‘She casts spells on them?’
Skilgannon laughed. ‘Of course. The greatest spell of all. She is beautiful, Diagoras. I do not mean pretty, or attractive, or sensual. She is stunning. I mean that in the fullest sense. A man who gazes upon that beauty has his senses stunned. He cannot drink it all in. When I first knew her she was being hunted. She disguised herself as a whore, dyed her hair yellow and streaked it with crimson. She wore a cheap dress, and no paint upon her face. Even then she would turn heads.’ He took a long breath.
‘She turned mine. I have never been the same since. When you are with her you have eyes for nothing else. When you are away from her you can think of little else. In my years as a priest I thought of her almost hourly. I tried in my mind to dissect her attraction. Was it the eyes, or the mouth?
Was it the beauty of her breasts, or the curve of her hips? Was it her legs, so long and luscious? In the end I realized it was something far more simple. You cannot have her. No man can. Oh, you can sleep with her. You can touch and kiss those breasts. You can hold her close, skin on skin. But you cannot possess her. She is the unattainable.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Diagoras.
‘You knew a woman like that?’
‘No. It was a horse. I went to an auction in Drenan, to buy a stallion.
There were some wonderful beasts there. I was hard pressed to choose one to bid for. I had almost eighty raq to spend, and that would have bought just about any horse in Drenan. Then they led out a Ventrian pure bred. It was magnificent. The crowd went silent. It was a grey, with an arching neck, and powerful shoulders. It was perfect in every line. Flawless. The bidding started at fifty raq, but it was like a joke. Within minutes it had reached two hundred raq, and was still climbing. I kept bidding, even though I could never raise the money. I managed to pull out at three hundred raq. It went for four hundred and thirty. I’ve never forgotten that stallion. Never will. The moment I saw it I knew I could never own it.’
Skilgannon looked at the Drenai officer. ‘You Drenai are an interesting people. I talk of a fabulous woman, and you speak of a horse. Now I know why all your fables and stories are about wars, and not about great love.’
‘We are a more pragmatic race,’ agreed Diagoras. ‘But then no stallion ever sent assassins to kill someone who walked away from it. No stallion ever metamorphosed from an angelic lover to a harridan. And with a good horse you get a fine ride every time you mount. The horse won’t tell you it has a headache, or is angry with you because you were late home.’
Skilgannon laughed. ‘You have no soul, Drenai.’
‘Having been raised largely in a whorehouse I am not easily captivated by mere beauty. Though I will admit I find Garianne more than a little becoming, and I have been known to feel the tiniest pang of jealousy when she seeks you out.’
‘It is hardly a compliment when a woman needs to be drunk to seek your attention,’ observed Skilgannon, rising from the rock. Diagoras joined him as they walked back to the campsite. Everyone was asleep now.
‘I’ll keep watch,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘Gladly,’ said the Drenai, moving off into the darkness.
For Rabalyn the journey across the mountains was difficult. He could only breathe when propped up, and there was some dull pressure pain in his chest and upper belly. It was not, however, insufferable. He’d once had a toothache that had been considerably more painful. Yet, as they moved on, faces would constantly appear above him, asking how he was, and looking grave and concerned. Diagoras, Jared and Skilgannon would check on him. Even Nian came over as Rabalyn was lifted down from the wagon for a noon stop in the shade of some high rocks.
‘Lots of blood,’ said Nian. ‘Your tunic is very wet with it.’ ‘You…
remember… the stars?’ asked Rabalyn, having to take swift shallow breaths in order to speak. Nian looked nonplussed. He sat beside Rabalyn, his head tilted on one side.
‘Don’t get stars in the daytime,’ said Nian. ‘Night time is for stars.’
Rabalyn closed his eyes, and the bearded simpleton ambled away. The most talking came from Druss. Rabalyn enjoyed it when the axeman sat beside him in the back of the wagon. It was relaxing to close his eyes and listen as Druss told him of far-off countries, and hazardous journeys by sea. On one occasion, when Rabalyn opened his eyes and looked at the Drenai, he saw his face was pale, and covered in a film of sweat.
‘You… are… in… pain?’ he asked.
‘I’ve known pain before. It usually goes away, I find.’
‘Is it your heart?’
‘Aye. I have been thinking on it. Two months ago I passed through a village that had suffered some sickness or another. Mostly I don’t get sick.
This time, though, I did. Headaches, chest pain, and an inability to hold food down. I’ve not been myself ever since.’
Rabalyn gave a weak smile.
‘What’s so funny, laddie?’
‘I saw you… kill those… werebeasts. I thought… you were the..
strongest man… ever.’
‘And so I am,’ Druss told him. ‘Don’t you forget it.’
‘Will… I… die… from this?’
‘I don’t know, Rabalyn. I’ve seen men killed by tiny wounds, and others survive when they should not have. It is often a mystery. One fact I do know is that you must desire to live.’
‘Doesn’t… everyone?’
‘Yes, of course. That desire, though, has to be focused. Some men will scream and beg for life. They exhaust themselves and die anyway. Others, though wanting to live, look at their wounds or their sickness, and just give up. The secret — if there is truly any secret — is to hold close to life, as if you were gripping it in your palm. You tell your body, quietly, firmly, to hold on. To heal. You stay calm.’
‘I… will.’
‘That was brave of you, laddie, to jump down and help Garianne like that. I am proud of you. Because of you she is still alive. You were thinking of the code, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Druss laid his huge hand on Rabalyn’s arm. There’s some would say what you did was foolish. There’s many would tell you that it would have been best had you stayed on that rock and remained safe. They would tell you that it is better to live a long lifetime as a coward, rather than a short one as a hero. They are wrong. The coward dies every day. Every time he runs away from danger, and leaves others to suffer in his place. Every time he watches an injustice and tells himself: 'It is nothing to do with me.'
Every time a man risks himself for another, and survives, he becomes more than he was before. I have seen you do that three times. Once, back in the woods when you took up my axe. Once in the camp when the beasts attacked. But, best of all, when you leapt from that rock to help Garianne.
We none of us live for ever, Rabalyn. Better by far, then, to live well.’
Blood was flowing once more from the pressure pad strapped to Rabalyn’s chest. Druss’s fingers were too thick to untie the bandage.
Diagoras came over, and as he unwrapped the bandage Druss applied pressure to the wound. ‘I can… smell cheese,’ said Rabalyn. He saw Diagoras glance at Druss, but neither man spoke. Sitting him up they applied a new pad, and strapped the bandages tightly. Diagoras gave him a drink of water. Then they lifted him back into the wagon.
‘We need to press on,’ said Diagoras. The others were mounting their horses. Diagoras swung into the driver’s seat. Druss grunted as he eased himself alongside.
Rabalyn drifted off to sleep. It was a warm and comfortable sleep. He saw his Aunt Athyla calling to him. She was smiling. He ran to her, and she put her arms round him. It was the most wonderful feeling he had ever known. He fell into her embrace with the joy of homecoming.
‘Damn you, Druss!’ shouted Diagoras. ‘You should never have allowed him to come!’
Druss the Legend stood wearily by the wagon, gazing down at Rabalyn’s body. The lad looked smaller in death, hunched over by the wagon wheel, a blanket around his thin shoulders. Jared moved to Diagoras, trying to
