‘And yet it comes to you, Breight, in every white hair, every decaying wrinkle, death will stalk you and lay his cold hands upon your eyes. You cannot escape! Begone, little man, your day is done.’
Breight looked up at the defenders and opened his arms.
‘Don’t let this man deceive you!’ he shouted. ‘My lord Ceska is a man of honour and he will abide by his promise.’
‘Go home and die!’ said Ananais, turning on his heels and striding back to his men.
‘Death will come to you before me,’ screamed Breight, ‘and his coming will be terrible.’ Then the old man wheeled his horse and cantered downhill.
‘I think the war will start tomorrow,’ muttered Thorn.
Ananais nodded and waved Decado to him. ‘What do you think?’
Decado shrugged. ‘We could not pierce the screen the Templars mounted.’
‘Did they pierce ours?’
‘No.’
‘Then we start even,’ said Ananais. ‘But they have tried to win us with words. Now it will be swords and they will try to demoralise us by a sudden attack. The question is where, and what are we going to do about it?’
‘Well,’ said Decado, ‘the great Tertullian was once asked what he would do if he was attacked by a man stronger, faster and infinitely more skilful than he.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he would cut off his damned head for being a liar.’
‘Sounds good,’ put in Thorn, ‘but words are not worth pigs’ droppings now.’
‘You are right there,’ said Ananais, grinning. ‘So what do you suggest, mountain man?’
‘Let’s cut off their damned heads!’
*
The hut was bathed in a soft red glow as the log fire burned low. Ananais lay on the bed, his head resting on his arm. Valtaya sat beside him rubbing oil into his shoulders and back – kneading the muscles, loosening the knots of tension around his spine. Her fingers were strong and the slow rhythmic movements of her hands soothing. He sighed and fell into a half-sleep, dreaming dreams of brighter days.
As her fingers began to burn with fatigue, she lifted them from his broad back, pushing pressure on to her palms for a while. His breathing deepened. She covered him with a blanket and then pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat staring at his ruined face. The angry scar below his eye seemed cooler now, and dry; she gently smoothed oil on the skin. His breath made a snuffling sound as it was sucked through the oval holes where his nose should have been. Valtaya leaned back, sadness a growing ache within her. He was a fine man and did not deserve his fate. It had taken all her considerable nerve just to kiss him, and even now she could not gaze on his features without feeling revulsion. Yet she loved him.
Life was cruel and infinitely sorrowful.
She had slept with many men in her life. Once it had been a vocation, once a profession. During the latter time many ugly men had come to her and with them she had learned to hide her feelings. She was glad now of the lessons, for when she had removed Ananais’ mask two sensations had struck her simultaneously. One was the awful horror of his mutilated face. The other was the terrible anxiety in his eyes. Strong as he was, in that moment he was made of crystal. Now she transferred her gaze to his hair – tightly curled gold thread, laced with silver. The Golden One! How handsome he once must have been. Like a god. She pushed a hand through her own fair hair, sweeping it away from her eyes.
Tired, she stood and stretched her back. The window was part open and she pushed it wide. Outside the valley was silent beneath a scimitar moon.
‘I wish I was young again,’ she whispered. ‘I would have married that poet.’
*
Katan soared above the mountains and wished that his body could fly as high as his spirit. He wanted to taste the air, feel the harsh winds upon his skin. Below him the mountains of Skoda reared like spear-points. He flew higher and now the mountains took on another image. Katan smiled.