rim of the wall. Drawing himself up, he rolled across the parapet and dropped to the earth below. Lanterns were burning inside the house, but he could see no movement. Keeping low, he crept to the shed where Sperian kept his tools. Inside he found a sharp pruning knife with a short, curved blade and a wooden handle.
Armed with this he darted across the garden and into the building. In the doorway he paused and listened. He could hear no sounds. Moving further inside, and avoiding the windows opening to the front of the house, he checked the main living room. It was empty. Further on he heard strange, gurgling sounds. Taking a deep breath he pushed open the door to the kitchen. A lantern had been set on the table, and by its light he saw the blood- covered, mutilated body of Sperian. Blood had also splashed to the walls of the cupboards, and had seeped across the floor. The dying man made a sound, blood bubbling from a puncture wound in his throat.
Dropping the pruning knife Skilgannon knelt beside him. Sperian lifted a hand. It had no fingers. His face had been slashed with a knife, the skin hanging from the wounds. His eyes had been put out. ‘Oh, my friend!’ said Skilgannon, his voice breaking. ‘Oh, what have they done to you?’
Sperian jerked at the sound of his voice, and tried to speak. No articulate sound came. Blood pumped from the wounds in his throat.
Skilgannon stared down at the tortured man. Then he realized what he was trying to mouth. It was a single word.
Mo.
In the midst of such terrible pain he was asking about his wife.
‘She is fine,’ said Skilgannon, tears in his eyes. ‘She is well, my friend. Be at peace.’
Sperian relaxed then. Skilgannon took hold of his wrist. There was not enough hand to hold. ‘I will avenge this, my friend. I swear this on the soul of my father.’
Sperian lay quietly. The blood ceased to flow. Skilgannon began to weep. ‘I thank you for all you have done for me, Sperian,’ he said, through his sobs. ‘You have been a father to me, and a friend. May your journey end in peace and light.’ Struggling to control his grief, he took a silver coin from his pouch and put it into the dead man’s mouth. Then he rose and moved further back into the house.
Molaire had been murdered in their bedroom. She had been hacked around the face, and her eyes, too, had been cut out. Her hands had not been mutilated, and Skilgannon placed a coin in her right hand, closing her dead fingers around it. ‘Sperian is waiting for you, Mo,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘May your journey end in peace and light.’
Then he walked upstairs to his own room. It had been ransacked.
Pushing aside the chest in which he kept spare shirts, he reached into the recess hidden in the wall beyond and drew out a small box. From it he took the twelve gold coins and a few silvers. Dropping them into his pouch he opened the chest and pulled out a dark pair of leather leggings. Kicking off his sandals, he donned the leggings, and a brown hooded overshirt.
Lastly he tugged on a pair of knee-length riding boots. Once fully dressed he chose other clothes. Stuffing them into a canvas backpack he slung it to his shoulders.
Then he made his way to his father’s old room. From a chest in the corner he lifted clear a shortsword in a black leather scabbard. He also found a sheathed hunting knife with a bone handle. Threading a belt through the loops in both scabbards he swung it round his hips and buckled it. Drawing the sword he tested the edge. It was still sharp.
He stood very quietly, thinking out what to do next.
Common sense told him to leave the house the way he had come, and creep back through the fields. But his burning heart and soul had another plan. The old woman said Boranius had left four men to watch the house.
One of them was Casensis. They were watching out for an untried youth.
Little more than a schoolboy.
Well, they would find him.
Skilgannon walked to the front door and, throwing it open, walked outside onto the narrow, tree-bordered street. As he crossed towards the trees two men came running from cover. Both held swords. Dropping his pack Skilgannon drew his own blade and darted in to meet them, plunging the shortsword into the first man’s belly. It went deep, but the blood channel carved into the blade allowed him to drag it clear with ease. The second man’s sabre slashed for Skilgannon’s head. Ducking beneath the swing he clove his own blade through the man’s throat. Before his opponent had fallen Skilgannon ran towards the trees. Another man reared up, scrabbling for his sword. Skilgannon killed him before he could draw it. A shadow moved to Skilgannon’s right.
It was Casensis. The man tried to run, but Skilgannon chased him down, cracking the flat of his sword against his skull. Casensis fell heavily.
In the bright moonlight Skilgannon could see that the front of Casensis’s tunic shirt was covered in blood. Dried spots of blood were also on his face and brow. Grabbing him by the tunic he hauled the semi-conscious man back into the trees. Casensis struggled. Skilgannon struck him again, this time with the pommel of the sword. Casensis sagged back to the ground, groaning.
Skilgannon leaned over him. ‘When Boranius returns, tell him that I will find him. Not today, or tomorrow. But I will find him. Can you remember that?’ Skilgannon slapped the man’s face. ‘Answer me!’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Skilgannon’s fist cracked against the man’s jaw, jolting his head. Satisfied that he was unconscious Skilgannon stood and looked around. Close by was a flat stone. Dragging it to Casensis’s side he laid the man’s left hand upon it, then splayed the fingers. He raised the shortsword, bringing it down with all his strength. The blade sliced through the first three fingers, severing them. The smallest finger had curled back and escaped the cut. Skilgannon moved the stone to the other side of the unconscious man, and repeated the manoeuvre, this time cutting away all four fingers and the thumb.
The pain roused Casensis and he screamed. Skilgannon knelt on his chest and drew his hunting knife.
‘You also took her eyes, you piece of scum. Now exist without yours!’
The scream that came from Casensis was almost bestial.
It was still echoing in his mind as he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Druss and Garianne standing beside the table. The tavern was almost full now.
‘Are you feeling better, laddie?’ Skilgannon nodded. ‘Then let’s go. We’ve kept the Old Woman waiting long enough. And I have other tasks to complete today.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Skilgannon’s head was pounding, and his mouth was dry as he walked beside Druss and Garianne. As they moved along the dock-side he heard someone running behind them, and swung back. It was Rabalyn. The youth came up to him. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘To see a sorceress,’ said Druss. ‘Be careful what you say, boy. I don’t want to be carrying you back as a frog.’
‘You were right,’ replied Rabalyn, ‘you are not good at jokes.’
‘A man cannot be good at everything,’ said Druss amiably.
They walked on. Skilgannon paused at a well, drew up a bucket of water and drank deeply. Bright colours were dancing before his eyes and his stomach felt queasy. He could not shake the memory of that dreadful night back in the capital. Images of the dead Sperian and the mutilated Molaire would not leave him.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Rabalyn, as they moved on.
‘I am fine.’
‘Your face looks grey.’
They came at last to the Drenai Gate. Today there were six soldiers there, in bright helms and red cloaks. The guards greeted Druss warmly, and warned the travellers of the riots that had spread through the city in the night. ‘You should have brought your axe, Druss,’ said one man.
Druss shook his head. ‘Not today, laddie. Today is just a quiet stroll.’
The men glanced at one another and said nothing more.
