Decado pulled back from the Abbot. ‘No!’
‘I want you to ride with us.’
‘I believed in you. I trusted you!’ Decado turned away and found himself facing one of the sets of armour. He twisted round. ‘That is what I came here to escape: death and slaughter. Sharp blades and torn flesh. I have been happy here. And now you have robbed me of it. Go ahead – play your soldier’s games. I will have none of it.’
‘You cannot hide for ever, my son.’
‘Hide? I came here to change.’
‘It is not hard to change when your biggest problem is whether the weeds prosper in a vegetable patch.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you were a psychopathic killer – a man in love with death. Now I offer you the chance to see if you have changed. Put on the armour and ride with us against the forces of Chaos.’
‘And learn to kill again?’
‘That we shall see.’
‘I don’t want to kill. I wish to live among my plants.’
‘Do you think I want to fight? I am nearing sixty years of age. I love the Source and all things that grow or move. I believe life is the greatest gift in all the Universe. But there is real evil in the world, and it must be fought. Overcome. Then others will have the opportunity to see the joy of life.’
‘Don’t say any more,’ snapped Decado. ‘Not another damned word!’ Years of suppressed emotion roared through him, filling his senses, and forgotten anger lashed him with whips of fire. What a fool he had been – hiding from the world, grubbing in the soil like a sweating peasant!
He moved to a set of armour placed to the right of the rest and his hand reached down to curl round the ivory hilt. With one smooth movement he swept the blade into the air, his muscles pulsing with the thrill of the weapon. Its blade was silver steel and razor-sharp, and the balance was perfection. He turned to the Abbot, and where he had once seen a Lord he now saw an old man with watery eyes.
‘This quest of yours, does it involve Tenaka Khan?’
‘Yes, my son.’
‘Don’t call me that, priest! Not ever again. I don’t blame you – I was the fool for believing in you. All right, I will fight with your priests, but only because it will aid my friends. But do not seek to give me Orders.’
‘I will not be in a position to order you, Decado. Even now you have moved to your own armour.’
‘My armour?’
‘You recognise the rune on the helm?’
‘It is the number One in the Elder script.’
‘It was Serbitar’s armour. You will wear it.’
‘He was the leader, was he not?’
‘As you will be.’
‘So that is my lot,’ said Decado, ‘to lead a motley crew of priests as they play at war. Very well; I can take a joke as well as any man.’
Decado began to laugh. The Abbot closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, for through the laughter he felt the cry of anguish from Decado’s tortured soul. Despair swept through the priest and he left the room, the manic laughter echoing after him.
What have you done, Abaddon? he asked himself.
Tears were in his eyes as he reached his room and, once inside, he fell to his knees.
Decado stumbled from the chamber and returned to his garden, staring in disbelief at the tidy rows of vegetables, the neat hedges and the carefully pruned trees.
He walked on to his hut, kicking open the door.
Less than an hour before, this had been home – a home he loved. Contentment had been his.
Now the shack was a hovel and he left it and wandered to his flower garden. The white rose carried three new buds. Anger coursed through him and he grasped the plant, ready to rip it from the ground. Then he stopped and slowly released it, staring at his hand and then back at the plant. Not one thorn had ripped his flesh. Gently he smoothed out the crushed leaves and began to sob, meaningless sounds which became two words.