‘Will we?’ whispered Parsal. Galand shrugged and the brothers moved on to follow the others.
Galand had been luckier than most and considerably more astute than many Dragon warriors. When the order to disband was given he had moved south, keeping his background to himself. He bought a small farm near Delving forest, south-west of the capital. When the terror began, he was left alone. He married a village girl and started a family, but she had disappeared on a bright autumn day six years before. It was said that the Joinings stole women, but Galand knew she had never loved him . . . and a village lad named Carcas had disappeared on the same day.
Rumours came to Delving about the round-up of former Dragon officers, and it was said that Bans himself had been arrested. This did not surprise Galand – he had always suspected Ceska would prove a tyrant.
Man of the people! Since when did one of his stinking class care about the people?
The small farm had prospered and Galand bought an adjoining parcel of land from a widower. The man was leaving for Vagria – he had a brother in Drenan who had warned him about impending changes – and Galand had bought him out for what seemed a peppercorn price.
Then the soldiers arrived.
A new law meant that non-titled citizens could own only four acres of land. The state acquired the rest at a price that made peppercorn seem a king’s ransom. Taxes were increased and crop levels set. These were impossible to meet after the first year, for the land was robbed of its goodness. Fallow fields were planted and the yields dropped.
Galand took it all, never voicing complaints.
Until the day his daughter died. She had run out to see the horsemen canter and a stallion had kicked out at her. Galand watched her fall and ran to her, cradling her to him.
The horseman dismounted. ‘Is she dead?’ he asked.
Galand nodded, unable to speak.
‘Unfortunate,’ said the rider. ‘It will increase your tax level.’
The rider died with Galand’s dagger buried in his heart. Then Galand dragged the man’s sword clear of its scabbard and leapt at a second horseman, whose mount shied; the man toppled to the ground, where Galand killed him with a throat-cut. The other four wheeled their mounts and rode back some thirty paces. Galand turned to the dark stallion which had killed his daughter and hammered the sword two-handed across its neck. Then he ran to the second mount, vaulted into the saddle and rode for the north.
He had located his brother in Vagria, where he worked as a stonemason.
Now Parsal’s voice cut through his thoughts, as they walked some thirty paces behind the others.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I never thought I would ever follow a Nadir.’
‘I know what you mean; it makes the blood run cold. Still, he wants the same as us.’
‘Does he?’ whispered Parsal.
‘What does that mean?’
‘They’re all the same breed: the warrior elite. It’s just a game to them – they don’t care.’
‘I don’t like them, brother. But they are Dragon, and that means more than blood. I cannot explain it. Though we are worlds apart, they would die for me – and I for them.’
‘I hope you’re right!’
‘There are few things in life I am sure about. That is one of them.’
Parsal was not convinced but he said nothing, staring ahead at the two warriors.
‘What happens when we kill Ceska?’ he asked suddenly.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know really. I mean – what do we do?’
Galand shrugged. ‘Ask me when his body lies bleeding at my feet.’
‘Strikes me that nothing will change.’
‘Maybe not, but I will have had my payment.’
‘It doesn’t bother you that you may die getting it?’
‘No! Does it you?’ asked Galand.
‘Damn right!’
‘You don’t have to stay.’
‘Course I do! I’ve always looked after you. Can’t leave you with a Nadir, can I? Why does the other one wear that mask?’
‘I think he has scars or something. He was an arena warrior.’