On, on, through the bitter sadness of his childhood, back to his first stirrings in his mother’s womb and beyond into separation: seed and egg, driving, waiting.
Darkness.
Movement. The snapping of chains, the soaring freedom.
Light.
Decado floated free, drawn to the pure silver light of the full moon. He halted his rise with an effort of will and gazed down on the curving beauty of the Demon’s Smile, but a dark cloud drifted beneath him and obscured the view. He glanced down at his body, white and naked in the moonlight, and joy flooded his soul.
The scream froze him. He remembered his mission and his eyes blazed with cold fire. But he could not travel naked and unarmed. Closing his spirit eyes he pictured armour, the black and silver of the Dragon.
And it was there. But no sword hung at his side, no shield on his arm.
He tried again. Nothing.
The long-ago words of Abaddon drifted back over the years. ‘In spirit travel a Source warrior carries the sword of his faith, and his shield is the strength of his belief.’
Decado had neither.
‘Damn you!’ he shouted into the cosmic night. ‘Still you thwart me, even when I am on your business.’ He closed his eyes once more. ‘If it is faith I need, then I have faith. In myself. In Decado, the Ice Killer. I need no sword, for my hands are death.’
And he flew like a shaft of moonlight, drawn to the scream. He left the world of men with awesome speed, soaring over dark mountains and gloomy plains; two blue planets hovered over the land and the stars were dim and cold.
Below him an ebony castle squatted on a low hill. He halted in his flight, hovering above the stone ramparts. A dark shadow leapt at him and he swerved as a sword-blade flashed by his head. His hand lanced out, gripping the swordsman’s wrist, spinning his enemy round. Decado’s left hand chopped down at his opponent; the man’s neck snapped and he vanished. Decado spun on his heel as a second attacker surged at him. The man wore the dark livery of the Templars. Decado leapt back as the sword cut a glittering semi-circle past his belly. As a back-hand slash hissed at his neck, Decado ducked and dived forward under the blade, ramming his skull under the man’s chin. The Templar staggered.
Decado’s hand stabbed out, the fingers burying themselves in the Templar’s throat. Once more his opponent vanished.
Ahead was a half-open door leading to a deep stair-well. Decado ran forward but then stopped, his senses urging caution. Launching himself feet first, he smashed the door back on its hinges and a man groaned and slumped forward into view. Rolling to his feet, Decado hammered the blade of his foot into the man’s chest, caving in the breastbone.
Running on, he took the stairs three at a time to emerge into a wide circular hall. At the centre The Thirty stood in a tight circle, surrounded on all sides by dark-cloaked Templars. Swords clashed silently and no sound issued from the battle. Outnumbered more than two to one, The Thirty were fighting for their lives.
And losing!
They had only one choice left. Flight. Even as he realised this Decado noticed for the first time that he could no longer soar into the air – as soon as he had touched these grim battlements his powers had left him. But why? In that instant he knew the answer; it lay in the words he had used to Abaddon: ‘Evil lives in a pit. If you want to fight it, you have to climb down into the slime to do so.’
They were in the pit and the powers of light were lessened here, even as the powers of darkness failed against the hearts of strong men.
‘To me!’ yelled Decado. ‘Thirty to me!’
For a moment the battle ceased as the Templars paused to check the source of the sound. Then six of them peeled off from the battle to charge him. Acuas cut his way into the gap and led the warrior priests towards the stairs.