David Gemmell - The King Beyond the Gate

'I know. And I am worn out. I shall sleep for a while.'

Ananais lay back, resting his head on his cloak. The night breeze felt good on his scared face. He was tired — more tired than he could ever remember being. It was the weariness of disappointment. Tenaka's plan was a nightmare, yet there were no alternatives. Ceska held the land within the talons of his Joinings and maybe, just maybe, a Nadir conquest would cleanse the nation. But Ananais doubted it.

From tomorrow he would train his warriors as they had never been trained before. They would run until they fell, fight until their arms ached with weariness. He would drill them hard, preparing a force not only to withstand Ceska's legions, but hopefully one that would live on to battle the new enemy.

Tenaka Khan's Nadir.

At the centre of the valley the bodies of the fallen were placed in a hastily dug ditch and covered with earth and rocks. Rayvan said a prayer and the survivors knelt before the mass grave, whispering their own farewells to friends, brothers, fathers and kin.

After the ceremony The Thirty moved away to the hills, leaving Decado and Rayvan and her sons. It was some time before he noticed their absence.

Decado left the fire and went in search of them, but the valley was large and soon he realised the enormity of the task. The moon was high in the sky when he finally came to the conclusion that they had left him behind intentionally: they did not want to be found.

He sat down by a white marble boulder and relaxed his mind, floating down into the whispering realms of the subconscious.

Silence.

Anger nagged at him, dislodging his concentration, but he calmed himself and sought the sanctuary once more.

Then he heard the scream. It came at first as a soft, muted cry and grew into a soul-piercing expression of agony. Decado listened for a while, struggling to identify the source of the sound. Then it came to him. It was Abaddon.

And he knew where The Thirty had travelled: to rescue the Abbot of Swords and free him to die. He also knew that this was folly of the worst kind. He had promised Abaddon that he would look after his charges and now, within a day of the old man's death, they had left him in order to embark on a futile journey, travelling into the realms of the damned.

A terrible sadness assailed Decado, for he could not follow them. So he prayed, but no answer came to him and he expected none.

'What kind of a god are you?' he asked in his despair. 'What do you expect from your followers? You give them nothing and ask for everything. At least with the spirits of darkness there is some communion. Abaddon died for you and still suffers. Now his acolytes will suffer in their turn. Why do you not answer me?'

Silence.

'You do not exist! There is no force for purity. All a man has is his will to do good. I reject you. I want no more to do with you!'

Decado relaxed then and probed deeper into his mind, seeking the mysteries Abaddon had promised him throughout his years of study. He had tried in the past, but never with this sense of desperation. He travelled yet deeper, tumbling and spinning through the roaring of his memories — seeing again the battles and skirmishes, the fears and the failures.

On, on, through the bitter sadness of his childhood, back to his first stirrings in his mother's womb and beyond into separation: seed and egg, driving, waiting.

Darkness.

Movement. The snapping of chains, the soaring freedom.

Light.

Decado floated free, drawn to the pure silver light of the full moon. He halted his rise with an effort of will and gazed down on the curving beauty of the Demon's Smile, but a dark cloud drifted beneath him and obscured the view. He glanced down at his body, white and naked in the moonlight, and joy flooded his soul.

The scream froze him. He remembered his mission and his eyes blazed with cold fire. But he could not travel naked and unarmed. Closing his spirit eyes he pictured armour, the black and silver of the Dragon.

And it was there. But no sword hung at his side, no shield on his arm.

He tried again. Nothing.

The long-ago words of Abaddon drifted back over the years. 'In spirit travel a Source warrior carries the sword of his faith, and his shield is the strength of his belief.'

Decado had neither.

'Damn you!' he shouted into the cosmic night. 'Still you thwart me, even when I am on your business.' He closed his eyes once more. 'If it is faith I need, then I have faith. In myself. In Decado, the Ice Killer. I need no sword, for my hands are death.'

And he flew like a shaft of moonlight, drawn to the scream. He left the world of men with awesome speed, soaring over dark mountains and gloomy plains; two blue planets hovered over the land and the stars were dim and cold.

Below him an ebony castle squatted on a low hill. He halted in his flight, hovering above the stone ramparts. A dark shadow leapt at him and he swerved as a sword-blade flashed by his head. His hand lanced out, gripping the swordsman's wrist, spinning his enemy round. Decado's left hand chopped down at his opponent; the man's neck snapped and he vanished. Decado spun on his heel as a second attacker surged at him. The man wore the dark livery of the Templars. Decado leapt back as the sword cut a glittering semi-circle past his belly. As a back-hand slash hissed at his neck, Decado ducked and dived forward under the blade, ramming his skull under the man's chin. The Templar staggered.

Decado's hand stabbed out, the fingers burying themselves in the Templar's throat. Once more his opponent vanished.

Ahead was a half-open door leading to a deep stair-well. Decado ran forward but then stopped, his senses urging caution. Launching himself feet first, he smashed the door back on its hinges and a man groaned and slumped forward into view. Rolling to his feet, Decado hammered the blade of his foot into the man's chest, caving in the breastbone.

Running on, he took the stairs three at a time to emerge into a wide circular hall. At the centre The Thirty stood in a tight circle, surrounded on all sides by dark-cloaked Templars. Swords clashed silently and no sound issued from the battle. Outnumbered more than two to one, The Thirty were fighting for their lives.

And losing!

They had only one choice left. Flight. Even as he realised this Decado noticed for the first time that he could no longer soar into the air — as soon as he had touched these grim battlements his powers had left him. But why? In that instant he knew the answer; it lay in the words he had used to Abaddon: 'Evil lives in a pit. If you want to fight it, you have to climb down into the slime to do so.'

They were in the pit and the powers of light were lessened here, even as the powers of darkness failed against the hearts of strong men.

'To me!' yelled Decado. 'Thirty to me!'

For a moment the battle ceased as the Templars paused to check the source of the sound. Then six of them peeled off from the battle to charge him. Acuas cut his way into the gap and led the warrior priests towards the stairs.

The Thirty cut and slashed a path, their silver blades shining like torches in the gloom. No bodies lay on the cold stones — any pierced by sword-blade in that bloodless battle merely vanished as if they had never been. Only nineteen priests still stood.

Decado watched death bear down upon him. His skill was great, but no man alive could tackle six men unarmed and survive. But he would try. A great calm settled upon him and he smiled at them.

Two swords of dazzling light appeared in his hands, and he attacked with blistering speed. A left cut, a parry and riposte, a right slash, a left thrust. Three down and gone like smoke in the breeze. The remaining three Templars fell back — into the eldritch blades of The Thirty.