‘I’m sorry,’ he told his rose.
*
The Thirty assembled in the lower courtyard, saddling their mounts. The horses still bore their winter coats, but they were strong mountain-bred beasts and they could run like the wind. Decado chose a bay mare; he saddled it swiftly and then vaulted to its back, sweeping out his white cloak behind him and settling it over the saddle in Dragon fashion. Serbitar’s armour fitted him as his own never had – it felt smooth, like a second skin.
The Abbot, Abaddon, stepped into the saddle of a chestnut gelding and moved alongside Decado.
Decado swung in the saddle, watching the warrior priests as they silently mounted – he had to admit that they moved well. Each adjusted his cloak precisely as Decado had done. Abaddon gazed wistfully at his erstwhile disciple; Decado had shaved his chin clean and bound his long dark hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes were bright and alive, and a half-mocking smile was on his lips.
The night before, Decado had been formally introduced to his lieutenants: Acuas, the Heart of The Thirty; Balan, the Eyes of The Thirty; and Katan, the Soul of The Thirty.
‘If you want to be warriors,’ he had told them, ‘then do as I say, when I say it. The Abbot tells me that there is a force hunting Tenaka Khan. We are to intercept it. The men we shall fight are true warriors, so I am told. Let us hope your quest does not end at their hands.’
‘It is your quest too, brother,’ said Katan, with a gentle smile.
‘There is no man alive who can slay me. And if you priests fall like wheat, I shall not stay.’
‘Is not a leader obliged to stand by his men?’ asked Balan, an edge of anger in his voice.
‘Leader? This is all a priestly farce, but very well, I will play the game. But I will not die with you.’
‘Will you join us in prayer?’ said Acuas.
‘No. You pray for me! I have spent too many years wasting my time in that fruitless exercise.’
‘We have always prayed for you,’ said Katan.
‘Pray for yourselves! Pray that when you meet these Dark Templars your bowels do not turn to water.’
With that he had left them. Now he raised his arms and led the troop through the Temple gates and out over the Sentran Plain.
‘Are you sure this choice is wise?’ Katan mind-pulsed to Abaddon.
‘It is not my choice, my son.’
‘He is a man consumed by anger.’
‘The Source knows our needs. Do you remember Estin?’
‘Yes, poor man. So wise – he would have been a good leader,’ said Katan.
‘Indeed he would. Courageous, yet kind; strong, yet gentle; and possessed of intellect without arrogance. But he died. And on the day he died Decado appeared at our gates seeking sanctuary from the world.’
‘But suppose, Lord Abbot, that it was not the Source that sent him?’
‘”Lord Abbot” no longer, Katan. Merely “Abaddon”.’
The older man severed the mind link and it was some moments before Katan realised his question had not been answered.
The years fled from Decado. Once more he was in the saddle, the wind in his hair. Once more the drumming of hooves sounded on the plain and the stirring in his blood brought his youth pounding back to his mind . . .
The Dragon sweeping down on the Nadir raiders. Chaos, confusion, blood and terror. Broken men and broken screams, and crows shrieking their joy in the dark skies above.
And then later, in one mercenary war after another in the most far-flung nations of the world. Always Decado walked away from the battle, not a wound upon his slender form, while his enemies journeyed to whatever hells they believed in, shadowed and forgotten.
The image of Tenaka Khan floated in Decado’s mind.
Now there was a warrior! How many times had Decado fallen asleep dreaming of a battle with Tenaka Khan? Ice and Shadow in the dance of blades.
They had fought, many times. With wooden blades or tipped foils. Even with blunted sabres. Honours were even. But such contests were meaningless – only when death rested on the blades could a true victor emerge.