He paused again and sipped water from his goblet of clay. ‘The Lord Abbot talked of slaying the men who came for the children -but what was the alternative? To allow two innocent babes to be sacrificed? Whose purpose would that have served? As for the men and their redemption, who is to say where their souls travelled, and what hopes of redemption lie there?
‘No, the Abbot has cause to regret only one aspect of that terrible day – the joy he felt at the killings. For that is the central point to this argument. As warrior priests we must fight – if fight we must – without hatred. We must be defenders of the Light.
‘This Source-made world is in delicate balance, and when the scales of evil outweigh those of the good, what should we do? We were given gifts by the Source, gifts which enable us to stand against the Brotherhood. Do we deny those gifts? Many are the men who could take up the staff. Many are the priests who could -and will – journey the world with their gospels of love.
‘But where are the Warriors of Light who can stand against the Brotherhood? Where are the Source Knights who can turn aside the spells of evil?’ He spread his hands. ‘Where, save for here? Not one of us can say with certainty that the path we choose is the right one. But we judge a rose by its bloom and by its fragrance. The Brotherhood seeks to rule, and by so doing, to usher in a new age of blood. We seek to see men living in peace and harmony, free to love, free to father their sons and daughters, free to sit in the evenings and watch the glory of the sunset, content that evil is far from them.
‘We know where evil lies and, with pure hearts, we should stand against it. If it can be turned aside by love, so be it! But if it comes seeking slaughter and pain, then we should meet it with sword and shield. For that is our purpose. For we are the Thirty!’ He sat down and closed his eyes, his emotions surging, his thoughts suddenly confused.
‘Let us pray,’ said Dardalion, ‘and then let each man choose his path.’
For some minutes there was silence, then Ekodas saw Vishna rise and draw his silver sword, laying it on the table before him. Magnic followed, the grating rasp of steel blade on steel scabbard sawing through the silence. One by one the priests drew the swords, until only Dardalion and Ekodas were left. Dardalion waited and Ekodas smiled thinly. He stood, his eyes locked to the Abbot’s level gaze.
‘Did you trick me, Father?’ pulsed Ekodas.
‘No, my son. Did you convince yourself?’
‘No, Dardalion. I still believe that to fight evil with its own weapons is folly and will lead merely to more hatred, more death.’
‘Then why did you present the argument with such power?’
‘Because you asked me to. And I owe you everything.’
‘Then take up the staff, my son.’
‘It is too late for that, Father.’ Ekodas reached out and curled his fingers around the hilt of the silver longsword. The blade hissed into the air, catching the light from the many lanterns.
‘We are One!’ shouted Vishna.
And thirty swords were raised high, glittering like torches.
*
Karnak strode through the cheering troops, smiling and waving. Three times he stopped to exchange a few words with individual soldiers whose names he remembered. It was this common touch that endeared him to the men, and he knew it. Behind him walked two officers of his general staff. Gan Asten, a former low-ranking officer promoted by Karnak during the civil war, was now one of the most powerful commanders in the Drenai army. Beside him was Dun Galen, nominally Karnak’s aide, but in reality the man whose network of spies kept Karnak’s hand on the reins of power.
Karnak reached the end of the line and stooped to enter the tent. Asten and Galen followed him. The two guards extended their lances across the opening, signalling that the Lord Protector was not to be disturbed, and the soldiers drifted back to their campfires.