‘Of course, sire. They will be needed to combat the evil powers of Kesa Khan.’
The scene faded and Ekodas felt again the warm prison of his body. He opened his eyes to find Dardalion staring at him. ‘Am I supposed to have learned something, Father Abbot? I saw only evil men, proud and ruthless. The world is full of such.’
‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Dardalion. ‘And were we to spend our lives travelling the earth and slaying such men there would still be more of them at the end of our journey than there were at the beginning.’
‘But surely that is my argument, Lord Abbot,’ said Ekodas, surprised.
‘Exactly. That is what you must consider. I appreciate your argument, and accept the premise on which it is made, and yet I still believe in the cause of The Thirty. I still believe we must be a Temple of Swords. What I would like you to do, Ekodas, is to lead the debate tomorrow evening. I will present your arguments as if they were my own. You will deliver mine.’
‘But … that makes no sense, Father. I do not even begin to understand your cause.’
‘Do the best that you can. I will make this debate an open vote. The future of The Thirty will depend upon the
outcome. I will do my utmost to sway our brothers to your argument. You must do no less. If I win then the swords and armour will be returned to the storerooms and we will continue as an order of prayer. If you win we will await the guidance of the Source and ride to our destiny.’
‘Why can I not argue my own beliefs?’
‘You believe I will do them less than justice?’
‘No, of course not, but…’
‘Then it is settled.’
5
Morak listened to the reports as the hunters came in, his irritation growing. Nowhere was there any sign of Waylander, and the man Dakeyras had proved to be a balding redhead with a face that looked as if it had seen a stampede of oxen from underneath.
I hate forests, thought Morak, sitting with his back to the trunk of a willow, his green cloak wrapped tightly around him. I hate the smell of mould, the cold winds, the mud and the slime. He glanced at Belash, sitting apart from the others sharpening his knife with long sweeping strokes. The grating noise of the whetstone added to Morak’s ill-humour.
‘Well, somebody killed Kreeg,’ he said at last. ‘Somebody put a knife or an arrow through his eye.’ No one spoke. They had found the body the previous day, wedged in the reeds of the River Earis.
‘Could have been robbers,’ said Wardal, a tall, thin bowman from the Forest of Graven, far to the south.
‘Robbers?’ sneered Morak. ‘Hell’s teeth! I’ve had lice with more brains than you! If it was robbers don’t you think a fighter like Kreeg would have had more wounds? Don’t you think there would have been a fight? Someone very skilful sent a missile through his eyeball. A man with rare talent is killed – that suggests to me he was slain by someone with more talent. Is my reasoning getting through to you?’
‘You think it was Waylander,’ muttered Wardal.
‘A giant leap of the imagination. Many congratulations. The question is, where in Hell’s name is he?’
‘Why should he be easy to find?’ asked Belash, suddenly. ‘He knows we are here.’
‘And what mighty spark of logic leads you to that conclusion?’
‘He killed Kreeg. He knows.’
Morak felt a chill breeze blowing and shivered. ‘Wardal, you and Tharic take the first watch.’
‘What are we watching for?’ enquired Tharic.
Morak closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you could be watching for enormous elephants that will trample all over our supplies. But were I you, I would be alert for a tall man, dressed in black, who is rather good at sending sharp objects through eyeballs.’ At that moment a tall figure stepped from the undergrowth. Morak’s heart missed a beat, but then he recognised Baris. ‘The normal procedure is to shout “Hallo the camp”,’ he observed. ‘You took your time.’