The man chuckled. ‘Used to make my wife jump. She swore I always crept up on her.’ He sat down beside Skilgannon, laying his great double-bladed axe on the ground. Removing his helm he ran his fingers through his thick black and silver hair. Skilgannon glanced down at the helm. It had seen much use. The folded iron sections showed many dents and scratches, and the silver motifs, two skulls alongside a silver axe blade, were worn down. A small edge of one of the silver skulls had been hacked away.
‘If the enemy had come did you plan to take them all on by yourself?’
asked Skilgannon.
‘No, laddie. I guessed you’d be along.’
‘Aren’t you a little old to be tackling cavalrymen?’
The axeman glanced at Skilgannon and grinned. But he did not reply, and they sat for a while in companionable silence. ‘Your accent is not Tantrian,’ said Skilgannon at last.
‘No.’
‘Are you a mercenary?’
‘I have been. Not now. You?’
‘Just a traveller. How long do you plan to wait?’
The axeman thought about the question. ‘Another hour or two.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t think they’d come.’
‘I’ve been wrong before.’
‘They’ll either send no-one, or a minimum of thirty men.’
‘Why thirty?’ asked the axeman.
‘The survivor is unlikely to admit his party was defeated by one old man with a big axe. No offence intended.’
‘None taken.’
‘He’ll say there were a group of soldiers.’
‘If that is true why would they choose to send no-one — which was the first of your predictions?’
‘They are driving refugees towards Mellicane. That is their main purpose. To swell the numbers in the city, and create food shortages. They don’t need to hunt down enemy soldiers here.’
‘Makes sense,’ admitted the axeman. ‘You sound like an officer. I see you have a Naashanite tattoo. I’ll bet there’s a panther or some such on your chest.’
Skilgannon smiled. ‘You know our customs well.’
‘We old folk are an observant bunch.’
The young warrior laughed aloud. ‘I think you lied when you said no offence was taken.’
‘I never lie, laddie. Not even in jest. I
‘Then what are you doing sitting here waiting for thirty cavalrymen?’
‘What are
‘Maybe I came to find you.’
‘Maybe so. I think, though, that you came because you don’t like seeing women and children hunted by cowards on horses. I think you came here to show them the error of their ways.’
Skilgannon chuckled. ‘You would have liked my father,’ he said. ‘There were no shades of grey with him, either. Everything was black and white.
You remind me of him.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘No. He led a suicidal charge against a Panthian regiment. It allowed some of his men to escape. My father didn’t try to escape. He rode straight at the Panthian King and his bodyguard. His was the only body the enemy did not mutilate.’
‘They strapped him to his horse, and left a gold coin in his hand,’ said the axeman softly.
Skilgannon was surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’ve lived most of my life among warriors, laddie. The talk around campfires is mostly about everyday matters, a good horse or dog.
Sometimes it’s about the farms we’ll all have one day when the fighting is done. When a hero dies, though, the word comes to those campfires. Your father was Decado Firefist. I’ve met men who served with him. Never heard a bad word said about him. I never met him — though we both served in Gorben’s army. He was cavalry and I’ve never liked horses overmuch.’
‘Were you with the Immortals?’
‘Aye, for a while. Good bunch of lads. No give in them. Proud men.’
‘Were you at Skein?’
‘I was there.’
Another silence deepened. Skilgannon saw the axeman’s eyes narrow.
Then he sighed. ‘Past days are best laid to rest. My wife died while I was at Skein. And my closest friend. It was the end of an era.’ He picked up his helm, wiped his hand round the rim and donned it. ‘Think I’ll find a place to sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to sound maudlin. And damn I hate that.’
Both men rose. The axeman put out his hand. ‘My thanks to you, youngster, for coming to an old man’s aid.’
Skilgannon shook his hand. ‘My pleasure, axeman.’
Then the warrior swept up his axe and walked away.
Skilgannon stayed where he was. The meeting with the axeman, with its easy camaraderie, had warmed him. It had been a long time since he had relaxed so much in the company of another human being. He wished the man had stayed longer.
He sat quietly on the slope. Hearing his father’s nickname of Firefist had opened long locked doors in the halls of his memory. The days immediately after news of Decado’s death reached them had been strange.
Skilgannon, at fourteen, had at first refused to believe it, convincing himself it was a mistake, and that his father would ride home at any moment. Messages of condolence arrived from the court, and soldiers visited him, talking of his father’s greatness. At the last he had to accept the truth. It tore a gaping hole in his heart, and he felt he would die of it.
He had never been so alone.
Decado left a will, instructing Sperian and Molaire to share custody of the boy until his coming of age at sixteen. He had also left two thousand raq — a colossal sum — lodged with a Ventrian merchant he trusted, who had invested it for him. Sperian, who had always been poor, suddenly found himself with access to capital beyond his dreams. Lesser men would have been tempted to appropriate some of it. Decado, however, had always been a fine judge of character. Sperian proved himself worthy of that trust from the start.
Untutored in economics, and unable to write, he engaged Greavas to help him manage the funds, and also tried to take an interest in Skilgannon’s schooling. This was difficult for him, since he understood little of what the boy had to study. Skilgannon did not make it easy at first. His heart was full of bitterness, and he would often rail at Sperian or Greavas, ignoring their instructions. His studies began to suffer, and he was, at the end of the term, demoted to the second class. Instead of accepting that this was a result of his own folly, he shouted at Greavas that he was being victimized because one of his guardians was a freak.
Greavas had packed his bags and left the same night.
Skilgannon had stormed around the house, his anger uncontrollable.
Sperian found him sitting in the garden. The servant was furious.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ he said.
Skilgannon had sworn at him. In that moment Sperian did something no adult had ever done. Stepping in, he backhanded Skilgannon in the face. The boy was half stunned. The gardener, though slim, was a powerful man. ‘And I am ashamed of you,’ he said. Then he walked away.
Standing in the garden, his face burning, Skilgannon felt a terrible rage swell in his heart. His first thought was to find a dagger and stab Sperian to death with it. But then, as swiftly as it had come, his rage died. He sat down beside the small ornamental pond Sperian had built. The man was right.
Molaire found him there an hour later, still lost in his thoughts. ‘I brought you some fruit bread,’ she said,
