There were tears in Katan’s eyes as he prayed and a great sadness rested upon him. At the end he embraced them all and walked away into the night. How would he manage? Where would he find a new Thirty? He mounted his horse and rode into the high country towards Vagria.
On a ridge overlooking the refugee settlement he saw the boy Ceorl sitting by the path. He reined in his horse and stepped down.
‘Why are you here, Ceorl?’
‘A man came to me and told me to be here – to wait for you.’
‘What man?’
‘A dream man.’
Katan settled down beside the boy. ‘Is this the first time the man has come to you?’
‘This man, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, it is. But often I see others – they talk to me.’
‘Can you do magical things, Ceorl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Such as?’
‘Sometimes when I touch things I know where they came from. I see pictures. And sometimes, when people are angry with me I hear what they are thinking.’
‘Tell me of the man who came to you.’
‘His name is Abaddon. He said he was the Abbot of Swords.’
Katan bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.
‘Why are you sad?’ asked Ceorl.
Katan took a deep breath and smiled. ‘I am not sad . . . Not any more. You are the First, Ceorl. But there will be others. You are to ride with me and I will teach you many things.’
‘Are we to be heroes, like the black man?’
‘Yes,’ said Katan. ‘We are to be heroes.’
*
The armies of Ceska arrived with the dawn, marching in ranks ten deep and led by the Legion riders. The long column wound across the plain, splitting into two as it breasted the valley pass of Magadon. Ananais had ridden in with Thorn, Lake and a dozen men only an hour before. Now he leaned on the ramparts watching the force spread out and pitch their tents. Half the army rode on towards Tarsk.
Twenty thousand battle-hardened veterans remained. But there was no sign as yet of the emperor or his Joinings.
Ananais squinted against the rising sun. ‘I think that’s Darik – there in the centre. Now that’s a compliment!’
‘I don’t think I would be comfortable with too many of his compliments,’ muttered Thorn. ‘He’s a butcher!’
‘More than that, my friend,’ said Ananais, ‘he is a warmaster. And that makes him a master butcher.’
For a while the defenders watched the preparations in grim, silent fascination. Wagons followed the army, piled high with crudely-made ladders, iron grappling-hooks, vine ropes and provisions.
An hour later, as Ananais was sleeping on the grass, the Joinings of Ceska marched into the plain. A young warrior woke the sleeping general and he rubbed his eyes and sat up.
‘The beasts are here,’ whispered the man. Seeing his fear, Ananais clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, lad! Keep a stick in your belt.’
‘A stick, sir?’
‘Yes. If they get too close to the wall, hurl the stick and shout “Fetch!” ‘
The joke didn’t help, but it cheered Ananais who was still chuckling as he mounted the rampart steps.
Decado was leaning on the wooden shaft of the giant bow when Ananais joined him. The leader of The Thirty looked haggard and drawn; his eyes were distant.
‘How are you feeling, Dec? You look tired.’
‘Just old, Darkmask.’
‘Don’t you start with the Darkmask nonsense. I like my name.’
‘The other suits you better,’ said Decado, grinning.
The Joinings had settled down beyond the tents, creating a vast circle around a single black tent of silk.
‘That will be Ceska,’ said Ananais. ‘He’s taking no chances.’
‘It seems we are to keep all the Joinings to ourselves,’ concluded Decado. ‘I see no sign of them splitting the force.’
‘Lucky us!’ said Ananais. ‘It makes sense from their viewpoint, though. It doesn’t matter which wall they take – just one and we are finished.’
‘Tenaka will be here in five days,’ Decado reminded him.
‘We shall not be here to see him.’
‘Perhaps, Ananais . . . ?’
‘Yes?’
‘It doesn’t matter. When do you think they will attack?’