breathe in the sea air.’
Diagoras moved into the seat vacated by the Naashanite killer and glanced at the half-empty flagon of Lentrian red. ‘I do believe you started without me, old fellow,’ he said, lifting it and filling a goblet.
‘You need all the help you can get, boy.’
Diagoras watched as the Naashanite left the tavern. ‘You are mixing with dark company, Druss. He is a butchering madman.’
‘I have been called that myself,’ Druss pointed out. ‘Anyway, I like him.
He came to my aid a few days ago. An evil man would not have risked himself. And he helped a group of refugees against the arena beasts.
There’s more to Skilgannon than tales of butchery. Did you report his presence?’
‘Yes. Gan Sentrin is unconcerned. It seems the Damned is no longer an officer of Naashan. The Witch Queen has put a price on his head. He is an outlaw.’
‘Aye, he told me.’ Druss settled back in his chair, then rubbed at his eyes. Diagoras thought he looked tired. There was more silver in his beard than there had been at Skein. Time, as the poet once said, was a never ending river of cruelty. Diagoras sipped his wine. He wanted to say more about the vile Skilgannon. He wanted to ask how a hero like Druss could find anything to like about him, but he knew Druss well enough to recognize when the older man was finished with a conversation. His grey eyes would become bleak, and his face harden. Diagoras understood this aspect of him well. In a world of shifting shades of grey Druss the Legend struggled to see everything in black or white. A man was good or evil in Druss’s eyes. It was, however, hard to comprehend how he could hold to that view in this case. Druss was no fool. Diagoras sat quietly. The wine was good, and he always enjoyed the company of the older axeman. He might be naive in his view of life, thought Diagoras, but there was always a sense of certainty around him. It was reassuring. After a while he spoke again.
‘Did you hear that Manahin is now serving in Abalayn’s government?’
he asked. ‘One of the heroes of Skein. He always has his campaign medal on his cloak.’
‘He earned it,’ replied Druss. ‘Where is yours?’
‘Lost it in a dice game a couple of years ago. To be honest, Druss, I lost too many friends there to want to be reminded of it. And I’m sick of people telling me they wish they could have been there with me. Damn, but I’d give a sack of gold
‘You’ll get no argument from me, laddie. I lost friends on both sides. It would be good to think it was all worthwhile.’
The comment shocked Diagoras. ‘Worthwhile? It kept us free.’
‘Aye, it did. But because of it these eastern lands were plunged into war.
It never ends, does it?’ Druss drank deeply, then refilled his goblet. ‘Ah, don’t mind me, Diagoras. Sometimes the wine brings a darkness to my mind. What news of Orastes’s servant?’
‘The surgeon gave him something to help him sleep. He was hard used, Druss, and greatly terrified. As far as we can ascertain he was in that dungeon around two months. It is likely Orastes was with him.’
‘Imprisoned? It makes no sense. Why?’
‘I can’t answer that. The situation here has been chaotic. No-one knew what was going on. For the last few weeks we’ve kept all the embassy quarter gates locked. There have been riots, and murders, and hangings.
The King went insane, Druss. Utterly. Word is that he ran around his own palace attacking his guards with a ceremonial sword, shouting that he was the God of War. He was cut down by his own general, Ironmask. That’s when the Tantrians surrendered and opened the gates to the Datians. Just as well, in the end. You know what would have happened had the city fallen by storm?’
‘Rape, plunder and butchery,’ said Druss. ‘I know. Skilgannon said it earlier. If the Tantrians had been better led they’d have suffered more. So, why would Orastes have been imprisoned?’
‘We can make little sense of it, Druss. All I have been able to learn is that his reasons for coming to Mellicane were personal and not official.
Every day he went out into the city, sometimes with his servant, sometimes without. You’ll need to speak to the man, but be aware, my friend, that Orastes is probably dead.’
‘If he is,’ said Druss coldly, ‘I’ll find the men who did it, and the men who ordered it.’
‘Well, if you’re still here in four days I’ll join you,’ said Diagoras. ‘My commission runs out then and I’m leaving the army. I’ll help you find out what happened, then I’ll head back to Drenan. Time I got married and sired a few sons to look after me when I’m in my dotage.’
‘I’ll be glad to have you, laddie. Put enemies in front of me and I know just how to deal with them. But this search has me foxed.’
‘There was a rumour Orastes was seen heading southeast about a month ago. It must have been put out by those who had him imprisoned.
Is that where you’ve been?’
‘Aye. He was said to be riding his white gelding, and accompanied by a group of soldiers. It turned out to be a merchant who bore a passing resemblance to Orastes, tall, plump and fair-haired. The soldiers were his bodyguards. I caught up with them in a market village sixty miles from here. The gelding had belonged to Orastes. The merchant had a bill of sale, signed by the earl. I know his handwriting. It was genuine.’
‘Well, tomorrow — hopefully — we’ll be able to speak with the servant.
Now, are you ready for that drinking contest?’
‘No, laddie,’ said Druss, ‘tonight the meal and the drinks are on me.
We’ll sit and do what old soldiers are renowned for. We’ll talk about past days and old glories. We’ll discuss the problems of the world, and — as the wine flows — we’ll come up with a hundred grand ideas to put everything to rights.’ He chuckled. ‘And when we wake tomorrow with aching heads we’ll have forgotten all of them.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Diagoras, raising his hand and summoning the tavern girl. ‘Two flagons of Lentrian red, my dear, and some larger goblets, if you please.’
Skilgannon wandered along the dock, skirting the quays where weary men were still unloading cargo. The sounds of the sea lapping against the harbour walls was soothing, as was the smell of seaweed and salt air.
Mellicane had been lucky this time. They had surrendered early. There had been little time for simmering angers to build into blind hatreds among the besieging troops. The longer a siege went on, the more the darkness swelled in the hearts of the besiegers. Men would lose friends, or brothers, to sniper fire or accident. They would stare at the ramparts, anger building, and dream of revenge. Once the walls were breached the invaders would swarm through the city like avenging demons, hacking and killing until the insanity of rage was purged from their hearts.
He shivered, recalling the horrors of Perapolis. The people of Mellicane probably felt themselves safe now, with this small war at an end.
Skilgannon wondered how they would feel when the armies of Naashan descended upon them.
I will be long gone by then, he decided.
Walking out to a deserted jetty he stood and watched the reflected moon, lying broken upon the waves. Jianna would probably already have men searching for him. One day they would find him. They would step from a darkened alleyway, or emerge from the shadows of the trees. Or they would come upon him as he was sitting quietly in a tavern, his mind on other matters. It was unlikely they would announce their presence, or seek to fight him, man to man. Even without the Swords of Night and Day Skilgannon was deadly. With them he was almost invincible.
He heard stealthy footfalls on the planks behind him and turned. Two men were moving towards him. They were dressed in ragged clothes, which were wet through. Both carried knives in their hands. He guessed they had entered the water below the embassy quarter gates and had swum through to the docks. Both were thin, haggard and middle-aged.
Skilgannon watched them as they approached. ‘Give us your coin,’
demanded the first, ‘and you’ll not get hurt.’
‘I will not be hurt anyway,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Now best you be on your way, for I have no wish to kill you.’ The man’s shoulders sagged, but his comrade pushed past him and rushed at Skilgannon. The warrior blocked the knife thrust with his forearm, hooked his foot behind the man’s leg and sent him crashing to the deck. As his assailant struggled to rise Skilgannon trod on his knife hand. The attacker cried out in pain, the knife slipping from his fingers. Skilgannon scooped it up. ‘Stay where you are,’ he told the fallen man, then turned to his comrade.
