‘Another caravan from Vagria this morning,’ said Galand, scratching his beard. ‘But the treasury gold is running low. Those cursed Vagrians have doubled their prices.’
‘It’s a seller’s market,’ said Ananais. ‘What did they bring?’
‘Arrowheads, iron, some swords. Mostly flour and sugar. Oh yes – and a quantity of leather and hide. Lake ordered it. There should be enough food to last a month . . . but no more.’
Thorn’s dry chuckle stopped Galand in full flow.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘If we are still alive in a month I will be happy to go hungry!’
‘Are the refugees still coming in?’ asked Ananais.
‘Yes,’ said Galand, ‘but the numbers are shrinking. I think we can handle it. The army now musters at two thousand, but we are being stretched thin. I don’t like sitting around waiting to react. The Dragon operated on the premise that the first blow was vital.’
‘We have no choice,’ answered Ananais, ‘since we must hold as wide a line as possible during the next few weeks. If we draw back they will simply ride in. At the moment they are undecided what to do.’
‘The men are getting edgy,’ said Thorn. ‘It’s not easy just to sit – it makes them think, wonder, imagine. Rayvan’s performing miracles, travelling from valley to valley, fuelling their courage and calling them heroes. But it may not be enough.
‘The victory was heady stuff, Ananais, but those who missed the battle now outnumber the men who fought in it. They are untried. And they’re nervous.’
‘What do you suggest?’
Thorn grinned his crooked grin. ‘I’m not a general, Darkmask. You tell me!’
15
Caphas moved away from the tents and spread his black cloak on the dry earth as a blanket. He removed his dark helm and settled himself down. The stars were bright, but Caphas had no eyes for them. The night was cool and clean, but he hated the emptiness. He longed for the sanctuary of the Temple and the drug-induced orgies. The music of the torture room, the sweet sound of a victim’s plea. Joy was what he missed here in this barren land. Laughter.
A special relationship came into being between the torturer and his victim. First there was defiance and hatred. Then tears and screams. Then begging. And finally, after the spirit was broken, there was a kind of love. Caphas cursed loudly and stood up, arousal creating anger within him. He opened the small leather pouch on his hip and removed a long Lorassium leaf. Rolling it into a ball, he placed it in his mouth and began to chew slowly. As the juices took hold and his mind swam, he became aware of the dreams of the sleeping soldiers and the slow, hungry thoughts of a badger in the undergrowth to his right. He screened them out, forcing his memory to replay a scene from the recent past when they had brought a girl-child to the torture room . . .
Uneasiness flooded him and he jerked his mind to the present, eyes flickering to the dark shadows in the trees.
A bright light grew before him, shimmering and coalescing into the shape of a warrior in silver armour. A white cloak was draped across his shoulders, the edges fluttering in the winds of Spirit.
Caphas closed his eyes and leapt from his body, black soul-sword in hand, dark shield upon his arm. The warrior parried the blow and stepped back.
‘Come here and die,’ offered Caphas. Twelve of your party are dead already. Come and join them!’
The warrior said nothing and only his blue eyes could be seen through the slit in the silver face-helm. The eyes were calm and the quiet confidence emanating from them seeped into Caphas’ heart. His shield shrank.
‘You cannot touch me!’ he screamed. The Spirit is stronger than the Source. You are powerless against me!’
The warrior shook his head.
‘Damn you!’ shouted Caphas as his shield disappeared. He charged forward, slashing wildly.
Acuas parried the blow with ease and then slid his own blade deep into the Templar’s chest. The man gasped as the icy sword cloved his spirit flesh. Then his soul guttered and died and, beyond it, his body toppled to the earth.