‘Because your training has been merely that – training. If we mapped out the battle as a game of chance, then thirty per cent is correct. But this is not a game. Down there you have Ananais, the Golden One. His strength is great and his skill greater. But more than this he has a power over men that comes close to your own psychic talents. Where he stands others will stand – he holds them with the power of his will. It is what makes him a leader. Any estimate of success in such a scheme will depend on the willingness of the line to hold, and the men to die. They may be beaten and slain, but they will not run.
‘Add to this the speed of thought of Tenaka Khan. Like Ananais he has great skill and his understanding of strategy is beyond compare. But his timing is immaculate. He does not have Ananais’ leadership qualities, but only because of his mixed blood. Men of the Drenai will think twice before following a Nadir.
‘Lastly there is the woman, Rayvan. Her men will fight the stronger because she is with them. Revise your estimate, Balan.’
‘I will reconsider, adjusting the points to incorporate your suggestions,’ said the priest.
Decado nodded and then turned to Acuas. ‘How far away are the Templars?’
‘They will not arrive for tomorrow’s battle, thank the Source! There are one hundred of them two days’ ride from here. The rest are in Drenan while the leaders, the Six, meet with Ceska.’
‘Then that is a problem for another day,’ said Decado. ‘I think I will rest now.’
Dark-eyed Katan spoke for the first time. ‘Will you not lead us in prayer, Decado?’
Decado smiled gently. There was no hint of criticism from the young priest.
‘No, Katan. You are closer to the Source than I and you are the Soul of The Thirty. You pray.’
Katan bowed and the group closed their eyes in silent communion. Decado relaxed his mind, listening for the faint sea roar. He drifted until the ‘voice’ of Katan grew and he floated towards it. The prayer was short and perfect in its sincerity, and Decado was touched to hear the young priest mention him by name, calling on the Lord of the Heavens to protect him.
Later, as Decado lay staring up at the stars, Abaddon came and sat beside him. The slim warrior sat up and stretched his back.
‘Are you looking forward to tomorrow?’ the Abbot asked.
‘I am afraid that I am.’
The old man leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes. He looked tired, drained of all strength; the lines on his face – once as delicate as web threads – now seemed chiselled deep.
‘I have compromised you, Decado,’ whispered the Abbot. ‘I have drawn you into a world you would not otherwise have seen. I have prayed about you constantly. It would be pleasant to know I was right. But that is not to be.’
‘I cannot help you, Abaddon.’
‘I know that. Every day I watched you in your garden and I wondered. In truth it was more hope than certainty. We are not a true Thirty – we never were. The Order was disbanded in my father’s day but I felt – in my arrogance – that the world had need of us. So I scoured the continent, seeking out those children of special gifts. I did my best to teach them, praying the Source would guide me.’
‘Perhaps you were right,’ said Decado softly.
‘I don’t know any more. I have watched them all tonight, joined them in their thoughts. Where there should be tranquillity there is excitement, and even a lust for battle. It began when you killed Padaxes and they joyed in your victory.’
‘What did you expect of them? There is not a man among them over twenty-five years of age! And they have never lived ordinary lives . . . been drunk . . . kissed a woman. Their humanity has been suppressed.’
‘Think you so? I would prefer to think their humanity has been enhanced.’
‘I am out of my depth in this conversation,’ admitted Decado. ‘I don’t know what you expect from them. They will die for you – is that not enough?’