Tenaka added wood to the fire, discarding the blanket from his shoulders. ‘I know all these things, Ani. But it can be done. Scaler is like his ancestor, the Earl of Bronze. He doubts himself and he has great fears. But beyond those fears, if he ever sees it, there waits a fine man – a man of courage and nobility. And he is bright and quick-thinking.’
‘Our hopes then rest on him?’ asked Ananais.
‘No. They rest on my judgement of him.’
‘Don’t play with words. It is the same thing.’
‘I need you with me, Ananais.’
Ananais nodded. ‘Why not? We are only talking about death. I will stay with you, Tani. What is life if a man cannot count on his friends when he has gone mad?’
‘Thank you, Ani. I mean that.’
‘I know. And I am worn out. I shall sleep for a while.’
Ananais lay back, resting his head on his cloak. The night breeze felt good on his scared face. He was tired – more tired than he could ever remember being. It was the weariness of disappointment. Tenaka’s plan was a nightmare, yet there were no alternatives. Ceska held the land within the talons of his Joinings and maybe, just maybe, a Nadir conquest would cleanse the nation. But Ananais doubted it.
From tomorrow he would train his warriors as they had never been trained before. They would run until they fell, fight until their arms ached with weariness. He would drill them hard, preparing a force not only to withstand Ceska’s legions, but hopefully one that would live on to battle the new enemy.
Tenaka Khan’s Nadir.
*
At the centre of the valley the bodies of the fallen were placed in a hastily dug ditch and covered with earth and rocks. Rayvan said a prayer and the survivors knelt before the mass grave, whispering their own farewells to friends, brothers, fathers and kin.
After the ceremony The Thirty moved away to the hills, leaving Decado and Rayvan and her sons. It was some time before he noticed their absence.
Decado left the fire and went in search of them, but the valley was large and soon he realised the enormity of the task. The moon was high in the sky when he finally came to the conclusion that they had left him behind intentionally: they did not want to be found.
He sat down by a white marble boulder and relaxed his mind, floating down into the whispering realms of the subconscious.
Silence.
Anger nagged at him, dislodging his concentration, but he calmed himself and sought the sanctuary once more.
Then he heard the scream. It came at first as a soft, muted cry and grew into a soul-piercing expression of agony. Decado listened for a while, struggling to identify the source of the sound. Then it came to him. It was Abaddon.
And he knew where The Thirty had travelled: to rescue the Abbot of Swords and free him to die. He also knew that this was folly of the worst kind. He had promised Abaddon that he would look after his charges and now, within a day of the old man’s death, they had left him in order to embark on a futile journey, travelling into the realms of the damned.
A terrible sadness assailed Decado, for he could not follow them. So he prayed, but no answer came to him and he expected none.
‘What kind of a god are you?’ he asked in his despair. ‘What do you expect from your followers? You give them nothing and ask for everything. At least with the spirits of darkness there is some communion. Abaddon died for you and still suffers. Now his acolytes will suffer in their turn. Why do you not answer me?’
Silence.
‘You do not exist! There is no force for purity. All a man has is his will to do good. I reject you. I want no more to do with you!’
Decado relaxed then and probed deeper into his mind, seeking the mysteries Abaddon had promised him throughout his years of study. He had tried in the past, but never with this sense of desperation. He travelled yet deeper, tumbling and spinning through the roaring of his memories – seeing again the battles and skirmishes, the fears and the failures.