and they ate in silence — after Braygan had offered a prayer of thanks.
When they had finished Seth leaned back in his chair. ‘Second breakfast of the day for me,’ he said. ‘Damned if it didn’t taste better than the first.’
‘How will you survive here on your own?’ asked Braygan.
‘I have my hens, and I know how to hunt. There’s also quite a bit of grain hidden close by. I’ll do well enough — if this war ends by the summer.
People will start coming back then. Business will pick up.’
‘Wouldn’t it be safer to go to Mellicane?’ asked Braygan.
Seth looked at the priest and smiled. ‘Nowhere is truly safe in a war, young man. Mellicane is a city under siege. If it falls the slaughter will be terrible. Look what happened in Perapolis when the Damned took it. He killed everyone, men, women, babes in arms. No, I think I’ll stay here in my home. If I’m to be killed it’ll be in a place I love.’
An uncomfortable silence fell. Braygan looked away.
‘I’d like to purchase some supplies from you, Seth,’ said Skilgannon.
For the next five days the travellers moved northwest, ever downwards into lush valleys and low woodland. The temperature rose sharply, and both Braygan and Rabalyn found the going increasingly hard. Sweat itched and tingled on Rabalyn’s healing burns, and Braygan, unused to such sustained exercise, stumbled along on painful legs. Occasionally he would suffer severe cramps in his calves and be forced to sit until the agony passed. They saw few people in this time, though occasionally glimpsed riders in the distance.
On the morning of the sixth day they came across the smoking ruins of a small farm. Five bodies lay on the open ground. Crows were feasting on dead flesh. Braygan shepherded Rabalyn from the scene, while Skilgannon moved to where the bodies lay. As he approached the crows flew away a little distance and waited.
There were three adults, one man and two women, and two small girls.
Skilgannon examined the ground around them. The earth was churned by the hooves of many horses, though it was impossible to tell how many. At least twenty, he thought. The bodies were all close together, so it was likely they were led from the building and murdered. Otherwise — if they had tried to run — they would have been slain further apart. There was no indication that the women had been raped. They were fully clothed.
Skilgannon rose to his feet. A cavalry group had ridden in, looted the farmhouse, then murdered the family who lived there. The farm had then been torched. In the distance Skilgannon could see other farms. Those had not been set ablaze.
Calling to Braygan and Rabalyn, he walked across the ploughed fields towards the next farmhouse. It was deserted.
‘Why did they kill that family?’ asked Braygan.
‘Any number of reasons,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘The most likely is that such an act would spread terror. All the other families in this area, seeing the smoke, and perhaps even witnessing the killings, have fled. My guess is that by terrorizing the rural areas the Datians are forcing more and more people to seek refuge in Mellicane.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Food, Braygan. Wars are not won merely by defeating enemies on the field of battle. Mellicane is a fortress city. Everyone there needs to eat. If you swell the numbers then food will run out more swiftly. Without food they cannot resist an enemy. The city might then surrender, and save the need for a sustained siege.’
Skilgannon left Braygan and Rabalyn at a deserted farmhouse, then set out to scout the area.
There were few farm animals anywhere. Skilgannon saw two pigs and several hens, but any sheep or cattle had been driven away, probably to feed the armies converging on Mellicane.
Pausing at a well, he drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply.
Seth had talked of a Naashanite army that was supposed to come to the aid of the Tantrian King. It would come, Skilgannon knew, but intentionally too late. Centuries ago Tantria, Datia and Dospilis had been part of the Naashanite empire. The Queen desired those lands again.
Better to let the three nations tear each other apart first, then move in to conquer them all.
He sat on the wall of the well and wished that he could just walk away, find a horse and head north towards Sherak. If the Temple of the Resurrectionists existed he would find it, then bring back to life the woman who had married him. ‘I wish I could have loved you more,’ he said aloud. Closing his eyes he pictured Dayan’s face, her golden hair bound in a braid of silver wire, her smile bright and dazzling. Then, without warning, another face appeared, long dark hair framing features of singular perfection. Dark eyes looked into his own, and full lips parted in a smile that clove his heart.
Skilgannon groaned and surged upright. Even now he could not picture Dayan without summoning the memory of Jianna.
‘Do you love me, Olek?’ Dayan had asked, on the night of their wedding.
‘Who could not love you, Dayan? You are everything a man could desire.’
‘Do you love me with all your heart?’
‘I will try to make you happy, and I will take no other wives, nor concubines. That is my promise to you.’
‘My father warned me about you, Olek. He said you were in love with the Queen. That all men knew this. Have you lain with her?’
‘No questions, Dayan. The past is gone. The future is ours. This is our night. The servants are gone, the moon is bright, and you are the most beautiful woman in all the world.’
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves. Glancing to the west he saw three riders approaching. They were soldiers, bearing white crests upon their helms. Skilgannon stood quietly as they approached. They were carrying small, round, unadorned shields, and he could not identify which army they fought for.
The lead rider, a tall man with a wispy blond beard, drew rein. He said nothing, but stared at Skilgannon with cold, blue eyes. His comrades drew alongside, waiting for orders. ‘Are you from this village?’ asked the leader, after a few more moments of silence. The voice was low, with a soft burr that suggested the east. Probably Datian, thought Skilgannon.
‘I am passing through.’
‘A refugee then?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I see no reason to run and hide. Feel free to water your horses.’
A touch of anger showed in the rider’s eyes. ‘I am free to water my horses. I need no permission from you.’
‘Were you in the group that murdered the farmer and his family?’ asked Skilgannon, gesturing towards the blackened farmhouse in the distance.
The man leaned back in his saddle, crossing his hands on the pommel horn. ‘You are very cool, stranger.’
‘I am merely enjoying the sunshine and a sip of water from a well. I am at war with no-one.’
‘The whole world is at war,’ snapped one of the riders, a young beardless man with long black hair, wrapped tightly into two braids.
‘Tantria is not the world,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is merely a small nation.’
‘Shall I kill him, sir?’ asked the rider, looking towards the blond warrior.
The man’s eyes held to Skilgannon’s gaze.
‘No. Water the horses,’ he said, dismounting and loosening his saddle girth. Skilgannon walked away from them and sat quietly on a fence rail.
The leader, leaving his horse with the black-haired rider, moved to join him. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘South.’
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Mellicane.’
The city will fall.’
‘I expect you are right. I’ll not be there long.’
