THE KING BEYOND THE GATE by David A. Gemmell

‘Take yourself. When I came in here I was your black friend, Pagan – big, strong and friendly. But what am I now? Now am I not a savage king far above you? Do you not feel ashamed of having forced your tiny doubts upon me?’

Scaler nodded.

‘And yet, am I a king? Did I truly command my regiment to stamp out a fire? How do you know? You do not! You listened to the voice of your inadequacy, and because you believed you are in my power. If I draw my sword, you are dead!

‘And again, when I look at you I see a bright courageous young man, well-built and in the prime of his manhood. You could be the prince of assassins, the deadliest warrior under the sun. You could be an emperor, a general, a poet. . .

‘Not a leader, Scaler? Anyone can be a leader, because everyone wants to be led.’

‘I am not a Tenaka Khan,’ said Scaler. ‘I am not of the same breed.’

‘Tell me that in a month. But from now on, act the part. You will be amazed at the number of people you fool. Don’t share your doubts! Life is a game, Scaler. Play it like that.’

Scaler grinned. ‘Why not? But tell me – did you truly send your men into the fire?’

‘You tell me,’ said Pagan, his face hardening and his eyes glowing in the lamplight.

‘No, you did not!’

Pagan grinned. ‘No! I will have the horses ready at dawn – I’ll see you then.’

‘Make sure you pack plenty of honey-cakes -Belder has a fondness for them.’

Pagan shook his head. ‘The old man is not coming. He is no good for you and his spirit is gone. He stays behind.’

‘If you follow me, then you do as I damn well say,’ snapped Scaler. ‘Three horses and Belder travels with us!’

The black man’s eyebrows rose and he spread his hands. ‘Very well.’ He opened the door.

‘How was that?’ asked Scaler.

‘Not bad for a start. I’ll see you in the morning.’

As Pagan returned to his room, his mood was sombre. Lifting his huge pack to the bed, he spread out the weapons he would carry tomorrow: two hunting-knives, sharp as razors; four throwing-knives to be worn in baldric sheaths; a short sword, double-edged, and a double-headed hand-axe he would strap to his saddle.

Stripping himself naked, he took a phial of oil from his pack and began to grease his body, rubbing hard at the bunched muscles of his shoulders. The damp western air was creeping into his bones.

His mind soared back over the years. He could still feel the heat of the blaze and hear the screams of his warriors as they raced into the flames . . .

*

Tenaka rode down from the mountain onto the slopes of the Vagrian plains. The sun rose over his left shoulder and the clouds bunched above his head. He felt at peace with the breeze in his hair; though mountainous problems reared ahead of him, he felt light and free of burdens.

He wondered if his Nadir heritage had made him uneasy among city dwellers, with their high walls and shuttered windows. The breeze picked up and Tenaka smiled.

Tomorrow death could flash towards him on an arrow point – but today . . . today was fine.

He pushed all thoughts of Skoda from his mind -those problems could be dealt with by Ananais and Rayvan. Scaler too was now his own man, riding for his own destiny. All Tenaka could do was fulfil his particular part in the tale.

His mind swam back to his childhood among the tribes. Spear, Wolfshead, Green Monkey, Grave Mountain, Soul Stealers. So many camps, so many territories.

Ulric’s tribe were acknowledged as the premier fighting men: the Lords of the Steppes, the Bringers of War. Wolfshead they were and their ferocity in war was legend. But who ruled the wolves now? Surely Jongir was dead.

Tenaka considered the contemporaries of his youth:

Knifespeaks, swift to anger and slow to forgive. Cunning, resourceful and ambitious.

Abadai Truthtaker, devious and devout in the ways of the shamen.