black stallion for more than three hundred raq. It is Skilgannon.’
‘How much is she willing to pay?’
Seregas chuckled. ‘The question is, councillor, how much must I pay you?’
‘Half.’
‘I think not. You are organizing murders. Times change, as do political ideologies. You might well need someone in authority to give evidence of your good will in these troubled times.’
Raseev refilled the goblets. ‘Indeed so, captain. Then what do you suggest?’
‘One third.’
‘And that sum would be?’
‘A thousand raq.’
‘Sweet Heaven! What did he do to her? Slay her firstborn?’
‘I do not know. Are we agreed, councillor?’
‘We are, Seregas. But tell me, why did you not merely arrest and hold him?’
‘Firstly, he has committed no crime here. More importantly he is a deadly killer, Raseev — with or without weapons. I don’t doubt that many of the tales are exaggerated, but it is well known that he entered the forest of Delian alone and slew eleven warriors who had captured the rebel princess
— as the Queen then was. You also heard how he dealt with the Arbiter. I saw that, Raseev. The skill was extraordinary.’
‘You think he will fight tomorrow?’
‘It will not matter against three or four hundred. He is not a god. Sheer weight of numbers will drag him down.’
In the bright light of morning Raseev walked with the crowd, Seregas beside him, three other soldiers of the Watch close by. As they approached the old castle Raseev saw that the gates were open. The abbot, Cethelin, was standing beneath the gateway arch, two priests alongside him. One was tall and lean, the other black-bearded and heavily built.
‘The tall one is Skilgannon,’ whispered Seregas. Raseev held back, allowing other people to pass him.
‘Very wise,’ said Seregas.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR BRAYGAN IT WAS THE SINGLE MOST TERRIFYING MOMENT
OF HIS life so far. He had become a priest to escape the horrors of a world threatened by wars and violence, droughts and starvation. Now, before he was even twenty, death was marching towards him.
More than twenty of the thirty-five priests were already fleeing through the rear gates, running out towards the sheep paddocks and the woods beyond. He saw Brother Anager emerge from the main building, a canvas sack upon his shoulder. Braygan stood very still as the cook came alongside him. ‘Come with us, Braygan. It is futile to die here.’
Braygan so wanted to obey. He moved several steps towards the paddock, then glanced back to where Abbot Cethelin was standing beneath the gateway arch.
‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘Fare you well, Anager.’
The other priest said nothing. Hoisting his sack to his shoulder he ran out to the paddock. Braygan watched him labouring up the green slope.
In that moment a feeling of peace descended on the young acolyte. He took a deep breath and walked slowly to where the abbot waited. Cethelin turned as Braygan arrived. He smiled and patted the young priest on the arm. ‘I saw a candle in my dream, Braygan. It stood against the onrushing darkness. We will be that candle.’
The crowd were closer now, and Braygan saw the tall, lean figure of Antol the Baker, his dark hair held in place by a bronze circlet, his protruding eyes wide and angry. Beside him was the Arbiter who had punched Braygan to the ground, and then been stopped by Brother Lantern. Braygan flicked a glance at Lantern, who was standing very still, his face impassive.
‘Bring out the criminal Rabalyn,’ shouted Raseev Kalikan. ‘Or face the consequences.’
Cethelin stepped closer to the milling crowd. ‘I do not know of what you speak,’ he said. ‘There are no criminals here. The boy Rabalyn is not within these walls.’
‘You lie!’ bellowed Antol.
‘I never lie,’ Cethelin told him. ‘The boy is not here. I see you have officers of the Watch with you. They are free to search the buildings.’
‘We don’t need your permission, traitor!’ yelled the Arbiter. The crowd began to move forward. Cethelin raised his thin arms. ‘My brothers, why do you wish us harm? Not one of my brethren has ever caused you ill. We live to serve…’
‘This is for traitors!’ shouted Antol, suddenly running forward. Sunlight glinted from the long knife in his hand. Cethelin turned towards him.
Brother Lantern leapt across Braygan’s line of sight. Cethelin staggered and Braygan saw blood on the knife blade. A woman shouted from the crowd. ‘Spill his guts to the ground!’ Braygan recognized the voice of Marja, Antol’s wife.
Braygan caught Cethelin as he fell. The abbot had been stabbed just above his left hip, and blood was soaking through his blue robes. Antol tried to reach him for a second thrust, but Lantern caught his arm and twisted it savagely. Antol screamed and dropped the knife. Lantern caught it with his right hand, then twisted Antol round to face the crowd.
Then Lantern spoke, his voice harsh and powerful. ‘Death is what you came here for, you maggot-ridden scum, and death is what you will have.’
He looked towards Marja, a round-faced, plump woman with short-cropped greying hair. ‘You called for guts to be spilled, you hag.
Then here they are!’
Antol’s back was towards him and Braygan did not see the terrible strike with the knife. But he heard Antol scream, and he saw something gush from his belly and flop to the ground. The sound that screeched from the disembowelled man was barely human, and chilled Braygan to the depths of his soul. Then Brother Lantern dragged the man’s head back and slashed the knife across his throat. Blood spurted over the blade.
‘No!’ screamed Marja, stumbling to where her husband’s body lay.
Brother Lantern ignored her and strode towards the crowd. ‘Is that enough pleasure for you, or do you desire more? Come, you gutless worms.
More can die.’
They backed away from him — all save two black-garbed officers of the Watch who ran forward, sabres in their hands. Lantern moved to meet them. He swayed as the first blade lanced for his heart. The soldier stumbled back. Braygan saw that Antol’s knife was now embedded in the man’s throat. And somehow Lantern had the dying officer’s sabre in his hand. He parried a thrust from the second soldier, rolled his blade, then plunged it through the man’s chest. The soldier cried out and staggered back. The sabre blade slid clear.
Lantern stepped back from the man and swung away. Braygan thought he was about to return to where Cethelin lay, but he suddenly spun on his heel, the sabre flashing through the air. It took the officer in the side of the neck, cleaving through skin, tendon and bone. The young soldier’s head struck the ground while his body stood for several seconds. Braygan saw the right leg twitch and the headless corpse crumple to the earth.
There was not a sound now from the crowd. Lantern had both sabres in his hands and he walked along the line of waiting men and women. ‘Well?’
he called out. ‘Are there no more fighting men among you? What about you, Arbiter? Are you ready to die? I have stitched your wounds — now let me give you another. Come to me. Here, I shall make it easy for you.’ So saying he plunged both sabres into the ground.
‘You cannot kill all of us!’ shouted the Arbiter. ‘Come on, men, let’s take him!’
