riders, obviously allies, galloping towards him. They came together. With a deftness belying his years, the old man scrambled onto a riderless steed, hoisting the child up with him. Then he set off across the plain, hell for leather. But the others remained, forming a defensive line.
At that moment the five pursuing horsemen came out of the corn
behind Reeth. Two thundered past on his right, two to his left. The fifth, disconcertingly, rode
through
him.
He watched as the two groups, screaming murderously, met with a clash of steel.
There was a flash, bright as lightning, and the scene dissolved into pitch black.
Now he stood on the lip of a low cliff, overlooking a fast-flowing river. Here and there, smooth rocks poked out, turning the water to white foam.
A boat appeared, bumpily riding the current downstream. It was a rudimentary craft, made of tanned hides stretched over a wooden frame. There was no sail; it relied on oars for motive power, and it had a primitive rudder.
Six people occupied the boat. Four were oarsmen, though the speed of the river made their paddles redundant. They used them to fend off the half-submerged boulders that threatened to rip open the hull.
At the stern, hand on the tiller, sat the old man. Huddled next to him was a boy; unmistakably the same child he had seen carried from the cornfield, now around eight or nine years of age. But whereas the boy had taken on some years, the old man looked exactly the same.
On the opposite bank, a gang of men, perhaps a score in number, came into view. They were on foot, running to keep up with the bobbing, scarcely controlled boat. There were archers among them, who at intervals loosed arrows at the boat. Its erratic course was such that few of their shots came near. The boy, despite his tender age, occasionally fired back. His bolts flew with greater accuracy, causing the outraged mob to duck.
A moment later the boat was washed round a bend and out of sight.
The blast of light came again. Darkness closed in.
He was standing in rough, boggy terrain, and it was night. But ahead of him several buildings were on fire, illuminating the landscape. Pungent wood-smoke stung his eyes and scorched his throat.
It was a scene of chaos, with people running in all directions, and it took a second for him to make sense of things. A small battle was going on, a raid on a modest settlement by the look of it, and the defenders had just begun to rally. He saw raiders un-horsed and speared where they lay. Knots of men belaboured each other with broadswords. Savage hand-to-hand fighting went on all around.
He looked about, expectant. The old man caught his eye first. He was unchanged; moving through the melee, barking orders.
Then he saw the boy. Though youth would be a better description. He must have been fifteen or above, and now he sought no one’s protection. Giving as good an account as any, and better than most, he not only fought but directed others. He moved with a fluid assurance, cutting down foes, cheering on his comrades, showing no quarter.
In the middle of the slaughter the youth turned and peered his way. It seemed that their eyes met, giving the lie to his observer’s invisibility. And in that moment of contact, real or imagined, the disembodied onlooker realised, or rather had confirmed, the youth’s identity.
It lasted just an instant.
The searing, unbearable light came then, swiftly followed by a darkness that was all-consuming.
14
He could have had a palace. He chose a tent. He could have dined on banquets, but preferred army rations. He could have dressed in finery, but favoured humbler garb. He could have taken the lives of the vanquished, but dispensed mercy. He could have had his pick of riches and women, but kept to modesty and abstinence. He could have embraced tyranny, but showed forbearance.
For these and other qualities, his followers loved him. Almost enough to hide the fear they felt.
The warlord Zerreiss-Shadow of the Gods, the Velvet Axe, the Man Who Fell From the Sun, and bearer of a dozen other sobriquets not assumed but conferred on him-was perfectly unexceptional in appearance. Many found this surprising in one who had achieved so much. As though Nature should honour conquerors with a special aspect. But the truth was that in almost every respect he was ordinary. His physique was average at best, and his face, once seen, might immediately be forgotten.
Except for the singular vigour that animated it; a curious, indefinable potency that gave him an extraordinary presence.
For all that the world called him a barbarian, Zerreiss was
not a tyrant. But he was despotic. To many, this might seem a fine distinction. He was no tyrant in that he waged war as a last resort and strove not to waste lives unnecessarily. He was despotic in being resolute in his hunger for territorial expansion, and in his insistence that the gift he came to bestow, as he saw it, had to be accepted. It was only when thwarted in this regard that he made a rare display of a harsher side.
In the valley below, his army prepared for another siege, dependent upon an offer of clemency. They faced a formidable redoubt: a fortress of massive proportions, shimmering with myriad glamoured lights and magical discharges. Well soldiered, amply provisioned, it had never been taken. But his horde was in good cheer. They knew their warlord held the key to victory.
It was snowing. Winter always came much earlier in the northern wastelands, and as yet the weather was mild compared to what was due. But the onset of freezing conditions was a good reason to get the job over and done with. As no one doubted he would.
Zerreiss came into his command tent like any other man: no grand entrance, no fanfare, no retinue. Yet his appearance galvanised the generals and adjuncts working there.
He called over his two closest aides.
‘Has there been word on our proposal yet, Sephor?’
‘Not so far, sir,’ the much younger of the pair replied. ‘Should we send in another envoy?’
‘No. They have a lot to chew over. Let’s leave them to it for a while.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Wellem.’
‘Sir?’ The old campaigner instinctively came to attention, though Zerreiss seldom demanded shows of obeisance.
‘Everything’s ready in respect of our troops and their needs?’
‘All done, sir. They only await your order.’
‘Good. Let’s hope I don’t have to issue it. And how goes tracing the magic sources in these parts, Sephor?’
‘You were right, sir, about energy lines in the area. It seems at least three cross where the city stands. No doubt it was founded for that reason.’
‘The usual pattern. Wretched Founders,’ Zerreiss grumbled. ‘They have a lot to answer for.’
‘So we’ll probably be facing a full complement of magical munitions,’ Sephor added. ‘Or would have, depending on the outcome, of course.’
‘I think you can rely on the outcome.’ He looked to his other aide. ‘Tell me, Wellem, how do you think those below will respond?’ It was the sort of question the warlord was fond of asking, and his temperament was such that he encouraged candid replies.
‘No surrender. That’s what I’d say, sir, if I were in their position.’
‘That’s the answer I’d expect from an old campaigner, my friend. What are your reasons?’
‘Well, apart from the obvious reason that they find themselves under attack from someone they haven’t offended, I reckon they’d see no need to accept change. From their point of view you’re here to take something away, not to give them anything.’
‘A fear of the unknown, in other words. The standard response.’
‘Let’s hope we get the standard outcome, sir.’
