The day is not over,’ observed Skilgannon.
They sat upon the hillside for almost an hour, until the light began to fail. Then Skilgannon saw movement to the south. Another large group of refugees came into sight, emerging from a fold in the land. They were walking towards the reeds.
‘Sweet Heaven!’ said Braygan. ‘They will be torn to pieces.’
Rabalyn became aware of pain in his head. It began as a soft thumping, then grew alarmingly. A feeling of nausea swept through him and he groaned and opened his eyes. He was lying on the grass, a little way from a line of trees. With another groan he sat up and looked around. Some distance away he could see the edge of the reed marsh. Beside him there was a splash of blood on the surface of a flat rock. He stared at it for a moment, then reached up to his head. His hand came away sticky. He wiped his fingers on the grass, leaving a red smear.
Then he remembered the horse bolting, racing along the edge of the marsh. He had clung to the pommel horn, fighting to stay in the saddle.
That was when the horror had surged from the reeds. Rabalyn had only caught a glance as the horse raced by, but what he saw was enough to chill his heart. The beast was massive, with slavering jaws. It stood upright like a bear, but its head was that of a wolf. The creature lunged at the horse and struck it. Rabalyn was hurled to his left, but clung on as the horse stumbled. Then it righted itself and sped away. It had galloped for some minutes, then had stumbled again. At the last its neck dipped and Rabalyn was hurled through the air. His head had obviously struck the rock.
The youth struggled to his feet and turned. The dead horse lay some fifteen feet distant. Rabalyn cried out in anguish, and ran to it. There was a deep and bloody wound in its flank. Flesh and sinew hung from it, trailing down into a deep, congealing pool of blood.
The pain in his head forgotten, Rabalyn knelt down and stroked the horse’s mane. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said.
From the distance came a weird and blood-chilling howl.
Rabalyn scrambled to his feet. The horse was dead, but the scent of its blood would carry on the wind. He had to get as far from it as possible.
Turning, he stumbled up the hill and into the trees. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to put distance between himself and the carcass. His head began to pound again. Falling to his knees, he vomited.
Then he struggled on. The undergrowth was thick, and he skirted it, looking for a tree which he could climb. But his limbs felt leaden, and he did not know if he had the strength to haul himself into the branches.
The dreadful howling sounded again. Rabalyn could not tell if it was closer now, but in his terror he believed it was. Coming to a large oak, he began to climb. His foot slipped and he fell back, landing with a jarring thud on the ground. As he tried to rise a shadow loomed over him. Panic swept through him.
‘Easy, laddie,’ said a deep voice. ‘I’ll not harm you.’
Rabalyn blinked. Before him stood the ancient axeman who had killed the lancers. Up close he seemed even more fearsome, with his glittering pale grey eyes. His beard was black and silver, and he wore a black leather jerkin, reinforced at the shoulders with shining steel. Upon his head was a round black helm, edged with silver. Rabalyn’s eyes were drawn to the huge axe he carried. The blades looked like butterfly wings, flaring up into two points. The haft was black, and runes were embossed there in silver.
‘What happened to your head?’ asked the axeman, kneeling down, and placing his axe on the ground.
‘I fell off my horse.’
‘Let me look.’ The axeman probed the wound. ‘I don’t think you’ve cracked your skull. Looks like a glancing blow. Torn the skin a bit. Where are your friends?’
‘I don’t know. My horse bolted when the beasts attacked.’ Fear returned and Rabalyn scrambled up. ‘We must climb a tree. They are coming.’
‘Be calm, laddie.
Rabalyn told the axeman what he had seen, and how his horse was dead, half its belly ripped open by sharp talons. ‘They may have killed my friends,’ he said.
The axeman shrugged. ‘Maybe. I doubt the swordsman is dead. He seemed a canny man to me.’ Glancing up at the darkening sky he rose.
‘Let’s find a place to camp. We’ll light a fire and you can rest awhile.’
‘The beasts…’
‘They’ll either come or they won’t. Nothing I can do about that. Come on.’ Reaching out, he pulled Rabalyn to his feet, then took up his axe and walked back through the trees. Rabalyn followed him. A little while later the axeman reached a natural clearing. Two old oaks had fallen, creating a partial wall to the west. With his boot the axeman scraped away twigs and tinder, clearing a spot for a fire. He told Rabalyn to gather dry wood, and, when the boy had done so, took out a small tinder box and struck a flame.
The darkness deepened. Rabalyn sat down beside the fire. He still felt a little sick, but his headache was passing.
‘Brother Lantern said you were with the Immortals.’
‘Brother Lantern?’
‘The swordsman who helped you.’
‘Ah. Yes, I was for a while.’
‘Why did you attack those soldiers?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I thought at first you were protecting your family, or some friends. But you are travelling alone. So why did you fight?’
‘Good question. What is your name?’
‘Rabalyn.’
‘And why are you heading for Mellicane, Rabalyn?’
The youngster told him about the attack on his house, and the death of Aunt Athyla. At the last he also admitted the killing of Todhe, and the shame he felt.
‘He brought it on himself,’ said the axeman. ‘No point losing sleep over it. All actions have consequences. I used to argue all the time with a friend of mine. He’d talk endlessly of what he called the potential of Man. He’d say even the most evil were capable of good. He’d witter on about redemption, and such like. Maybe he was right. I don’t bother myself with such thoughts.’
‘Have you killed lots of people?’ asked Rabalyn.
‘Lots,’ agreed the axeman.
‘Were they all evil?’
‘No. Most were soldiers, fighting for their own cause. As I was fighting for mine. It is a harsh world, Rabalyn. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better come morning.’
‘You didn’t say why you attacked those soldiers,’ the youngster pointed out.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Rabalyn stretched out and looked up at the forbidding figure seated beside the fire. He noticed then that the axeman was not facing the flames, but was looking out into the gathering darkness.
‘You think they will come?’ asked the boy.
‘If they do they’ll regret it. Go to sleep.’
For a little while Rabalyn forced himself to stay awake. The axeman did not speak, and the boy lay very still, staring up at the seated figure. The glare from the flickering fire made the axeman appear even older. The lines on his face were deep. Rabalyn saw him pick up his axe. The muscles on his forearm rippled as his huge hand curled round the haft. ‘Have you ever been frightened?’ asked Rabalyn.
‘Aye, once or twice. My wife had a weak heart. Several times she collapsed. I knew fear then.’
‘Not now, though?’
‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, laddie. We live. We die. A wise man once told me that one day even the sun will fade, and all will be darkness.
Everything dies. Death isn’t important. What counts is how you live.’
‘What happened to your wife?’
‘She’s gone, boy. Five years now.’ The axeman threw a chunk of wood to the fire and the flames rippled
