Moving out on foot he approached the rocks, climbing silently above the Nadir camp. There were two fires, a dozen men round each. This left three. Skilgannon waited. Another man emerged from the shadows. After a while a second came into sight. This one was naked, carrying his clothes in a bundle. Skilgannon guessed he had been swimming.
So where was the last man?
Was he even now creeping towards Skilgannon’s position?
The answer was not long in coming. A second naked man came in from the rock pool. There were ribald comments from his friends. The man dressed swiftly and approached the fires.
All twenty-seven Nadir were in sight. Skilgannon settled down to wait.
An hour drifted by. Some of the warriors, having eaten, stretched out on the ground and slept. Several others squatted in a circle and began to gamble with knuckle-bones. This told Skilgannon a great deal about them.
They had set no sentries, and therefore were confident that no danger threatened. Why should it? They were hunting — at worst — a few travellers, and at best a single, ageing axeman and his companion. Why would they be worried? It was vital, Skilgannon knew, that warriors remained confident. Only confident men achieved victory. The good leader, however, watched out for the subtle movement between confidence and arrogance.
An arrogant army carried the seeds of its own destruction. The secret to defeating them lay in the ability of the enemy to nurture those seeds; to introduce doubt and fear.
He knew then what he had to do.
But it bothered him. It would be high risk, and the chances of surviving were low. For another hour he worked through other strategies, but none would yield such high rewards. Having exhausted all the possibilities he began to prepare, sitting quietly, eyes closed, settling himself into the illusion of elsewhere. Fear and stress melted away. Rising, he drew both swords and made his way down the rocks.
The Nadir had set one night sentry at the entrance to the oasis. The man was sitting with his back to a tree, head down. Skilgannon knelt in the shadows watching the man for some minutes. The Nadir did not move. He had fallen asleep. Rising from his hiding place Skilgannon crept forward. His left hand clamped over the man’s mouth. The Sword of Night sliced across the Nadir’s throat. Blood spurted. The man jerked once — and died.
Moving through to the centre of the campsite Skilgannon stood for a moment among the sleeping men. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Awake!’ he bellowed. Men rolled from their blankets, scrambling to their feet.
Skilgannon stepped towards the first. The Sword of Day slashed through his neck, decapitating him. A second man was disembowelled as Skilgannon spun and sent the Sword of Night plunging into his belly.
Nadir warriors dived for their weapons. Several grabbed swords and rushed at the newcomer. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Blocking and parrying. The Sword of Night sliced open a man’s jugular, and he fell back into his comrades. Then Skilgannon was among them, swords cutting into flesh and severing bone.
They fell back from his fury. Spinning on his heel Skilgannon darted back towards where the Nadir had tethered their ponies. A warrior ran to head him off. Skilgannon dived below a ferocious cut, rolled on his shoulder, and came up running. The ponies were in two lines, each row held by a picketing rope. Slicing his blade through the first tether, he spun in time to parry a lunge. His riposte plunged the Sword of Day into the Nadir’s chest. The Nadir ponies whinnied and reared, breaking free.
Moving back Skilgannon slashed his sword through the second picket rope, then pushed himself in among the nervous mounts.
Sheathing one of his swords he gave a high-pitched wolf howl. This was too much for the ponies. The sudden movement around them, and the smell of blood, had made them skittish. The bestial howl was enough to send them running. Nadir warriors, still trying to reach Skilgannon, made an effort to block the ponies’ escape. Skilgannon grabbed the mane of one mount as it passed and vaulted to its back. An arrow slashed past his face.
Giving another howl he slapped the flat of his sword against the pony’s rump and galloped through the camp. Two more arrows flashed past him.
A third sliced into the pony’s shoulder, making it stagger. It did not go down, but followed the rest of the herd out onto the desert floor.
Skilgannon rode to where his own horse was tethered and jumped down from the pony. Mounting his gelding he swung round to see Nadir warriors racing from the rocks. ‘Come to me tomorrow, my children,’ he called. ‘We will dance again!’
Kicking his horse into a gallop, he rode away from the furious Nadir.
He had been lucky, but even so he was disappointed. He had hoped to kill at least ten of the enemy, reducing the odds for tomorrow. Instead he had slain five or six, maybe seven. Several others were wounded, but their cuts could be stitched readily enough. He doubted the wounds would stop them. Riding southeast he came up behind a dozen or so of the Nadir ponies, and continued to herd them away from the rocks, forcing them further and further from their riders. Several of them were still saddled, and hanging from the saddles were horn bows and quivers of arrows.
Skilgannon rode alongside the mounts, lifting clear the weapons and hooking them over his saddle pommel. Then he left the ponies, and set off up the snaking mountain road to where the others would be waiting.
The Nadir had been tough and fast. They had roused from sleep more like animals than men, instantly alert. This had surprised him. He had expected to be able to kill more of them as they blundered from sleep to awareness.
Skilgannon rode on, still scanning the land, and planning the next attack. Only one important question remained. What sort of losses would the Nadir need to suffer before they pulled back from the fight? There were, at most, twenty-two fighting men left. How many would the companions need to kill. Another ten? Fifteen?
He saw Druss and the others waiting on a wide section of the road.
Stepping from the saddle he approached the axeman.
‘You’re bleeding, laddie,’ said Druss.
In the shelter of a concave depression in the cliff face Diagoras knelt behind the standing Skilgannon, stitching the cut in his lower back.
Moonlight shone down on the blue and gold tattoo of the eagle, its flaring wings rising across Skilgannon’s shoulder blades. There were old scars on the young man’s body, some jagged, some clean and straight. There were old puncture wounds from bolts or arrows. Diagoras pulled close the last stitch, knotted it, then sliced his dagger through the twine. Skilgannon thanked him, and donned his shirt and sleeveless jerkin.
Diagoras placed the crescent needle and remaining twine in his pouch and sat back, listening as Skilgannon outlined his plan for the morning.
He had said little of his fight with the Nadir, merely telling them that he had entered the camp and killed five. He made it sound undramatic, almost casual. Diagoras was impressed. He had not fought the Nadir himself, but he knew men who had. Ferocious and brutal, they were enemies to be feared. Skilgannon asked Druss if he had any idea how many men the Nadir would have to lose before they withdrew. The old warrior shrugged. ‘Depends,’ he said. ‘If their leader is a bold one we might have to kill them all. If he is not… another ten, maybe twelve, dead will convince him to pull back. It is hard to say with Nadir fighters. Their chief back at the fortress may be the kind of man who will kill any survivors who have failed him.’
‘Then we must plan to take them all,’ said Skilgannon.
Diagoras swallowed back a sarcastic comment and remained silent. He glanced at the others. The twins were listening intently, though the simpleton had a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea what was really going on. Garianne seemed unconcerned at the prospect of defeating twenty Nadir warriors, but then she was a fey creature, and more than a little insane. The boy, Rabalyn, sitting with his back to the far wall, looked frightened, but resolute.
Skilgannon outlined his strategy. It sounded, at first, breathtakingly simple, and yet Diagoras, who prided himself on his tactical skills, had not thought of it. Few men would have. Skilgannon called for questions. There were a few from Druss, and one from Jared. They were all concerned with timing. Skilgannon glanced at Diagoras, who shook his head. This was not the time to point out that there was no fall back plan, and no line of escape. Which, of course, was the danger with a strategy of such stunning simplicity. It was win or die. No middle ground. No safety factors.
Skilgannon moved to where a water skin had been placed. Hefting it, he drank deeply. Then he gestured to
