Following Greavas’s advice he began to run through the streets, cutting through the alleyways, and up the steep Hill of the Cedars. Priests in yellow robes were leaving the domed temple, and he darted between them, continuing on to the old academy buildings. They had been sold several years before, and the barracks had been refashioned into apartments for rich visitors to Naashan. Close to the palace, they made ideal temporary homes for visiting courtiers and ambassadors.
One of the guards at the gate waved at Skilgannon as the youth ran by.
They had long since ceased to ask him for his pass. This both pleased and disturbed the lad. It made access to Malanek more swift, yet it was sloppy.
Many of the residents of the Old Academy were powerful men. As Decado had once explained, all powerful men have enemies. It was a natural law.
If the guards became complacent, then one day the wrong person would be allowed in, and blood would flow.
However, it was not his problem. Skilgannon ran up the stone stairs to the former dining hall. It was now an indoor exercise area, equipped with climbing ropes, vaulting frames, baths and massage areas. There were targets for bowmen and javelin throwers, and a long rack of swords, some of wood, but others of sharp iron. A separate rack held smaller projectile weapons: knives and shimmering circular pieces with serrated edges.
Malanek was waiting by the far sword rack, testing the balance of a matched pair of sabres. Skilgannon paused to watch the swordmaster. He was tall and, though appearing slender, was powerfully built. The lower part of his head had been shaved up to the ears and around to the temples. The dark hair of his crown was cropped short into a wedge-shaped crest at the front, while at the back it fell away like a horse’s tail. He was naked from the waist up. Upon his chest was a tattooed panther and both forearms were also tattooed, one with a spider, the other with a snake that wound around his arm, the head emerging on his right shoulder. The swordmaster did not acknowledge the boy’s presence.
Instead he walked out to the centre of the hall.
He swung the sabres gently, then, with increasing pace, he began to leap and twirl, loosening his body. Malanek had incredible grace.
Skilgannon waited in excited anticipation for the finale. He always enjoyed it. Malanek flipped the blades into the air, then launched himself into a forward roll. As he came to his feet he raised his arms, his fingers closing on the hilts of the spinning swords. Skilgannon clapped. Malanek bowed, but did not smile. Without a word he flung one of the blades towards Skilgannon. The razor sharp sword spun through the air.
Skilgannon focused on it, then swiftly stepped to the side, his hand snaking for the hilt. He almost had it, but it slipped from his fingers. The blade clattered down, glancing from his bare leg. A little blood began to flow.
Malanek strolled forward and examined the shallow cut. ‘Ah, it is nothing,’ he said. ‘It will seal itself. Go and prepare.’
‘I almost had it.’
‘Almost doesn’t count. You tried to think it into your hand. Can’t do that, boy.’
For two hours Malanek pushed Skilgannon through a gruelling set of exercises: running, climbing, vaulting and lifting. Every ten minutes or so he would allow one minute of rest, then begin again. At the last he took the two sabres, handed one to Skilgannon, then launched into a sudden attack. Skilgannon was surprised. Normally he was told to buckle on the padded leather chest armour, and the arm protectors. Often, when the practice was intense, Malanek would insist he also wear a head guard.
Now he had nothing. He defended himself as best he could. Malanek was also devoid of armour, and Skilgannon made no attempt to pierce his guard. The swordmaster stepped back. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
he asked coldly.
‘Defending myself, sir.’
‘And the best method of defence is?’
‘Attack. But you are wearing…’
‘Understand me, boy,’ snapped Malanek. ‘This session will end with blood. Either mine or yours. Now raise your blade, or place it on the floor and leave.’
Skilgannon looked at the man, then placed his sabre on the floor, and swung towards the stairs.
‘Are you frightened?’ hissed Malanek. Skilgannon turned.
‘Only of hurting you, sir,’ he said.
‘Come here.’ Skilgannon walked back to the swordmaster. ‘Look at my body. See the scars. This one,’ he said, tapping his chest, ‘was a lance I thought had killed me. And this was a dagger thrust. And this,’ he went on, pointing to a jagged cut alongside the snake head on his shoulder, ‘was given to me by your friend Boranius during a practice. I bleed and I survive. We can play in this room with our blades for an eternity and you will never be a warrior. Because until you face a genuine threat you cannot know how you will cope with it. Follow me.’ The swordmaster walked to the far wall. There was a shelf there. Upon it he had laid bandages, a curved needle and a length of thread, a jug of wine and a jar of honey. ‘One of us will bleed today. The likelihood is that it will be you, Olek. Pain and suffering. If you are skilled when we fight the wound will be small. If not, it may be serious. You might even die.’
‘This makes no sense,’ said Skilgannon.
‘And war does?’ countered Malanek. ‘Make your choice. Leave or fight.
If you leave I never want to see you again in my training hall.’
Skilgannon wanted to leave, but, at fifteen, he could not have borne the shame of such a withdrawal. ‘I shall fight,’ he said.
‘Then let us do it.’
Sitting now in the woods Skilgannon remembered the pain of the stitches. The cut on his chest was some seven inches long. He had bled like a stuck pig. The wound had pained him for weeks. The fight had been intense, and somewhere within it, he had forgotten that Malanek was his teacher. As the blades whirled and clashed Skilgannon had fought as if his life depended on the outcome. At the last he had risked death to send a deadly lunge at Malanek’s throat. Only the speed and innate skill of the swordmaster had allowed him to duck and sway away from the death stroke. Even so the point had opened his cheek, spraying blood into the air.
Only in that moment did Skilgannon realize that — even as he avoided the death thrust — Malanek’s blade had sliced across his chest. He stepped back as the blood began to flow. Malanek had turned his own blade at the last possible second, merely scoring the skin. Had he wished he could have plunged the sabre through Skilgannon’s heart.
The two combatants had looked at one another. ‘I hope one day to have half your skill,’ the boy had said.
‘You will be better, Olek. One more year and I will have nothing more to teach you. You will be a fine swordsman. One of the best.’
‘As good as Boranius?’
‘Hard to say, boy. Men like Boranius are rare. He is a natural killer, with faster hands than any man I’ve ever known.’
‘Could you beat him?’
‘Not any more. His skills surpass mine. Already he is as good as Agasarsis, and they don’t come much better than that.’
By mid-morning the travellers had made some eleven miles, emerging from thick forests and out onto rolling farmland. They rode along the column of refugees, hundreds of weary people trudging towards a place they hoped would offer at least transient security. Heavy clouds masked the sun, and the day was grey and cool. Braygan had at last managed to find his rhythm in the saddle — at least for the trot. The canter saw him bounce awkwardly and grip the saddle pommel. Skilgannon took to riding ahead, scanning the land for sign of hostile riders. He saw several cavalry patrols, but none approached the refugees.
As afternoon faded towards dusk the clouds cleared, and bright sunshine shone on the column. It lifted the spirits of the fleeing people.
Far ahead Skilgannon saw that the refugees had stopped walking. They were milling around. The news that had halted the column flowed back faster than a brush fire.
Mellicane had fallen. No-one knew what had become of the Tantrian King, or the remnants of his army. All
