news ran ahead of them, the crowd grew larger. The
