throughout the years of civil war, knew them for the Queen’s Horse, black-clad warriors in heavy helms. Each carried a lance, a sabre, and a small round shield decorated with a spotted snake. At the head of the column was a civilian he recognized: Damalon, the Queen’s favourite. His hair was long and blond, his face lean. The fifty riders sat their mounts silently, while Damalon leapt lightly to the ground.
‘It has been a long ride, general,’ he said to Skilgannon.
‘And why did you make it?’ asked the warrior.
‘The Queen wants the Swords of Night and Day returned.’
‘They were a gift,’ said Skilgannon. He shrugged. ‘However, be that as it may.’
Lifting the curious ornament he held it for a moment, then tossed it to Damalon. In that moment Caphas saw a spasm of pain flicker on Skilgannon’s face.
The handsome courtier glanced back to the soldiers. ‘No need for you to stay, captain,’ he told a tall man sitting a chestnut gelding. ‘Our task here is concluded.’
The rider edged his horse forward. ‘Good to see you again, general,’ he said to Skilgannon. ‘May the gods be with you.’
‘And with you, Askelus,’ answered Skilgannon.
The cavalry swung their mounts and rode from the clearing. All that remained were four riders, dark-garbed men carrying no swords. Long knives hung at their belts. They dismounted and walked to stand alongside Damalon.
‘Why did you leave?’ Damalon asked Skilgannon. ‘The Queen admired you above all her generals.’
‘For reasons of my own.’
‘Most odd. You had it all. Riches, power, a palace a man might die for.
You could have found another wife, Skilgannon.’ Damalon curled his hand around one of the ivory handles, then pulled upon it. Nothing happened.
‘Press the ruby stud on the hilt,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It will release the blade.’ The moment Damalon pressed the stud a sword slid clear.
Moonlight shone upon the silver steel and the runes engraved there.
Caphas stared at the sword with undisguised avarice. The Swords of Night and Day were legendary. He idly wondered what they would fetch if offered to a king. Three thousand raq? Five thousand?
‘Most beautiful,’ said Damalon. ‘It stirs the blood.’
‘My advice to you — and your followers — would be to remount and leave,’
said Skilgannon. ‘As you say, your mission is concluded.’
‘Ah, not quite,’ said Damalon. ‘The Queen was very angry when you left.’
‘She will be angrier still if
‘Your arrogance is overwhelming,’ snarled Damalon. ‘I have your swords, and four men skilled with the blade, and you threaten me? Have you lost your wits?’ He glanced at Caphas. ‘Such a shame you were here, merchant. Fate, I suppose. No man can avoid it.’ Damalon pressed an emerald stud on the second hilt. The black scabbard fell to the ground as a second blade slid clear. It shone like gold, bright and precious. For a moment the blond courtier stood very still, drinking in the beauty of the swords. Then he shook his head, as if coming out of a trance. ‘Kill the old man and the child,’ he said. ‘The girl will prove an amusing distraction before we return to the capital.’
In that moment Caphas saw Skilgannon move towards Damalon. His hand flicked forward. Something bright and glittering flashed through the air. It struck Damalon lightly in the throat.
Blood sprayed from the severed jugular. What followed Caphas would never forget, not in the tiniest detail.
Skilgannon moved in on Damalon. As the dying courtier dropped the swords Skilgannon swept them up. The four black-garbed killers ran in.
Skilgannon leapt to meet them, the sword blades shimmering in the firelight. There was no fight, no clash of steel upon steel. Within a matter of heartbeats five men were dead upon the ground — one virtually beheaded, another cut through from shoulder to belly. Caphas watched as Skilgannon cleaned the gold and silver blades before sliding them back into the single black scabbard, which he swung onto his back.
‘Best you find new markets, Caphas,’ he said. ‘I fear Naashan will now be dangerous for you.’
The man was not even out of breath and there was no trace of sweat upon his brow. Turning from Caphas, he walked back and searched the ground around Damalon’s body. Stooping, he picked up a small, circular piece of blood-smeared metal no more than two inches in diameter, and wiped it clean on Damalon’s shirt. Caphas saw then that the metal had a serrated edge. He shivered. Skilgannon tucked the weapon into a sheath hidden behind his belt. Then he moved to his horse and saddled it.
Caphas approached him. ‘They were going to kill us too,’ he said. ‘I thank you for saving my daughters and myself.’
‘The child is frightened, Caphas. Best you go to her,’ said Skilgannon, stepping up smoothly into the saddle.
Lucresis ran to his horse. ‘I too am grateful,’ she said, staring up at him wide-eyed. He smiled at her, then leaned down, took her hand and kissed it.
‘Be lucky, Lucresis,’ he said. ‘It would have been most pleasant to spend a little more time in your company.’ Releasing her hand he looked back at Caphas, who was holding his younger daughter close. ‘Do not stay here tonight. Prepare your wagon and head north at speed.’
With that he rode away.
Caphas watched him until he was lost among the trees. Lucresis sighed and turned to her father. ‘I wish he had stayed.’
The merchant shook his head in disbelief. ‘You just saw him kill five men. He is ruthless and deadly, Lucresis.’
‘Perhaps, but he has beautiful eyes,’ she replied.
CHAPTER ONE
SMOKE FROM THE BURNING BUILDINGS STILL HUNG IN THE
AIR, BUT THE rioting mobs of yesterday had dispersed now, as the two priests walked slowly down the hill towards the town. Heavy clouds were gathering over the eastern mountains, promising rain for the afternoon, and a cool wind was blowing. The walk from the old monastery buildings to the little town was one that Brother Braygan usually enjoyed, especially with the sunshine glinting from the white buildings, and glittering on the rushing river. The chubby young priest loved to see the colourful meadow plants, so small and ephemeral against the backdrop of the eternal, snow-capped mountains. Not so today. Everything seemed different. The beauty was still there, but now an underlying sense of menace and real peril hung in the air.
‘Is it a sin to be frightened, Brother Lantern?’ he asked his companion, a tall young man with eyes of cold and brilliant blue, upon whom the pale robes of the acolyte seemed out of place.
‘Have you ever killed a man, Braygan?’ Lantern’s reply was cold and disinterested.
‘Of course not.’
‘Or robbed, or raped or stolen?’
Braygan was shocked and stared up at his companion, his fears momentarily forgotten. ‘No.’
‘Then why do you spend so much time worrying about sin?’
Braygan fell silent. He never enjoyed working alongside Brother Lantern. The man said very little, but there was something about him that was wholly disturbing. His deep-set sapphire eyes were fierce, his lean face hard, his expressions unyielding. And he had sword scars upon his arms and legs. Braygan had seen them when they worked in the fields in the summer. He had asked about them, but Lantern had ignored him, as he ignored questions concerning the harsh and warlike tattoos upon his back, chest and arms: an eagle with outstretched
