What am I doing here, he asked himself. Riding into a hostile land with scum like Gracus and his men. It’s your fault, Father. Always pushing, cajoling, forcing! I’m not like you. I never was, nor would I wish to be! But you made me what I am.
He recalled the day Galen had first approached him, bringing with him the refined Lorassium leaf, and remembered with pleasure the taste of it upon his tongue, bitter and numbing. And with it the exquisite thrill that ran through his veins. All his fears vanished, all his dreams grew. Joy beyond reckoning flooded his senses. Oh, yes. The memories of the orgies that had followed aroused him even now, as his horse slowly trudged along the mountain trail. Passion, and the daring excitement of pain inflicted on willing – aye and unwilling – partners, the slender whips, the begging screams.
Then Galen had introduced him to the Lord Zhu Chao. And the promises began. When Karnak – that bloated, self-obsessed tyrant – was dead it would be Bodalen who would rule the Drenai. And he could fill his palace with concubines and slaves. A lifetime of pleasure, free from restraint. What price those promises now?
He shivered and swung to see the dark, hawk-like Gracus riding just behind him, the other riders following in a silent line. ‘Almost there, Lord Bodalen,’ said Gracus, unsmiling.
Bodalen nodded, but did not reply. He knew he lacked
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his father’s physical courage, but he lacked nothing of his intelligence. Zhu Chao no longer saw him as a person of value. He was being used as an assassin.
Where had it all gone wrong? He licked his lips. That was easy to answer. When that damned girl had died.
Waylander’s daughter.
What a cursed trick of fate!
His horse reached the crest of the trail and Bodalen gazed down on a green valley, with sparkling streams. It was some two miles across and perhaps four deep, and at the centre reared an ancient fortress with four turrets and a portcullis gate. Bodalen blinked and rubbed his eyes. The turrets were leaning and twisted, the walls uneven, as if the earth had reared up below the structure. And yet it still stood.
Gracus drew alongside. ‘Kar-Barzac,’ he said.
‘It looks like something fashioned by a drunken man,’ said Bodalen.
Gracus shrugged, unconcerned. ‘We can shelter there,’ he answered.
Slowly the eleven riders filed down into the valley. Bodalen could not take his eyes from the citadel. The windows, archers’ slits, were not straight but crooked, each a different height, some canted, others stretched. ‘It couldn’t have been built like that, surely?’ he asked Gracus. One of the towers leaned out at an impossible angle, and yet there were no cracks in the great stones. As they grew closer Bodalen remembered a visit to an armoury when he was a child. Karnak had showed him a great furnace. They had thrown an iron helm into the fire and the boy had watched as it slowly melted. Kar-Barzac was like that helm.
They rode across the valley and Gracus pointed at a nearby tree. The trunk was split and had curled around itself, forming a weird knot. And the leaves were sharp and long, five-pronged and red as blood. Bodalen had never seen a tree like it.
As they neared the citadel they saw the half-eaten carcass of a bighorn sheep. Gracus angled his mount to ride
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close to the body. Bodalen followed him. The sheep’s eyes were gone, but the head remained, mouth wide open.
‘By the blood of Missael!’ whispered Bodalen. The sheep had short, pointed fangs.
‘This valley is bewitched!’ said one of the men.
‘Be silent!’ roared Gracus, dismounting. He knelt by the carcass. ‘It looks as if it has been chewed by rats,’ he said. ‘The bite-marks are small.’ He stood and swung into the saddle.
Bodalen felt his unease growing. Everything in this valley seemed unnatural. Sweat rolled down his back. He glanced at Gracus, noting the beads of perspiration on his brow. ‘Is it just fear, or is it hotter here?’ he asked the warrior.
‘It’s hotter,’ answered Gracus. ‘But that’s often the way with mountain valleys.’