David Gemmell - The King Beyond the Gate

'And learn to kill again?'

'That we shall see.'

'I don't want to kill. I wish to live among my plants.'

'Do you think I want to fight? I am nearing sixty years of age. I love the Source and all things that grow or move. I believe life is the greatest gift in all the Universe. But there is real evil in the world, and it must be fought. Overcome. Then others will have the opportunity to see the joy of life.'

'Don't say any more,' snapped Decado. 'Not another damned word!' Years of suppressed emotion roared through him, filling his senses, and forgotten anger lashed him with whips of fire. What a fool he had been — hiding from the world, grubbing in the soil like a sweating peasant!

He moved to a set of armour placed to the right of the rest and his hand reached down to curl round the ivory hilt. With one smooth movement he swept the blade into the air, his muscles pulsing with the thrill of the weapon. Its blade was silver steel and razor-sharp, and the balance was perfection. He turned to the Abbot, and where he had once seen a Lord he now saw an old man with watery eyes.

'This quest of yours, does it involve Tenaka Khan?'

'Yes, my son.'

'Don't call me that, priest! Not ever again. I don't blame you — I was the fool for believing in you. All right, I will fight with your priests, but only because it will aid my friends. But do not seek to give me Orders.'

'I will not be in a position to order you, Decado. Even now you have moved to your own armour.'

'My armour?'

'You recognise the rune on the helm?'

'It is the number One in the Elder script.'

'It was Serbitar's armour. You will wear it.'

'He was the leader, was he not?'

'As you will be.'

'So that is my lot,' said Decado, 'to lead a motley crew of priests as they play at war. Very well; I can take a joke as well as any man.'

Decado began to laugh. The Abbot closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, for through the laughter he felt the cry of anguish from Decado's tortured soul. Despair swept through the priest and he left the room, the manic laughter echoing after him.

What have you done, Abaddon? he asked himself.

Tears were in his eyes as he reached his room and, once inside, he fell to his knees.

Decado stumbled from the chamber and returned to his garden, staring in disbelief at the tidy rows of vegetables, the neat hedges and the carefully pruned trees.

He walked on to his hut, kicking open the door.

Less than an hour before, this had been home — a home he loved. Contentment had been his.

Now the shack was a hovel and he left it and wandered to his flower garden. The white rose carried three new buds. Anger coursed through him and he grasped the plant, ready to rip it from the ground. Then he stopped and slowly released it, staring at his hand and then back at the plant. Not one thorn had ripped his flesh. Gently he smoothed out the crushed leaves and began to sob, meaningless sounds which became two words.

'I'm sorry,' he told his rose.

The Thirty assembled in the lower courtyard, saddling their mounts. The horses still bore their winter coats, but they were strong mountain-bred beasts and they could run like the wind. Decado chose a bay mare; he saddled it swiftly and then vaulted to its back, sweeping out his white cloak behind him and settling it over the saddle in Dragon fashion. Serbitar's armour fitted him as his own never had — it felt smooth, like a second skin.

The Abbot, Abaddon, stepped into the saddle of a chestnut gelding and moved alongside Decado.

Decado swung in the saddle, watching the warrior priests as they silently mounted — he had to admit that they moved well. Each adjusted his cloak precisely as Decado had done. Abaddon gazed wistfully at his erstwhile disciple; Decado had shaved his chin clean and bound his long dark hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes were bright and alive, and a half-mocking smile was on his lips.

The night before, Decado had been formally introduced to his lieutenants: Acuas, the Heart of The Thirty; Balan, the Eyes of The Thirty; and Katan, the Soul of The Thirty.

'If you want to be warriors,' he had told them, 'then do as I say, when I say it. The Abbot tells me that there is a force hunting Tenaka Khan. We are to intercept it. The men we shall fight are true warriors, so I am told. Let us hope your quest does not end at their hands.'

'It is your quest too, brother,' said Katan, with a gentle smile.

'There is no man alive who can slay me. And if you priests fall like wheat, I shall not stay.'

'Is not a leader obliged to stand by his men?' asked Balan, an edge of anger in his voice.

'Leader? This is all a priestly farce, but very well, I will play the game. But I will not die with you.'

'Will you join us in prayer?' said Acuas.

'No. You pray for me! I have spent too many years wasting my time in that fruitless exercise.'

'We have always prayed for you,' said Katan.

'Pray for yourselves! Pray that when you meet these Dark Templars your bowels do not turn to water.'

With that he had left them. Now he raised his arms and led the troop through the Temple gates and out over the Sentran Plain.

'Are you sure this choice is wise?' Katan mind-pulsed to Abaddon.

'It is not my choice, my son.'

'He is a man consumed by anger.'

'The Source knows our needs. Do you remember Estin?'

'Yes, poor man. So wise — he would have been a good leader,' said Katan.

'Indeed he would. Courageous, yet kind; strong, yet gentle; and possessed of intellect without arrogance. But he died. And on the day he died Decado appeared at our gates seeking sanctuary from the world.'

'But suppose, Lord Abbot, that it was not the Source that sent him?'

'"Lord Abbot" no longer, Katan. Merely "Abaddon".'

The older man severed the mind link and it was some moments before Katan realised his question had not been answered.

The years fled from Decado. Once more he was in the saddle, the wind in his hair. Once more the drumming of hooves sounded on the plain and the stirring in his blood brought his youth pounding back to his mind. .

The Dragon sweeping down on the Nadir raiders. Chaos, confusion, blood and terror. Broken men and broken screams, and crows shrieking their joy in the dark skies above.

And then later, in one mercenary war after another in the most far-flung nations of the world. Always Decado walked away from the battle, not a wound upon his slender form, while his enemies journeyed to whatever hells they believed in, shadowed and forgotten.

The image of Tenaka Khan floated in Decado's mind.

Now there was a warrior! How many times had Decado fallen asleep dreaming of a battle with Tenaka Khan? Ice and Shadow in the dance of blades.

They had fought, many times. With wooden blades or tipped foils. Even with blunted sabres. Honours were even. But such contests were meaningless — only when death rested on the blades could a true victor emerge.

Decado's thoughts were interrupted as the yellow-bearded Acuas cantered alongside.

'It will be close, Decado. The Templars have found their trail at some devastated village. They will have made their move by morning.'

'How soon can we reach them?'

'Dawn at the earliest.'

'Back to your prayers, then, yellowbeard. And make them powerful.'

He spurred his horse to a gallop and The Thirty followed him.

It was close to dawn and the companions had ridden through most of the night, stopping only for an hour to rest the horses. The Skoda range loomed ahead and Tenaka was anxious to reach their sanctuary. The sun, hidden now beyond the eastern horizon, was stirring and the stars faded as a pink glow painted the sky.

The riders left a grove of trees and emerged on to a broad grassland, swirling in mist. Tenaka felt a sudden chill touch his bones; he shivered and drew his cloak about him. He was tired and discontented.