mighty warrior. ‘How can you be so good when you are so old?’ he asked.
The axeman laughed aloud. ‘I come from good stock. Truth is, though, I am not as good as I was. No man can resist time. I used to be able to walk thirty miles in a day. Now I’m tired at half that, and I have an ache in my knee and my shoulder when the winter comes, and the rain falls.’
‘Have you been fighting in the war?’
‘No,’ answered Druss. ‘Not my war. I came here looking for an old friend.’
‘Is he a warrior like you?’
Druss laughed. ‘No. He is a fat, frightened fellow with a fear of violence.
A good man, though.’
‘Did you find him?’
‘Not yet. I don’t even know why he came here. He’s a long way from home. He may have returned to Mellicane. I’ll find out in a day or two.’ A tiny trickle of blood was still seeping from the gash in the old man’s temple. Rabalyn watched as he wiped it away.
‘That should be stitched or bandaged,’ he said.
‘Not deep enough for that. It will seal itself. And now I think I’ll get some sleep.’
‘Shall I keep watch?’
‘Aye, laddie. You do that.’
‘You think the beast might come back?’
‘I doubt it. That was a deep cut you gave it. He’s probably hurting too much to think of feeding. But if he does then two great heroes like us should be able to deal with him. Don’t worry overmuch, Rabalyn. I am a light sleeper.’
With that the axeman stretched himself out and closed his eyes.
With Braygan clinging on behind him Skilgannon urged the tired horse down the slope towards the refugees. The steeldust was almost at the end of its strength and stumbled twice.
As he rode Skilgannon scanned the land. He could see no sign of the beasts. Transferring his gaze to the refugees he saw two swordsmen walking at the head of the column. Both were tall, with close-cropped black hair, and both were heavily bearded. They paused as he rode up.
Leaping from the saddle, Skilgannon approached them. ‘Are you in charge here?’ he asked the first warrior. The man cocked his head and looked confused, then swung to the other swordsman.
‘Are we in charge, Jared?’
‘No, Nian. Don’t worry about it. What is it you want?’ he asked Skilgannon. People were milling around now, anxious to hear whatever news the newcomers had brought.
‘There is great danger here,’ Skilgannon told Jared. ‘It will be upon us at any moment.’ Turning away from him Skilgannon pulled Braygan from the saddle, and slapped the rump of the horse. Surprised, it began to run towards the reeds. It had travelled no more than a hundred yards before it swerved to the right. A Joining reared up from the long grass and leapt at it. The horse bolted. Screams of shock came from some of the refugees.
‘Be silent!’ roared Skilgannon, his words booming out. The power in his voice cowed the crowd. They stood silently awaiting instructions. ‘Gather together. Get into as tight a circle as you can. Now! Your lives depend upon it!’ As the crowd began to move Skilgannon shouted again. ‘Every man here with a weapon come to me.’ Men began to shuffle forward. Some had swords, others knives. Several had wooden clubs, or scythes. Turning to the swordsman, Jared, he said: ‘Move to the other side of the circle.
Stay on the outside of it. Do it now!’ Skilgannon turned his attention to the gathering men. ‘There are beasts abroad — Joinings who have escaped from the arena in Mellicane. Already they have killed many refugees.
Spread yourselves around the circle, facing outwards. When the beasts come make as much noise as you can. Scream, shout, clash your weapons.
Do not be drawn away from the circle.’
There were less than twenty armed men. Not enough to form a protective ring round the refugees. Skilgannon called out to the women.
‘We need more for the fighting circle,’ he said. ‘Do any women here carry weapons?’ Around a dozen women moved forward. Most had long knives, but one had a small hatchet. ‘Move alongside the men,’ Skilgannon told them. ‘Everyone else sit down. When the attack comes, take hold of the person closest to you. Keep low to the ground. Do not let any children panic or run. And do not break the circle.’
Braygan stood where he was, staring anxiously towards the reeds, no more than four hundred yards distant. Skilgannon grabbed him by the arm. ‘Go and sit with the women and children,’ he said. ‘You can do nothing here.’
The little priest did as he was bid, easing his way into the huddled refugees and sitting down. He gazed around the circle. It was some thirty feet in diameter. All around it stood the warriors, both men and women, Skilgannon had gathered. Braygan was still in shock. He had seen Brother Lantern fight, but this was a man he had never seen. He watched as Skilgannon moved around the outer edge of the circle, issuing orders.
People were hanging on his every word. He radiated power and authority.
The light was beginning to fail. A weird howling arose from all around them. Children screamed in panic and some people began to rise, ready to run.
‘Be still!’ bellowed Skilgannon. Braygan saw him draw his swords.
A huge Joining reared up and ran at the circle. Skilgannon leapt to meet it. The beast sprang at him. The golden sword in Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out, slicing across the Joining’s belly. Ducking under a sweep of its taloned arm Skilgannon spun. The silver blade in his left hand clove deep into the beast’s neck. It fell to all fours, blood gouting from its wounds. The swordsman, Nian, charged in, bringing his long, two-handed broadsword down onto the Joining’s skull. The creature slumped dead to the ground.
‘Do not break the circle!’ shouted Skilgannon. ‘Hold your line.’
All around them now the beasts were gathering.
‘Stand firm!’ the priest heard Skilgannon shout. His voice was all but drowned out by a dreadful howling that chilled the blood.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SITTING BY THE FIRE, THE SOFT SCENT OF WOODSMOKE
HANGING IN the night air, Rabalyn felt suddenly free of fear. In its place came a sweet melancholy. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and softer, safer days when she would mix stale bread with milk, dried fruit and honey and bake a pudding. They would sit in the evenings by the fire and cut deep slices, savouring each mouthful. In those days Rabalyn dreamed of being a great hero; of striding across the world carrying a magical sword. Of freeing maidens in distress and earning their undying love.
Now he had fought a beast, alongside a truly great warrior. He gazed down at the sleeping man. Druss had come seeking a friend. A kind of quest. Just like old Labbers had said. Warriors were always on quests, according to Labbers. Mostly they were hunting for magical jewels, or other items of sorcery. Or they were really kings in disguise. Rabalyn had loved the stories — even the stupid ones. He could never understand why a succession of otherwise sensible rulers would always send their eldest son on a quest. Surely they knew the first to go always died or got captured.
The second eldest would go. He’d fall down a pit, or get eaten by wolves, or seduced by witches. Finally the king would send his youngest, most inexperienced son. He would finish the quest, find the princess, and live happily ever after. If Rabalyn was a king he would send the youngest son first. He had often giggled during story time. Labbers had grown frustrated. ‘What is so funny, child?’
Rabalyn could never explain. He would just say: ‘Nothing, sir.’
Sometimes the king had no sons. Only daughters. These stories were great favourites among the other children. Rabalyn didn’t like them. The king would be looking for a suitor for his prettiest daughter. Every handsome, rich nobleman would ride in. Of course, they were doomed to failure. The man who would win the hand of the princess would be a kitchen lad, or a stable boy, or a young thief. He would naturally have to prove
