Skilgannon had drawn his swords. Boranius laughed. ‘Pretty. They are copies, you know. In my hands are the originals.’ He raised the Swords of Blood and Fire. ‘Come to me, Olek. I will kill you a piece at a time. Like I killed your friends. Oh, you should have heard them squeal and beg.’
‘Don’t tell me. Show me,’ said Skilgannon.
Boranius had attacked with blistering speed. Even with Malanek’s warning the awesome speed of the man was a surprise. Skilgannon parried desperately, weaving and moving. He knew in those first moments that Boranius was a better swordsman, and that the seer was right. He fought on, blocking and swerving, the Swords of Blood and Fire glittering as they sought his flesh.
Many of the soldiers watching could see their general was doomed. One of them raised a spear and hurled it. It struck Boranius high on the right shoulder, surprising him. Skilgannon launched an attack, the Sword of Night flashing in a searing arc for Boranius’s throat. The blond warrior threw himself back. The blade struck his cheekbone, shearing through his lips and nose. The Sword of Day plunged into Boranius’s chest, and the man fell.
The relief Skilgannon felt was colossal. Enemy cavalry began a counter attack. Skilgannon ordered the waiting soldiers to regroup and ran to his horse. Within an hour the battle was over. Bokram was dead, his head raised on a pike, his surviving soldiers in flight through the valleys.
It should have been the day of his greatest triumph. He had avenged Greavas, and Sperian and Molaire. He had returned Jianna to her rightful place. And yet he had not attended the feast of celebration that night.
Instead the Queen had sent him out, harrying the fleeing troops. That night, as he had learned later, she took another general to her bed, the Prince Peshel Bar, whose cavalry had held the right, and whose power had allowed Jianna to raise her army.
The same Peshel Bar she later had murdered.
Rising from the waterside, Skilgannon dressed and returned to the open air. A convoy of nomads was heading deeper into the mountains. Khalid Khan had remained behind, and was talking to Druss. Skilgannon strolled down to join them.
Khalid Khan embraced the axeman, then turned and walked away.
Diagoras, Rabalyn, Garianne and the twins were close by. Skilgannon approached Druss. ‘Have you spoken with Garianne?’ he asked.
Druss nodded. His face was grey with exhaustion. He had not slept in days. ‘Nadir warriors are coming. She says the Old Woman advised you to move on. Good advice, laddie.’
‘I don’t live my life on her advice. We know which direction they are coming from. I’ll ride out and scout the land. I’ll find a battleground that suits us.’
Druss grinned. ‘She says there are around thirty of them. You plan to attack?’
‘I plan to win,’ said Skilgannon. With that he strode after Khalid Khan and questioned the old nomad about the roads and passes to the northwest, and the water holes and camping places the Nadir would seek out on their way here. They talked for some while, then Skilgannon saddled his gelding and told the company to follow Khalid Khan to a campsite some eight miles northwest. ‘I will meet you there later tonight,’
he said.
Then he rode into the hills.
Following Khalid Khan’s advice Skilgannon rode the mountain paths towards the north, the route rising steadily. It was searingly hot in the open, the air heavy and soporific in the shade. Concentration was difficult.
Skilgannon struggled to maintain his focus. He rode on, picking a path towards a sharp summit rearing high above the surrounding mountains.
From here the land dropped away sharply towards the northwest, the mountain road — such as it was — snaking in a series of half-circles round the flanks of the peaks. Skilgannon dismounted and scanned the land, recalling the descriptions Khalid Khan had given him, fixing the terrain in his mind.
Far below him he could see where the road emerged onto flat land before rising again, twisting and curving up into rugged, dusty hills. Here and there were small stands of gnarled trees, too few to offer cover or a line of safe retreat. Remounting, he moved on, seeking out places which offered concealment, or a defensive perimeter; somewhere from which he could organize a surprise attack. He could rely only on the fighting talents of himself, Druss, Diagoras, Garianne and the twins. The boy Rabalyn was too young and inexperienced. Any Nadir warrior would cut him down in seconds. Then there were other complications. Druss and the twins would be fighting on foot, the Nadir mounted, and probably armed with bows.
Garianne might well be deadly with the small crossbow, but that only accounted for two enemies, not six, in the first moments of conflict. It would be necessary for Garianne to scramble to a place of safety to reload.
Bearing all these things in mind Skilgannon rode on, scanning not only the immediate countryside, but also the distant road, seeking sign of the Nadir. If they were to be at the campsite by morning that probably allowed for a night camp and some rest. It was unlikely they would ride all day and all night before tackling a man like Druss. Though not impossible, he conceded.
Skilgannon had never fought the Nadir, but like most professional soldiers he had studied histories of their race. An offshoot of the Chiatze people, they were nomads, living on the vast steppes of northern Gothir.
Vicious and warlike, they had not proved to be a danger to civilizations like Gothir, or the richer nations to their south, because they were constantly at war with one another, living out ancient blood feuds that sapped the strengths of the tribes from generation to generation. They fought mostly from horseback, their mounts being small, hardy steppe ponies. Preferred weapon was the bow. In close quarters they used shortswords or long knives. Lightly armoured — a breastplate of hardened leather and a fur-rimmed helm, sometimes of iron, but again mostly of leather or wood — they could move fast and fight with a fury unequalled. It was said they had no fear of death, believing that the gods would reward a warrior with great wealth and many wives in the next life.
Locating a hiding place for his mount Skilgannon crawled out to the edge of a high ridge and watched the road. The sun was setting now, and there was still no sign of the enemy. He waited, allowing his mind to relax.
Not so long ago he had twenty thousand soldiers under his command: archers, lancers, spearmen, infantry. Now he had five fighters. Druss was not a concern. If he could get close enough to the enemy he would create carnage among them. Diagoras? Tough and skilled and brave. But could he take out five hardened Nadir warriors? Skilgannon doubted it. Then there were the twins. Good men, but — in truth — nothing special in terms of combat. They would fight hard, and maybe account for two each. Again, if they could get close enough. Garianne was harder to judge, but Skilgannon’s instinct was that she would prove sufficiently deadly.
He saw dust to the northwest. Shading his eyes against the sun setting to his left, he focused on the distant band. A column of riders was moving down the mountainside. Flicking his gaze left he located the jutting rocks, within which Khalid Khan had said there was water. Did the Nadir know of it? The column slowed as it neared the rocks. Two riders split off from the column and rode out of Skilgannon’s sight. A few moments later they returned, and the men in the column dismounted, leading their ponies into the rocks.
Skilgannon counted twenty-seven men in the party.
Easing himself back from the ridge he rose and walked to where his horse was tethered. Darkness was gathering now. Skilgannon sat down with his back against a rock and rested for half an hour. Then he mounted the gelding and set off down the slope to the desert floor, heading slowly towards the distant oasis and the camp of the Nadir.
With a fighting force of six his options were few. They could retreat, and seek to avoid the enemy. This would only delay the inevitable. Or they could fight. The harsh reality, though, was that a Nadir force of almost thirty, once engaged, would win. Skilgannon had made his name as a general not merely by his prowess with a blade. He had a sharp mind, and an instinctive grasp of tactics. His ability to spot a weakness in enemy formations had become legendary. This situation, however, offered few opportunities to use such skill.
He rode on. Would the Nadir put out scouts to watch for enemies? It seemed unlikely, but even so he held to the low ground, riding through high brush where he could. Pulling up in a small stand of pine some two hundred yards from the entrance to the rocks he dismounted, tethering his horse. The scent of woodsmoke was in the air. The Nadir had lit a fire.
Skilgannon squatted down and closed his eyes, sharpening his senses.
After a while he caught the aroma of cooking meat.
