the nobleman. “Perhaps now you’ll be good enough to do it without wearying our ears further.”
Commodius gazed at the tall Inceptine, as haughty as a prince before him. “Ah, Avila, you are always the aristocrat, are you not? Whereas I am merely the son of a tanner, as humbly born as Albrec there despite my black robe. How you would have graced our order. But it was not to be.”
“What do you mean?” Albrec asked, and the tremor was back in his voice, fear rising over the grief.
“It’s plain to see what has been happening here. Two clerics become victims of the unnatural urges which sometimes beset those of our calling. One lures the other into black magic, occult ritual”—Commodius gestured to the wolf-headed statue with the mattock—“and there is a falling-out, a fight. The lovers kill each other, their bodies laid out before the unholy altar which poisoned their minds. Not that the bodies will be found for a long time. I mean, who ever comes down here, and who will think to look beyond the rubble of a sealed wall?”
“Columbar knows we have been coming here—” Avila began.
“Alas, Brother Columbar died in his sleep this night, peacefully and in God’s grace, his head resting on the pillow which stopped his breath.”
“I don’t believe you,” Avila said, but his haughtiness was leaking away.
“It is immaterial to me what you choose to believe. You are carrion already, Brother.”
“Take us both then,” Avila said, setting down his lamp as though preparing for battle. “Come, Commodius: are you so doughty that you can kill the pair of us?”
Commodius’ face widened into a grin which seemed to split it in twain and displayed every gleaming tooth in his head.
“I am doughty enough, I promise you.”
The mattock clanked to the floor.
“The world is a strange place, Brothers,” Commodius’ voice said, but it sounded different, as though he were speaking into a glass. “There is more lurking under God’s heaven than you have ever dreamed of, Albrec. I could have made you a glutton of knowledge. I could have sated your appetite and answered every question your mind ever had the wit to pose. It is your loss. And Avila—my sweet Avila—I could have enjoyed you and advanced you. Now it will have to be done a different way. Watch me, children, and experience the last and greatest revelation of all . . .”
Commodius had gone. In his place there loomed the brooding darkness of a great lycanthrope, a bright-eyed werewolf standing in a puddle of Inceptine robes.
“Make your peace with He who made you,” the beast said. “I will show you the very face of God.”
It leapt.
Albrec was shoved out of the way and hit the floor face-first. Avila had thrown himself to one side, scrabbling for the mattock. But the beast was too fast. It caught him in midair, its claws ripping his robe to shreds. A twist of its powerful arms, and Avila was flung across the cave, to strike the wall with a sickening slap of flesh. The werewolf laughed, and turned on Albrec.
“It will be quick, my little colleague, my tireless bookworm.” It grasped Albrec by the neck and lifted him up as though he were made of straw. The vast jaws opened, bathing him in the stink of its breath.
But Avila was there again, his face a broken wound and something gleaming in his fist. He struck at the creature’s back, trying to pierce the thick fur and failing. The beast spun round, dropping Albrec.
The Antillian watched in a daze as the werewolf that was Commodius smashed his friend across the breadth of the chamber once more. His own lamp had been broken and extinguished, and only Avila’s light on the floor illuminated the struggle, making it seem a battle of shadowy titans amid the stalactites of the ceiling.
And kindling a glitter of something lying amid the detritus of the floor.
Albrec scrabbled over and grasped the pentagram dagger in his fist. He heard Avila give a last, despairing shout of defiance and hatred, and then he threw himself on the werewolf’s back.
The creature straightened and the claws came reaching over its shoulders, raking the side of Albrec’s neck. He felt no pain, no fear, only a clinical determination. He stabbed the pentagram dagger deep into the beast, the blade grating on the vertebrae as it shredded muscle and pierced the flesh up to its hilt.
The werewolf’s head snapped back, its skull cracking against Albrec’s own with a force to explode bloody lights in his head and make him release his hold and tumble to the floor like a stringless puppet.
The beast gave an odd, gargling moan. It was Commodius again, shrunken, naked, bewildered, the pentagram hilt of the dagger protruding obscenely from his back.
The Senior Librarian looked at Albrec in disbelief, shaking his head as though circumstances had baffled him, and then he crumpled on top of Albrec, a dead weight which crushed the air out of the little monk’s lungs. Albrec passed out.
T HE blizzard struck as they were crossing the mountain divide. The pass disappeared in minutes and the world became a blank whiteness, featureless as a steamed-up window.
The column halted in confusion and the men fought to erect their crude canvas tents in the hammering wind. A numbing, aching time of struggle and pain, the fingers becoming blue and swollen as the blood inside them slowly crystallized, ice crackling in the nostrils and solidifying in men’s beards. But at last Abeleyn and the remnant of his bodyguard were under shelter of a sort, the canvas cracking thunderously about their ears, the most accomplished fire starters amongst them striving to set light to the damp faggots they had carried all the way up from the lowlands.
It was a diminished band which accompanied the excommunicate King up into the Hebros. They had left the sailors and the wounded and the weaker of the soldiers behind to be tended by villagers in the foothills, along with an escort of unhurt veterans to guard them, for the folk in this part of the world, though Hebrian, were a hard, rapacious people who could not be trusted to treat helpless men with any charity. So it was with less than fifty men that Abeleyn had started the climb into the mountains that formed the backbone of his kingdom. He was afoot, like his subordinates, for he had put the lady Jemilla on the only horse which survived, and the dozen mules they had commandeered from the lowland villages were burdened with firewood and what meagre supplies they had been able to glean from the sullen population.
They had been eight days on the road. It was the eleventh day of Forgist, the darkest month of the year, and they were still twenty leagues from Abrusio.
T HE lady Jemilla pulled her furs more closely about her and ordered her remaining maidservant to fetch her something to eat from one of the soldiers’ fires. “And none of that accursed salt pork, either, or I’ll have the hide flayed off you.”
She was cold despite the fact that she had the best tent in the company and there was a fire burning by its entrance. She was beginning to regret her insistence that she accompany Abeleyn back to Abrusio, but she had been afraid to let the King out of her sight. She wondered what awaited them in the bawdy old city, which was under the sway of the Knights Militant and the nobles.
She bore Abeleyn’s child—or so it would be believed. Were his attempt to reclaim his kingdom unsuccessful, her life would be forfeit. The present rulers of Hebrion could not allow a bastard heir of the former King to live. In carrying Abeleyn’s issue she harboured her own death warrant within her very flesh.
If he failed.
He would not talk to her! Did he think that she was some empty-headed, high-born courtesan with no thoughts worth thinking beyond the bedroom? She had tried to wheedle information out of him, but he had remained as closed as an oyster.
The tattered raptor which was always coming and going was the familiar of the wizard, Golophin—everyone knew that. He was keeping the King informed as to events in his capital. But what were those events? Abeleyn was such a boy in many things—in sex most of all, perhaps—but he could suddenly go still and give that stare of his, as though he were awaiting an explanation for some offence. That was when the man, the King, came out, and Jemilla was afraid of him then, though she used all her skill at dissembling to conceal it. She dared not press him further than she already had, and the knowledge galled her immeasurably. She was as ignorant of his intentions as the basest soldier of his bodyguard.
Her thoughts wandered from the groove they had worn for themselves. The blizzard roared beyond the frail walls of the tent, and she found herself thinking of Richard Hawkwood, the mariner who had once been her lover
