are tired after your long ride. It is late, and we need to sleep on this. All will seem clearer in the light of the morning.”
Timozel yawned hugely and Arne followed suit an instant later. Both stretched. “Come,” Veremund touched Axis lightly on the arm and brushed Gilbert’s back with his fingers as he walked past. “I will prepare you a sleeping chamber on one of the upper levels. All will be well in the morning.”
Axis finally felt his weariness come crashing about him. He realised he could no longer think clearly. Veremund spoke sense.
“I really think we should …” Gilbert began, but then his body was wracked with a gigantic yawn. “Perhaps you are right, Brother Veremund,” he finished lamely. “I do feel somewhat tired.”
“Then come,” Veremund smiled. “Let me lead you to your beds.”
Fifteen minutes later all four men were sound asleep in the small chamber Veremund had prepared for them. They had paused only long enough to remove their outer clothes and boots and had then crawled into their blankets. Veremund waited at the door until he could hear the men taking the deep, slow breaths of sleep, then walked thoughtfully back down the stairs.
Ogden was still sitting at the table by the slowly dying fire, his hand resting lovingly on the text of the Prophecy of the Destroyer. “Well, Brother,” he said as Veremund sat slowly down at the table, careful of his arthritic limbs, “have we waited our time out?”
Veremund took a deep breath, his eyes on the embers in the grate. “No Acharite has been able to read those words for almost a thousand years.” He raised his eyes to Ogden. “No one can read them, lest he or she be of Icarii blood.” Veremund had told Gilbert only half the truth earlier when the Brother had asked him about the language of the Forbidden. Although all three races, Acharite, Icarii and Avar, spoke a common language, the Icarii also spoke a sacred language reserved only for the most holy or important occasions. The Prophecy had been composed in that sacred tongue.
“And, what is more, of the Icarii line of Enchanters. The final verse of the Prophecy was heavily warded. Not even we have heard it before now.”
Both were silent for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes.
“It is our task to be heedful,” Ogden finally whispered.
“Watchful,” Veremund whispered back.
Neither spoke out loud the thought that had gripped them the moment Axis had started to recite the words of the last verse – that final verse had been meant for the eyes of one person only. It had stood unread since the ink and the spells of warding were still wet on the page. Now the Prophecy of the Destroyer was awake and walking the ancient land of Tencendor. And, by the look of the BattleAxe, it had been doing so for some thirty years.
Faraday lay sleepless in her bedroll, listening to her mother’s gentle snores. The night lay heavily upon her, and Faraday felt oppressed, trapped in this tiny tent. She twisted over to her other side and closed her eyes, trying to find sleep, but ten minutes later she was twisting back the other way, eyes wide open again.
She sighed and sat up. What she needed was some fresh air. Quietly, so as not to wake her mother, she turned the blanket of the bedroll back and fumbled in the dark for her shoes. The air was cold, and once she stood up Faraday reached for her heavy cloak to wrap around her nightgown as she slipped through the flap in the tent. Outside she pulled the hood of the cloak over her face. No use attracting attention to herself.
Her tent was right in the middle of the encampment. About her lay the huddled forms of several thousand warriors. Faraday smiled to herself. Under what other circumstances would her mother consent to her bedding down amid so many men? She picked her way carefully through the camp. Clouds scudded across the night sky but enough moonlight broke through for Faraday to see her way.
At the edge of the camp Faraday paused. She had expected one of the sentries to stop her before now. But all was quiet. Not sure whether to go back to her tent, or to go on further, suddenly a glimpse of white in the grass a few paces in front of her caught Faraday’s attention.
“Puss?” she whispered. “Puss?”
She hadn’t seen the cat for a day or so. Perhaps if she took the warm cuddly animal back to bed it would help her to sleep. She stepped past the boundaries of the camp and reached down for the cat. But just as her fingers brushed its back the cat sprang forward a few more steps.
“Puss!” Faraday muttered irritably and walked after it, but the cat jumped away from her again. Faraday was now engrossed in catching the cat. Some time later she looked up and fear gripped her heart for an instant, until she spun around and spotted the low campfires in the distance. She wasn’t so far away, after all. The cat purred about her legs and she bent down and picked it up.
But as Faraday turned back to the camp several dark figures loomed out of the night. She squealed in terror and convulsively gripped the cat to her breast. It squawked with indignation and squirmed out of her arms. She turned to run, but tripped over her long cloak and tumbled down into the grass, skinning the heels of her hands as she fell.
A tall, dark figure bent down over her.
“Get away from me!” Faraday hissed, trying to scrabble out of his reach on her hands and buttocks.
The figure leaned back. “’Tis only me, lady,” a soft burred country voice said. “Jack the pig boy. Won’t do no-one no harm. Jack Simple’s the name.”
Faraday held her breath ready to scream. The clouds thinned over the moon and she caught a look at his face. He was in early middle-age, sparse blond hair tumbling down over his forehead, his skin weather-lined and tanned, friendly eyes over a wide grin. Faraday stared at him, trying to work out what was wrong with his face, then she realised Jack the pig boy had the face of a friendly and completely harmless simpleton. In one hand he held a heavy wooden staff that topped him by a full handspan; it had a heavy carved knob of some kind of dark metal on its top. The other dark shapes behind him resolved themselves into large but equally harmless pigs, staring at her curiously.
The white cat, purring loudly enough to attract the attention of every sentry about the camp, was weaving itself ecstatically around Jack’s legs. He bent down and picked the cat up.
“Pretty puss,” he murmured, “pretty, pretty.” Jack held her in the crook of his arm and stroked her back in long sensual strokes. He had nice hands, long fingers, square fingernails.
Faraday recovered her composure and scrambled to her feet. She pulled her cloak about her again and carefully tried to brush the dirt out of her grazed hands.
“What are you doing here?” she asked harshly, still not completely recovered from the shock he had given her.
Jack looked downcast and shuffled his feet a little. “Didn’t mean you no harm, lady. Taking my friends for a walk, I was. Nice night, yes, for a walk.”
Faraday looked at the pigs. There was a small herd of about fifteen standing patiently behind Jack. They all looked fat and well-fed. Faraday supposed he came from a distant farmstead, and perhaps spent most of his time minding the pigs as they roamed the plains, fattening themselves for market.
“You scared me,” she said shortly, and wished as soon as she’d said it that she had not sounded so petty.
Jack looked contrite, lines of distress creasing his forehead. “M’lady. Please, I meant no harm.”
“It’s all right, Jack. I know you meant no harm. Why,” she said, to turn Jack’s mind away from his guilt at startling her, “the cat adores you.” To be honest, Faraday was feeling just a little jealous of the cat’s attentions to Jack. Up to now the cat had showed a preference only for her or Axis. It had been a tie to bind them.
Jack smiled broadly, wiping away all