‘Of course,’ said Morcha.
‘I am amazed his sight is not affected. There are no burns to the skin around the eyes. How did this accident occur?’
‘I was not present, sir. The Nadir was burned to ashes. Not a bone remained. My lord was mutilated as you saw. Some of the men heard screams from the roof chamber and ran to the room. The door was barred.
They heard voices from within — one of them a woman’s. When they finally broke in the woman was gone.’
‘Were there other exits?’
‘No.’
The surgeon shivered. ‘I need to know no more about this,’ he said, making the sign of the Protective Horn. ‘Show me where I may sleep.’
Morcha took him to a small room on the ground floor. ‘I shall send you some food and drink,’ he said. ‘I hope you will be comfortable.’ Once again the surgeon looked at him strangely.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, young man, how is it that you are here?’
‘I do mind your asking,’ said Morcha, giving a short bow and leaving the surgeon.
As he walked out into the night the question continued to burn in his mind. He strolled across the open ground then wandered past the warehouses and storage areas, coming at last to the low barracks which housed the soldiers who still followed Boranius. Alongside the barracks was the Long Tavern, where the men relaxed at day’s end. The sounds from within were raucous. Morcha did not feel like joining them. He walked on, coming to the now near deserted Nadir area. The death of Nygor had been seen by most of the warriors as an evil omen — especially coming so soon after the killing of the men sent after Deathwalker. Of the hundred Nadir warriors who had inhabited this section only four scouts now remained. The rest had saddled their ponies and ridden off towards the north.
Morcha made his way to the outer defensive wall, and climbed to the ramparts. He found the two sentries on this section in deep conversation.
One of them saw him, and leapt to his feet. The other merely stared at Morcha, and remained where he was. ‘There are still enemies out there,’
said Morcha. ‘We need to be alert.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the standing soldier. ‘We were just talking about the attack on Ironmask.’
‘And the fact that we’re all out of luck,’ said the second. ‘We should be quitting this place, Morcha. If we don’t we’ll die here.’
‘There are merely a handful of warriors out there, Codis. Druss may be a legend, but even he cannot defeat us all.’
‘No, he can’t,’ agreed the man, rising to his feet. ‘But what next?
A few years back we were soldiers of the King. Shem’s balls, man, we were the elite. Then we lost, and barely got out with our lives. What have we been since then? Truth to tell, Morcha, I wish you had never come to me and said Boranius was still alive. I wish with all my heart that I’d stayed quietly in Dospilis. Not one of the promises has been met.’
Morcha sat down on the crenellated battlement. ‘You weren’t saying that, Codis, while we were gathering riches in Mellicane.’
‘Does this look like Mellicane to you?’ sneered Codis. ‘This is a crumbling ruin. What is the point of having sentries on the walls, when there are at least ten full breaches, and other areas where a man could just walk in unobserved? We have trees which come almost to the edge of the walls. When the enemy get here they will just walk in. We’ll see them only when the bloodletting starts. I say we take off and head into the hills. We can plunder a few caravans, make some money, and then strike east towards Sherak. They are hiring mercenaries. We could do well there.’
‘Aye, we could. Perhaps you would like to put that view to Boranius?’
‘Perhaps we all should,’ said Codis. ‘Perhaps we should go to him now and put him out of his misery.’ Codis fell silent, and the words hung in the air. He looked into Morcha’s eyes. ‘He’s never going to win back power, Morcha. He had a chance in Mellicane, but not now. What are we? A band of robbers. Sooner rather than later the Datians will come for us. We used to be part of an army of thousands. Now there are seventy of us. We’re out of gold, out of opportunities, and out of luck.’
‘Luck can change,’ said Morcha.
‘Aye, it can. For us, though, it’s likely to move from bad to worse. I spoke to the three Nadir who survived the attack on Druss. Have you heard?’
‘I heard they were massacred.’
Codis suddenly chuckled. ‘Ah yes, you’ve been in the north. You haven’t heard the best news then?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Well, the Nadir made camp the night before the attack. A lone swordsman walked in, killed a bunch of them, then rode out on one of their ponies. The swordsman had two curved blades, with white ivory hilts. One of the Nadir recalled he had a tattoo of a spider on his forearm.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ echoed Codis. ‘Who do you think that is likely to be? We’re not just facing Druss the Legend. Skilgannon is coming.’ He stared intently at Morcha, then his expression hardened. ‘You knew. You damned well knew!’
‘He is one man. As you said yourself, we are seventy.’
‘Oh yes, one man! If he was to walk in here now how many of us would he take down before we stopped him. Five? Ten? I don’t want to be one of those ten.’
‘You won’t be, Codis,’ said Morcha, with a smile. Easing himself off the battlements he suddenly laughed. ‘I can guarantee that.’
‘Oh yes, and how exac—’ Codis grunted. His knees buckled. Morcha powered the dagger further into his chest. The soldier sagged against his killer. Morcha stepped back. Codis fell face first to the stone. The other soldier stood by silently. Morcha rolled the body onto its back and retrieved his dagger.
‘Keep watch,’ said Morcha. ‘I’ll send another sentry to join you. Best you don’t fall into conversation again.’
‘I won’t, sir.’
‘I believe you.’
Morcha wiped his dagger clean on the dead man’s tunic, then sheathed it. Descending the rampart steps he walked back to the tavern, where he located an officer and ordered him to send some men to retrieve Codis’s body.
Then he returned to the Citadel. Remembering the surgeon he ordered one of the cooks to take the man some food, and sat alone in the deserted dining hall. The cook returned after a while, and brought Morcha a tankard of cold beer. Morcha thanked the man.
His mind flowed back over the years, recalling the day that he and Casensis had followed the youth, Skilgannon. He still remembered fondly the time at the bathhouse. How neatly the boy had fooled them, and how priceless had been the disguise the princess had adopted. The whole city had been searching for Jianna, and there she was, dressed as a whore, and standing before two of the men charged with capturing her. Morcha smiled at the memory.
How cool the young Skilgannon had been. Morcha admired him. More than that, he had liked him. He had even been secretly pleased when the lad escaped the city with the girl. With luck they would have kept on moving, and drifted out of the pages of history. But no. The rebellion had begun. Boranius had been delighted. The prospect of battles and glory had thrilled him. Thoughts of defeat had entered no-one’s head. The forces of the princess had been small, offering mere pinpricks and irritation to Bokram. A few outlying forts were taken, a few caravans seized. The attacks were hit and run and small in scale. The first year had seen little more than bee stings against the body of Bokram’s army. The second year much the same. Then two more tribal leaders had joined Jianna’s army.
They had blocked the high passes in the west of Naashan, effectively liberating a region containing two cities and a score of silver mines.
Looking back that was the beginning of the end for Bokram. Though none of us saw it at the time, recalled
