they knew was that their journey to safety now had no purpose. There were no walls to shelter behind. People sat down on the ground. Some wept. Others merely stared vacantly over the landscape. They had left their homes in terror. They feared to go back, and yet now there was no going forward.
Skilgannon galloped his horse towards the northwest, dismounting where the largest group of refugees had gathered. Here he saw several armoured lancers, wearing the yellow cloaks of the Tantrian army, trying to respond to a host of shouted questions, most of which they could not answer. Sitting his gelding Skilgannon gleaned what information there was. The King had killed himself — or been killed by those he believed loyal.
The gates had been thrown open. The Datians had ridden in uncontested.
There had been some looting and stories of attacks on the populace, but the city was now under martial law. The worst incidents had occurred when the arena beasts had been set free. The creatures had moved out into the populated areas, killing indiscriminately until hunted down.
Skilgannon rode back to where Braygan and Rabalyn were waiting. ‘What are we to do?’ asked the little priest.
‘Go on to the city. That is why we came.’
‘Is the war over then?’
‘No,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘Only the first stage. Now the Naashanite army will invade.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Braygan. ‘The Naashanites were our allies.
Why did they not come earlier?’
‘The sheep made an alliance with the wolf, Braygan. The Queen desires to rule these lands. And those of Datia and Dospilis. The Tantrian King is dead. Now the Queen will come as an avenging liberator, and accept the grateful thanks of a frightened people.’
‘Does she have no honour then?’ asked Rabalyn.
‘Honour?’ answered Skilgannon, with a harsh laugh. ‘She is a ruler, boy.
Honour is a cloak she wears when it suits her. You remember the old adage: 'The louder they spoke of their honour, the faster we counted the spoons'? Do not look for ordinary virtues among rulers.’
‘Will it be safe in the city?’ enquired Braygan.
Skilgannon shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that. It will be safer than it was yesterday, though we will have to release the horses and walk in.’
‘Why?’ asked Rabalyn.
Skilgannon saw the hurt on the youth’s face. ‘We have no choice. They are branded, Rabalyn. We took them from dead Datian lancers. You think it wise to ride into a conquered city on stolen horses? We will keep them until the far hills above the city. Then we will let them go. No harm will come to them. Now let us be moving on.’
Swinging his horse, Skilgannon skirted the refugees and cut across the fields. The fall of the city was — at least for Skilgannon — a blessing. With this phase of the war over entry to — and exit from — Mellicane should prove somewhat simpler. Supplies would be more accessible, and the journey north towards Sherak and the deserts of Namib should be less troublesome. The armies of Naashan would be entering from the south.
The armies of Datia and Dospilis would be forced to march in that direction to oppose them. There would be little military activity, therefore, in the north.
They rode on in silence for several hours. The land here was deceptive, apparently flat, and yet filled with concealed gullies and dips. Skilgannon rode slowly and carefully. His trained eyes scanned the area. This would be one place to ambush an invading army. A large force could be hidden in these gullies, or in the reeds alongside the streams. Skilgannon had planned many such surprise attacks during the early days of the Naashanite uprising.
Once more they came upon refugees, ever more weary as they plodded on towards an uncertain future. They were wading through a sea of reeds, trying to create a shortcut to the hills. The ground below the horses’
hooves was waterlogged and spongy, and, with the mass of people heading northwest, the going was slow. On horseback Skilgannon could just see over the tops of the reeds. They went on for close to another half- mile.
Swarms of midges rose up, clustering around the faces of the riders and their mounts. The horses tossed their heads and flicked their ears. The heat rose, and Skilgannon felt sweat trickling down his back.
From somewhere ahead came a scream of pure terror. Skilgannon reined in his mount. Across the top of the reeds he saw a body fly up, and twist in the air. Then came another scream — harshly cut off in mid-cry.
People began streaming back past Skilgannon, running for their lives.
This sudden movement startled the horses. Skilgannon’s mount reared and he fought for control. Braygan was dumped from the saddle, his horse turning and galloping back towards the south. Rabalyn’s horse bolted past Skilgannon, the boy wrestling with the reins.
A slight breeze began to blow through the reeds. Skilgannon’s horse caught the scent. Despite the skill of its rider the gelding suddenly trembled, reared again and swung away, bolting after Braygan’s riderless mount.
Skilgannon had little choice but to let his horse run for a while, keeping a light but constant pressure on the reins. As it reached firmer ground Skilgannon spoke to it in a gentle voice, and sat back in the saddle. ‘Whoa now, boy!’ he said. Clear of what it perceived as the initial danger the gelding heeded the commands, dropped back into a lope and finally halted. Skilgannon patted its long neck, and swung it back towards the north.
He scanned the reeds, now some quarter of a mile distant. People were still running in every direction.
Then he saw the beast.
It was around seven feet high, covered in black fur. For a moment Skilgannon thought it to be a bear, but then it turned. The body tapered down from powerful shoulders and long arms to a slimmer waist and long legs. The head was huge and hunched forward on a massive neck, the jaws elongated like a wolf’s. Blood stained its teeth and throat. The great head swung from side to side, then the beast darted forward, the speed impressive for something so large. Bearing down on a fleeing woman it leapt to her back, its fangs crunching down on her skull. The woman collapsed, instantly dead. Another beast, its fur a mottled grey, emerged from the reeds, and ran at the first. Rearing up, they struck at each other.
The black beast gave way, moving back, and the grey newcomer moved in to feed.
Skilgannon had heard of the arena beasts, but never seen one. It was said they were created by renegade Nadir shamen in the pay of the Tantrian King. He had heard talk of bizarre rites where prisoners were dragged from their dungeons and magically melded with wolves, bears or dogs.
At that moment he saw Braygan stumble from the reeds, some two hundred yards from the feeding beast.
Skilgannon swore, and heeled the gelding into a run. The grey-coated creature looked up, but ignored both the horseman and the staggering priest. Not so the black-furred one, who had been robbed of his feed.
Dropping to all fours he charged at Braygan.
The gelding, at full run, bore down on the priest. Skilgannon glanced back. There would be no room for error now. Braygan had seen the wolf creature and was trying to run away. Skilgannon leaned over in his saddle and guided the gelding alongside the fleeing man. Grabbing his robe he hauled him from his feet, throwing him over the pommel. Braygan landed with a grunt. The gelding continued to run. Skilgannon turned him, heading back towards the hills. He glanced over his shoulder. The beast was gaining.
The gelding thundered on. Braygan, the pommel horn digging into his ribs, tried to wriggle clear of it.
‘Keep still, idiot!’ yelled Skilgannon.
The gelding jerked and whinnied. Skilgannon looked back. The beast had dropped to its haunches and given up the chase. But there was blood on the gelding’s hindquarters, and the bloody marks of talons upon its back.
It had been close.
Skilgannon rode on. The terrified gelding struggled up the slope. At the top Skilgannon unceremoniously dumped Braygan from its back. Then he dismounted and checked the horse’s wound. There were three parallel slashes, but they were not deep.
The black creature watched them from some three hundred yards distant, then turned and ambled back towards the reeds.
Braygan came to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer. ‘I thank thee, Great Lord in Heaven,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘I thank thee for this life, and for sparing me upon this day.’
