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Robert Curzon Synopsis THE MYTHOLOGIZER

THE MYTHOLOGIZER

BOOK ONE

Ganuth gripped the battle-axe in his white-knuckled fist and from the prow of his longship scanned the shifting mists of the silver dawn, his eyes searching for green snakes of land slithering along the blurred horizon.  Still there was no sign of their island destination and he cursed.  With a rapid dart of the head and a glance at his heaving oarsmen, he bellowed at them to row faster.  They had to attack by morning when the islanders were celebrating the wedding.  To the accompaniment of gasps and groans the speed of the longship increased, ploughing a remorseless furrow through the emerald wind-licked waves.

A sudden gale flew up, banishing the shreds of dawn mist and bringing on its heels a torrent of rain.  The sky darkened, and it was like night again, but the bloodeaglers maintained their relentless rhythm, pulling hard on the oars, their shoulders spiked with fatigue, their faces masks of exertion.  The terrain of the sea steepened, the thunder-god roared, spears of light flew across the heavens and the eagle-emblazoned sail of the longship bellied.  The warriorpriest stumbled along the deck roaring at his men to haul in their oars: it was impossible to row in seas as treacherous as these.  The activity was frantic as the bloodeaglers wrestled the oars from the fuming sea, threw them clattering on the deck, and shut the oarlock covers to stop the waves punching through the holes.

An up-heave in the ocean swell tipped the ship violently to one side, sending men, weapons and stores crashing across the deck.  Ganuth clutched the mast for support and blinked the spray from his eyes.  Next, the ship lurched the other way and tongues of water lapped over the starboard side, the sea a malevolent giant poised to bring down its fist on his dwarfed vessel.  The men bailed out the longship with buckets, pots, bowls, and anything else that came to hand, even helms.

Ganuth saw Hebdon, one of his officers, pointing up at the sky, and turned to stare at the awning of crow-black clouds arched across the heavens.  Confused, he cast his gaze back at Hebdon's arm and realised he was pointing at the billowing sail above Ganuth's head.  It had broken free from its metal ring on the port side and was flapping wildly in the gale.  If the longship lost momentum it would be unable to climb the sea and fall prey to the invading waves. 

Ganuth snatched hold of the oarmaster Cynric.  'Help me secure the sail!'

Cynric shook his head, the words lost in the howling wind.  Ganuth jabbed a finger at the sail and the oarmaster nodded in mute understanding.  The warriorpriest clambered up the deck of the listing ship and seized its oaken side, twisting his body and pulling Cynric up the slippery deck behind him.  Ganuth stepped onto one of the oarsmen's seats and instinctively Cynric wrapped his arms around Ganuth's knees.

A rope spliced to the corner of the sail was whipping viciously in the wind, flicking through the sea and being swept up again in the gale.  Ganuth lunged at it – and   missed.  He cursed.  Trusting the oarmaster's grip he stretched outside the line of the ship with both hands and caught the swing of the sodden rope, overbalancing at the same time.  Cynric held fast to his legs but Ganuth was suspended above the sea with the trunk of his body over the side and his hands gripping the rope.  He clung to it with all his might, the sockets of his arms wrenched by the bulging sail, his head jolting under the blows of sea and sky.  The oarmaster yanked him closer to the vessel, and suddenly stopped.  He’s slipped, thought Ganuth.  Cynric had hold of his legs, but there was no power in his pull. 

The warrior-priest glimpsed the dark sea skimming along below.  One slip and he’d drown.  He snatched at the oaken spar with his right hand, his left hand still fixed hard to the rope.  With a claw-like grip he pulled himself close to the vessel and Cynric appeared above him, caught his shoulders and hauled him back into the ship.  The two men collapsed in a heap on the deck.  Summoning up a last grain of energy Ganuth scrambled to his feet, lashed the rope to the metal ring of the gunwale, and slid to the deck with relief.

Their survival now depended on the helmsman Cadalesk who was struggling with the steering oar.  With the sail in place it gave the burly pilot the impetus he needed to steer the ship on a safer course through the waves

Ganuth returned to his position beside the mast and marvelled at the rapid change in their fortunes.  A few moments earlier it had looked as if they were about to sink; now they rode the storm, the sleek vessel arching its spine over serpent-necked waves as if relishing a deadly combat.  For an hour they battled the elements until like a child exhausted by its tears, the storm calmed.  Light filtered between the separating clouds and the seascape became hauntingly beautiful, as if mysteriously under-lit.  The sea glittered in the wake of the longship like dew on a sunlit meadow and breakers gleamed a starry white, marching at them like rows of ghostly soldiers.

Later the dawn brightened as if plucking light from the silver ocean.  The men were back at their oars and in good heart.  Cynric raised a clenched fist of triumph to Ganuth who acknowledged it with a nod of the head.  A bloodeagler shouted to Ganuth: 'I thought you was goin' to take a tumble, sir.'

Normally Ganuth would have punished such an insolent remark severely, but now was a time for comradeship and good humour, not heavy handed discipline. 'Not as rough as a tumble with a tart in Grendon,.’

The men roared.  A year ago a slumbering bloodeagler had lost his private parts - the victim of a jealous woman in Grendon during a brief campaign there.  The incident had since become a part of the men's bawdy folklore. 

Ganuth glanced round to locate his other five ships.  He had been so engrossed in his own plight that he had forgotten about the rest of his fleet.  He spied two of the other longships immediately, half a mile away on the starboard side, but there was no sign of the other two, or of the knorr, the bloodeaglers' cargo ship.  Maybe they've sunk in the storm, fretted Ganuth; although technically the knorr's broader design should have made it more stable than longships in hostile seas.  The hopeful explanation, he thought, was that the other ships had simply fallen behind and would catch up later.

'The Culvers!’  A cry went up.

Ganuth's eyes swooped on the hazy brim of ocean flecked with green.  Cold vapour sprang from his mouth as he gasped at the sight.  He encircled the tiny strip of land with the thumb and forefinger of one hand and fisted them.  'You're mine.’

It was her wedding day and she was beautiful.

 Her face, the shape of a heart, glowed a joyful and contented pink, and her eyes, the colour of a fine sky, shone with excitement.  Flowers crowned her honey-blond hair  - pink orchids, red campion, yellow buttercups – and it fell in tresses about her shoulders like a waterfall.  A simple linen shift clung gently to her lissom figure, its only decoration a golden chain about the waist.  The effect was dazzling.

Jago walked into his daughter's sleeping quarters, ignoring the women who tried to shoo him out, and Megan looked up at him.  She saw a pang of sadness in his eyes, and smiled brightly to cheer him up.  He forced a smile, fighting back the tears.  'Megan, you look beautiful.'  Jago stretched out his arms.  For the first time that morning the chatter of the women ceased and there was a respectful silence while father and eldest daughter enjoyed a private moment together.  Megan beamed at her father with tears in her eyes, and they hugged - a long, strong, warm hug, while he whispered softly in her ear: 'He’s a good man, your man.  You'll be very happy.’

She murmured with contentment, and then Mother broke the spell by clapping her hands.  'All right that's enough of that, Jago,' she scolded her husband good-naturedly.  'It's taken us two hours to get Megan the way she is and you've undone it in a moment.  Now out!'  She gave him a playful slap on the backside, and he left the room shaking his head and muttering something to do with, 'women and their endless preparations'.

'Look at your hair my girl!' Iltyth, Megan's mother, fussed round her daughter for the umpteenth time that morning.  'Your father should be entertaining our guests, not spoiling your hair.'

'He was only wishing me luck.’

 'That's as maybe.  I'm trying to prepare for a wedding.’

That’s was Mother!  Endlessly practical.  It was only now that she was leaving that Megan saw how much like her mother she was.  She studied Iltyth for a moment.  Megan had inherited her mother's glorious hair, her turquoise eyes and healthy complexion; she also had Mother to thank for the smooth contours of her face and her lithe figure, although in Mother age had brought lines of contentment around the eyes and mouth, and added a little here and there to the generosity of her curves.

Oona and Martha, Iltyth's neighbours, were helping to prepare Megan's younger sisters, Lynnit and Elinor, who were to be bridesmaids at the wedding.  Oona was arranging Lynnit's dress while Martha was braiding Elinor's hair.  'Fathers always dote on their daughters,' said Oona, a plump, comfortable-looking woman who had somehow always reminded Megan of a red robin.

'That’s true,' agreed Martha sagely. 'My husband is hard as iron on our Ruderin - the fights they have!  - but with Zanna he's as soft as lamb's wool.'

Lynnit gave a sullen stare.  'Megan's always been father's favourite.’

Her mother regarded Lynnit coolly.  'That's nonsense, Lynnit, and you know it.  He's had no favourites.’

Lynnit paled under her mother's withering gaze and shot a resentful look at her elder sister.  Megan said nothing.  In a few hours she was to be a married woman and childish squabbles seemed a thing of the past.  She sat serenely on her stool while Mother brushed her hair lovingly with a hog's hairbrush.  A smile came to her lips as she thought of Blade, her beloved, her husband-to-be.  Many of the girls on the Culver Islands had desired him, but she had been the lucky one to catch his eye.

She thought back to the first day she had seen him - riding into town on a chestnut mare.  Apart from Blade everything else about that day was forgotten.  All that registered in her mind were the first warm memories of him – his laughter, the twinkle of his hazel eyes, the lop-sided mischievous grin, the way he teased her, and finally the blatant wink as he galloped off.

She had been gazing dreamily out to sea at the bend in the road near the harbour when he had ridden into view and jumped from his horse to ask her the way to his cousin's house.  She had pointed to a cluster of squat stone houses clinging grimly to a belt of grey rock across the bay; and then, instead of remounting his horse and riding off, Blade had lingered a while and asked her about life in the fishing town.

Megan had held him captivated by tales of the sea, the bravery of storm-beaten fishermen, the monsters they claimed to have seen, and the sadness that engulfed the town when a ship failed to return to Bowden.  And then she told him about her work as a scribe for her father, Merchant General for the north of Harvest Island, and the trading trips he arranged to and from the neighbouring islands of Hensbarrow and Sorborra, and the secret exchange of goods with the distant northern island of Moonstone.

He told her he had visited Hensbarrow Island once, and in turn painted word-pictures of his life on the hill farms tucked beneath the Harvest Mountains: the shadow of winter which brought snow-drifts as high as houses; the dry-stone wall corrals which patterned the landscape, protecting cattle from the bears, foxes and wolves; the summer sun which picked out every shade of green on the grassy highlands like fingers plucking up stitches of thread; and the beauty of the moon's nightly journey through the mountains glinting off rocky outcrops and lighting up cliffs thousands of feet high.

'How is it you don't  know your own cousin's house?'   She looked at him in puzzlement..

It was the first time in four years that he had visited his cousin, he explained.  His father, a thane-farmer in the highlands, relied heavily upon him and he had few free days.  'But I've a feeling I'll be visiting my cousin again soon.’  He remounted his horse and gave her a cheeky wink.

That night she had lain awake in bed thinking of him, her mind awhirl, delighting in every word and gesture she could remember.  She imagined Blade's life in the highlands, constructing romantic images of him riding across the hills, herding cattle and washing naked in glittering mountain streams.  She giggled at the thought.  If he liked her he might return and ask her to go courting.  It had never occurred to her that she might marry a farmer.  She had thought she would wed a man from Bowden, but no one had shown the slightest interest in her.  Maybe they were put off by the fact that her father was Merchant General and regarded her as too highborn for them.  It had been so frustrating.  Twenty years old and she felt like an old maid!

Sometimes she had persuaded herself it was her looks.  Her hips were far too wide and she hated her nose!  It was so flat.  At least she didn't have to worry about her breasts.  They were more than large enough.  She put her hands under her nightshift and pushed her breasts up firmly, thrilling herself with the thought of a man staring at her, his eyes wild with desire.  She sighed.  In reality they made her feel self-conscious and insecure.  When boys from Bowden looked at her and sniggered behind their cupped hands, she flushed a deep crimson.

'You've nothing to worry about,' Mother had reassured her.  'You're a beautiful girl.  Men are slower on the uptake with pretty girls. Your father took weeks to ask grandfather whether he could take me courting.  I thought he didn’t like me.’

Megan hugged herself under the bedclothes.  The arrival of Blade had opened up a whole new world of possibilities.  She wondered what his father was like.  Was he harsh or kind?  He must be kind, she reasoned, to have brought up such a son.  Did he have brothers and sisters?  He hadn't said much about his family.  A nervous chill ran down her spine - would his mother like her if they met?  She imagined a big, fat farmer's wife with a red face, bulging forearms, and podgy hands resting on expansive hips, saying, 'What do you think you're doing with my son, young lady?'   

How she wanted to see him again!  It was a further six agonising days until her wish was granted.  Megan was sure she would die of longing.  For several days she returned to the bend in the road where they had first met, always at the same time of day as their first encounter in the hope he would appear once more.  She remembered how he had winked at that first meeting before riding off.  Did that not prove he had liked her?  She was sure a man would never do that unless there was some sweetness for a girl in his heart.

The sight of him riding up the road towards her after six long days made her body tingle all over.  She blushed, but he pretended not to notice and put her at ease immediately.  After a few brief moments it was as if they had been friends for ever.  That's how lovers are, she thought to herself.  Mother had once told her that when she met the right man it would be as if she had always known him.

On spring and summer evenings they had met secretly in the hills above Bowden, Blade galloping great distances to their assignations after spending long days in the fields, while Megan told her parents she was visiting relatives in a tiny hamlet along the coast.  Those evenings had been the most precious of her life.  They had told each other every detail of their lives, sparing nothing.  Slowly and without them noticing it, they fell in love.

One evening Blade's ardour proved too much.  They were sprawled under a chestnut tree in a secluded dale with fireflies buzzing round and the drum-songs of the hidden crickets rattling gently in the ear.  Megan had closed her eyes, inhaling the perfume of the summer's evening and savouring the love she held in her heart for Blade.  The next sensation sent an unfamiliar pulse of pleasure through her body and she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright.  Blade's hand was inside her tunic caressing her side.  Without thinking she slapped him hard on the cheek, and he recoiled, an expression of shock and hurt crossing his features.

Instantly she softened.  'Not until after we're married.’

She giggled at the memory, and Mother stopped brushing. 'Did I tickle you with the brush?'

‘No, I just remembered something funny.’

Maybe that had been the moment Blade realised he wanted her to be his wife: he had proposed the next day.  In olden days the bride’s family would have regarded his request as the height of impertinence.  In the past marriages were arranged by parents in search of a partner for their son or daughter in a series of visits called "winnowing", which if successful, concluded in union.  But the custom had died out in the last hundred years, and news of Blade's proposal had left their families overjoyed.  Indeed it was a match that delighted all Culviners: the marriage of Blade, the son of one of the farming community's most respected thane-farmers, Glanmor, to Megan, daughter of Merchant General Jago, a big noise in the fishing and trading community - a union that truly brought people of the island closer together.

Over the past seven days there had been the most wonderful celebrations - feasting, games, dancing and music.  The whole of Bowden had taken part and people had come from far a field to join in.  Blade had even won the archery contest - that had made the celebrations complete!

Megan sighed deeply.  It was time to leave for the bower in the town square where the marriage ceremony would take place.  She started to rehearse her wedding vows in her mind, '...that I Megan, daughter of Jago and Iltyth of Bowden, will take thee - ' when Father appeared in the doorway once more.

'Come here, Megan.  There’s someone at the door to see you.’

Who could it be?

As she followed her father down the wooden stairs to the spacious living quarters below, Aunt Alytha stepped forward and kissed her.  'Megan, you look beautiful.'

'Thankyou.'

Uncle Paddu stepped forward.  Oh no! she thought.  He kissed her wetly on the cheek and put his hand on her waist so that his long fingers stretched to her backside.  Yuk! she thought, as his bony fingers lingered.  He was repulsive.  As she drifted after Father she heard Aunt Alytha bickering irritably with Uncle Paddu.  One or two other guests who were still sipping wine added their compliments too.  Megan blushed.  She was in a daze.  It was like a dream.  She was not used to attention like this.

Father led her to the front door.

Standing on the doorstep was Henney, an old friend of the family, who worked at the dock warehouse.  He gave her an anxious gap-toothed stare and handed her something.  She turned it in her hands.  It was the simple carving of a man and a woman joined at the hip.  At the bottom of the figure, beneath the feet, were carved the words ‘Peace and love’.

'Wake up.’

Blade yawned, rolled over and went back to sleep. 

An insistent hand shook him firmly.  'Wake up, you lazy dog.’

Sluggishly, Blade opened his eyes and raised himself on one elbow.  He peered round at the unfamiliar surroundings of the tiny croft.  It was a sparsely furnished building with no more than a couple of ragged straw mattresses, a table and a chair.  It was owned by Uncle Danyon, and used by his farm workers who tended sheep and cattle from time to time in the nearby fields.  But the advantage on this particular day was that it was only fifteen miles from the coast, and Blade had an appointment of the utmost importance in the fishing town of Bowden that very morning.

Tanner was crouching at the fireplace, fanning the fingers of flame he had lit with a flint.  'It's good I brought the heather and branches in last night. Did you hear that storm last night?  It was like the Day of Judgement.'   He got to his feet and looked at Blade.  'So today’s the day. The day you put a noose round your neck forever. Mind you, I wouldn't mind being in your boots tonight!'

'You dirty dog!' Blade grabbed one of his leather riding bags and threw it across the room at Tanner, who danced quickly out of the way.  The bag hit the far wall with a clump.

'Calm down. You'll need all your strength tonight!' 

They ate a simple breakfast of roasted chestnuts and porridge, washed down by weak ale.  To his surprise Blade discovered he did not have much of an appetite, and realised he was apprehensive.  It was a day that would stretch his father's emotions to breaking point; a day when he would think not only of his son, but also of the wife he had loved so much and how he had lost her.

Blade was filled with sadness as he thought of his mother.  On the evening she had drawn her last breath, Blade had bawled his first, and that night a cloud of grief had shrouded his father's heart.  In anguish at the thought of the cruel knife that had descended on his poor wife's body, Glanmor had given Blade his name.  One day, when he was ten years old, Blade's father had sat him down on a rock at the foot of the Harvest Mountains and explained the circumstances of his birth.  It was the perfect day for his father to make peace with the past.  The spring sunshine was glistening on the cliff faces making them magical towers and the meadows below them shimmered with life and colour.

His mother became a heroine to him.  She had given her life for him. Over the next few days his imagination had soared like a swallow whenever he thought of his mother.  She was part of him like a breeze blowing through a forest.  His breath, pearl-white in the spring air, was her breath; his movement was her movement.  For these special reasons Blade thought of his father on this special day.

After breakfast Blade took his wedding clothes out of a bag and laid them on the floor.  Tanner, who had a bag of his own, did the same thing too.  He was Blade's best man.  They dressed quietly, only breaking the silence with the odd question to one another like 'Is this straight?' or  'Does this look all right?'

Blade wore a blue tunic, leggings to match, knee-length leather boots and a cloak of red cloth trimmed with rabbit fur.  His cloak was hung elegantly round his shoulders with a silver clasp.  ‘How do I look?’

Tanner looked him up and down.  'You look fine.'

Tanner was less brightly dressed.  After all, it was his friend's big day.  He wore a padded brown tunic, leather leggings, riding boots and a pale brown cloak.  Blade put out the fire and Tanner swept the floor.  A backward glance to check the croft was tidy and they went to the rear of the small building where their horses were tethered under the lean-to.

They set off at a canter, the horses' hooves thudding deeply in the sodden fields. There were a few ash-coloured clouds in the sky, but the sun was shining too and there was a stiff breeze.  It augured well for a dry autumn day.

 The storm the night before had wreaked havoc across the countryside.  Bushes were flattened, branches had snapped off trees, and streams were swollen to over-flowing.  At one point they were forced to take a detour alongside a river because a low stone bridge had been swamped by flood-water.  It put another three or four miles on the trip.  Later they came to a steep hill and were forced to dismount and lead the horses uphill by the reins because their hooves could not get a strong enough footing on the turf.

From the top of the hill Blade saw the sea.  Bowden was still some way off.  He became anxious.  They had lost a lot of time.  Tradition on the Culvers dictated that the groom should arrive at the village bower in advance of his bride, who should arrive soon after.  It was beginning to look as if he might be late.  The last thing he wanted to see when he rode into Bowden was Megan and her parents glowering with anger at him because it had looked as if he had jilted her at the altar.

The two men remounted their horses and Tanner led the way down the far side of the hill.  Blade's horse refused to budge.  He urged it forward digging in its flanks with his heels. 

'Damn horse.’ He could feel it tensing its body against him.  Its ears twitched.  He urged it forward once more, but again it refused and stood motionless with its forelegs planted firmly on the ground just above the slope.  It had never shown fear before and Blade was close to losing his temper.

'Come on.’  Tanner and his horse were waiting at the bottom of the hill.

'Damn horse won't move.’

'Give it a slap.’

Blade slapped the mare's hind-quarters with the palm of his hand.  Unwillingly, the mare took a step over the edge and her foreleg buckled beneath her.  Blade toppled over the horse's neck and sprawled down the hillside, his foot catching something hard - a root or a stone - which made him turn a somersault.  He carried on tumbling, feeling the dampness of the grass through his cloak and tunic, while the horse whinnied in terror as it slid down behind him.

He ended up in a bedraggled heap not far from Tanner.  His friend raced over. 'Are you all right?'  Tanner got his hands underneath Blade's armpits and helped him to his feet.

'Aye, I think so.'  Blade closed his eyes and gave himself a moment to recover.  He was still in a daze.  Gradually, his mind cleared.  He walked a couple of paces and flexed his arms; thankfully, nothing was broken.  Where's the horse?  he thought suddenly.

It was back on its feet a few yards away, holding one of its forelegs cautiously to the ground, and Blade knew before inspecting it that it was lame, but put his hands to the horse's knee-joint to assess the damage for himself.  It was already badly swollen and the mare snorted at his touch.  They had no choice but to leave her.

'The old girl's had it.’

But Tanner was not looking at the horse.  'Look at your clothes!' he stared in horror.

Blade glanced down at himself.  His bright blue tunic and red cloak were caked in mud.  There was no way he could arrive at the wedding looking like this.  He looked as if he had been dragged through a pig sty! 'I'll have to stop off at Megan's house and borrow some of her father's clothes.’

Tanner mounted his courser, and Blade leapt on behind him, holding his friend's waist to keep balance.  The two friends set off across the fields at a cautious trot, leaving the abandoned mare contentedly munching grass.

The early morning lapped in pale sunlight across the ocean reflecting softly off the waves and warming the cool autumn air.  Gulls appeared in the air swooping around the longship and shrieking their tuneless songs.  Ganuth's eyes were fixed on Harvest Island.  He was back at his favourite position on the longship - the prow - and urging his men onward..

He was undaunted by the fact that he had lost two of the longships in the night, for he was sure he still had enough men to take the islands.  Anyway, to have turned back would have been a badge of cowardice and he could not contemplate that.  To his delight, the knorr had reappeared soon after the dawn had brightened, and had lagged a few miles behind the attack ships ever since.  After the invasion it was his ambition to return to Craftlandria loaded with precious goods from the islands and boast of his wealth and generalship.

Apart from a few moments to rest, eat and drink, his men had rowed since the end of the storm.  They were in buoyant mood.  They had conquered the storm and their commander had diced with death and won.  He had touched the face of destiny and lived. That meant more to them than the loss of the other two ships.  The omens were good.

It was common knowledge among his men that before leaving Moonstone Island the holy scriptures had been inked on Ganuth's body by black priests intent on warding off evil and the threat of death.  Now, he thought with pleasure, they believed in his power.  The rhythm of those words was in his soul, protecting his every move, making him invulnerable.  The power was with him, so it was with them.  Victory was theirs!

He waved across to Hongron and Balthatcher, the commanders of the other two attack ships, who waved back.  He had known Hongron since they were young boys playing in the Royal Palace of Nordain together.  Hongron's father had been Master Craftspy, and they had risen up through the ranks of the Priestguard and then bloodeaglers together, always encouraging one another to greater achievements.

At times during their voyage the three longships had been miles apart; now they were within sight of the islands they had tightened their formation to within a few hundred yards of one another.

The warriorpriest breathed in the salt air deeply, savouring the raw scent of the southern ocean.  Such sensations could not be gained by fighting countless skirmishes on the familiar territories of Craftlandria.  Quelling the rebellious bands which sprang up on the mainland and its nearby islands held no appeal for Ganuth any more.  This attack was new and exciting, a mystery and adventure rolled into one.

Every known region on the face of the earth was the Priestcraft's, except the Culver Islands, and it had been Ganuth's ambition since childhood to conquer these lands and incorporate them into the territories of the Craft.  Ganuth's father, Priestking Oothor had concentrated on subduing people on the mainland and it's nearby islands for the whole of his reign, and Ganuth had helped in that process - massacring groups of Forest Haunters, capturing and slaughtering a "messiah" and his followers on the Isle of Lythlee, defeating a mutinous garrison of the Priestguard at Oakham, and destroying the dwarven kingdoms of the north.  But now that his father was old and near death the young warriorpriest did as he pleased. And it pleased him to bring the rule of the Craft to these pagan islanders.

The Culviners had been fortunate.  They had escaped Priestcraft rule partly because of their distant geographical position and partly because of the historical indifference of Priestcraft rulers.  Attacks had been launched against the Culvers many years ago, but each time the threat of invasion had become a distinct possibility, it had been superceded by events in Craftlandria.  It was almost as if something had been protecting them. 

The three longships were passing the Whalebone, a large white rock jutting spectacularly a hundred feet or more out of the sea.  The intelligence reports Ganuth had garnered were quite specific: at this point his fleet should turn slightly eastwards and head for shore.  This would lead them to Bowden, the main town along the north coast of Harvest Island.

Ganuth and Hongron's longships pealed away to the left, while Balthatcher's headed straight for shore. Balthatcher and his men were going to land a couple of miles to the west of Bowden, and march quickly to the rear of the town.  It meant the bloodeaglers would trap any fleeing townsfolk in a two-pronged attack like tiny fish caught in the jaws of a shark.

Ganuth's intelligence reports had been gathered by the Priestguard on Moonstone Island.  In a series of raids they had interrogated a number of merchants who carried on a clandestine trade with the Culvers, eager to exchange glass and silverware for the fruits and spices of the islands.  The information had proved invaluable.  If the reports were to be believed not only were the islanders a peaceful people not given to war, but there was a particularly opportune date to launch an attack.

A wedding was planned: the marriage of the son of a wealthy landowner to the daughter of a merchant of note, and many of the islands' most distinguished citizens would be there.  What better way was there of seizing the islands than killing their leaders in one go and assuming immediate control?

The coast moved into sharp focus and Ganuth drank in every detail.  Shingle beaches bowed down before granite cliffs and high above the skewered rock face galloped a cavalry of green countryside.  Black creatures, the size of dogs, the like of which Ganuth had never seen, swarmed on the hoarded boulders; and there were strange birds with swollen painted beaks and wild white head-dresses perched on the cliff ledges.

Ganuth trembled, imploring his men to row faster, impatient to set foot on this alien land.  The town hurried into sight, cradled in the lap of an expansive bowl-like bay, its grey stone houses rising upward in a series of curved terraces.  The harbour was to the left, a shingle beach to the right.

The longships headed for the shallows of the beach which would afford a speedy landing.  As soon as they were within fifty yards of the beach the bloodeaglers stopped rowing, allowing their sleek crafts to swoop onto the beach like elegant swans flying to a halt on a lake.  They pulled in their oars and began the frantic task of arming themselves, donning helms, strapping on breastplates, buckling sword-belts and hefting axes.

Ganuth – his winged helm gleaming in the sunlight - leapt into the waves and splashed ashore.  Behind him waded his men uttering final prayers to their chosen craftdeities, and rumbling their ancient war cry.  It loudened as they swept along the beach into a tumultuous chant that shook the quayside, the harbour wall, the stone buildings and the face of the very sky that shone down upon them.

'Eaglebane!  Eaglebane!  Eaglebane!'

Ganuth reached a large building next to the harbour wall.  It was tall and wide; probably a warehouse used by the islanders to store goods they traded.  Two of his men started battering at the doors with their axes.  They would look to see if there was anything worth keeping, and if not, set it alight.  Destruction of people and property was the prime thought in their minds.  The idea was to spread fear and panic among the townsfolk and achieve a quick victory; if one day in the future they wanted to rebuild the town they could always get the enslaved townsfolk to do it for them.

Ganuth's men began fanning out into the side streets like an avaricious plague of rats.  The first scream soared skywards - a woman's - it was some way off, and hung in the air, like the climactic note in a song - until it was cut off.  Probably with an axe, thought Ganuth with grim amusement. 

He followed a group of his men down a sidestreet of terraced buildings, hefting his axe, waiting for the first victim, and mystified by the lack of Culviners.  As if on cue there was a loud crash.  Ganuth lifted his eyes and saw a body flying out of the shutters of a first floor window opening.  It landed with a muffled thud on the ground.  It was a white-haired old woman whose bony hand held a blanket to herself in a terror-stricken grip.  She lay on the ground as still as a stone.  A bloodeagler's head appeared instantly in the widow to inspect his handiwork, and vanished, torch in hand, to set light to the house.  It would take time for fires to catch hold because the buildings were made of stone.  It showed the wealth of the islanders, Ganuth noted, that they built solid stone houses rather than wooden ones.

A bloodeagler smashed down the door of a house fifty yards ahead of Ganuth, and a moment later a naked man came running out holding a piece of clothing to cover his private parts.  His eyes bulged with fear, and he scuttled this way and that, not knowing where to turn, like a chicken cornered by a fox.  The bloodeagler came out of the house and with brutal efficiency drove a dagger into his neck.  Blood shot out spraying the bloodeagler's face, and the man's body went slack and fell to the ground.  The bloodeagler wiped the blood off his face nonchalantly, returning to the house for a new victim.

Ganuth carried on up the street.  He heard a noise that amid the clamour he failed to identify, and then realised it was strains of music floating across the town.  The wedding!  That explained the lack of people; that's where most of the townsfolk must be.  They were in the square and still unaware of the attack.  The notion that commoners must have been invited to the wedding festivities of the nobility struck him as extraordinary.  He quickened his pace and came to the end of the street wondering which way to turn.

And then something astonishing happened.  A man came running at him armed with nothing more than a piece of wood.  He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his eyes were filled with hatred.  Before Ganuth could raise his axe, the man had lunged forward and hit him on the side of the head.  His helm took part of the impact, but the bone of his skull was numbed by the power of the blow.  Ganuth fell to the side, and the man followed, catching him a second stinging blow to the arm.

With a roar of fury Ganuth swung out with his axe.  His assailant danced out of the way.  He was light on his feet and surprisingly agile for such a tall man; he was also unencumbered by armour.  As Ganuth hefted his axe for another swing, the man stepped forward a third time and struck him a stinging blow to the shoulder.  Pain swam through Ganuth's body.  The warriorpriest realised he was fighting for his life.  It was only an enraged man with a length of wood, but in the hands of this man it was a mightily effective weapon.

Ganuth tried to gather his thoughts.  The man was panting heavily and holding the piece of wood in front of himself with both hands, ready to strike again.  Ganuth lifted his axe into the air and, with a deep groan, let it sag.  The man saw his chance and moved close for a second stinging blow to the head.  That was his mistake.  With breathtaking speed Ganuth brought the axe-head round in a horizontal arc at chest level.  There was a sharp cracking sound as he buried the axe deep in the man's upper ribcage.  The piece of wood rattled to the ground and his foe gave a bleak stare of disbelief as his body twisted downwards, pulling Ganuth's axe with it.

You thought you were going to kill me, thought Ganuth, staring icily into the man's blank eyes.  But I killed you instead.  He pulled at his axe, but it refused to break free.  It was buried beneath a mass of bloody woollen clothing and splintered bone.  He yanked fiercely on the handle and a couple of ribs snapped as it came back out.  A strip of cloth dripping blood had wrapped itself round the axe-head and he tore it off.

A wonderful sense of power built inside him.  It was always the same.  Killing made him giddy with excitement.  To have this sort of power over people's lives was intoxicating.  He passed a bloodeagler wrestling in the middle of a street with a woman.  The soldier had a belt round her neck and was pulling hard on both ends with his hands while she struggled to loosen it.  Her legs began to shake spasmodically like the branches of a tree in a gale.  The bloodeagler pulled harder on the belt.  The woman's arms flopped to the side and started to shake as well and then she went limp.

Ganuth hurried further into the town, convinced the battle - if it could be called that - would be won in the town square.  The air was thickening with drifting smoke, the distant music stopped and was replaced by a chorus of high-pitched yells.  His men had arrived in the town square. He pictured townsfolk scattering down sidestreets chased by his men; some people might even come this way, he thought, though he doubted it.  They would know the attack had come from the sea and try to escape to the hills at the rear of the town where Balthatcher and his men would finish them off.  He broke into a run.  Two other bloodeaglers appeared beside him proud to be with their leader, and they headed for the cacophony of sound, eager to bring the attack to a successful conclusion.  Ganuth could barely believe the sight that greeted him in the square.

It was mayhem.

The Culviners were actually fighting his men!  One man was running round like a demented dog with a sledge-hammer in his hand, lashing out at any bloodeagler that came in range.  A woman jumped on the back of one of his soldiers preventing him from striking out with his sword, riding him like a bucking horse.  Other people were armed with stones or wooden legs torn from overturned trestle tables, which had carried food for the wedding.  Their courage was death-defying.  They were a rabble, but a highly dangerous one.

Their defiance infuriated Ganuth, and he lifted his battle-axe and waded into the fray like a reaper in a cornfield, severing limbs, gouging chunks of flesh, cleaving people in two.  People scattered in front of him, and veteran bloodeaglers steered clear of his destructive theatre of combat lest they catch a stray swing of his axe.  Steam rose from the hot pools of blood left in his path.

Ganuth found himself beside the town bower, a wooden four posted structure with a gabled roof. Its floor was raised two feet off the cobbles of the square, and decorated in leaf and flower garlands.  Presumably this was where the wedding was to have taken place. There was some sort of an altar on it too.  Ganuth heaved his axe at it, and split it down the middle, the two halves falling over with resounding bangs on the wooden floorboards.

He swivelled to survey the fray.  The battle-lines were distinctly drawn now.  The bloodeaglers had over-run most of the square and were driving the Culviners to one end of it.  A group of islanders lifted a trestle table and threw it at the bloodeaglers.  Others pelted the invading warriors with bricks, stones, planks of wood, and anything they could lay their hands on.  It slowed the progress of the bloodeaglers, but failed to halt it.  One Culviner stole a sword from a dead soldier and started a frenzied attack on the ruthless invaders.  He was soon cut down by the flashing swords and axes of the advancing bloodeaglers, but another two soldiers lay dead.

Ganuth stood by the bower and watched the continuing havoc, periodically issuing orders to Bortza, one of his senior officers, who ferried instructions to the men in the front lines.  The Culviners were far from the submissive islanders the Priestguard's reports had led them to believe, he thought.  They were proud and brave and dauntless, but their resistance was doomed.  They were up against battle-hardened warriors and no mob, however maddened, could defeat disciplined troops.

And then something took place which was to be the most significant event in Ganuth's life; an incident which, if the warrior-priest had known its consequences, would have made him leave that turbulent square at once and sail away from the Culvers without a backward glance.

Keltor, a young fresh-faced bloodeagler with an eye for promotion, strode up to Ganuth with a young woman struggling with all her might underneath his arm.  His cruel lips twisted into a grin.  'Look at the pretty flower I've just picked, sir.'

He dropped the girl on the cobblestones and she let out a cry of pain.  The girl reminded Ganuth of a trapped animal.  A crown of flowers fell from her lustrous hair, scattering in the wind.  She looked up, her eyes hot and fearful.  She was the most beautiful woman Ganuth had ever seen, and he felt desire build like a roaring wind inside him.  A glut of images and emotions flashed through his brain: body-jolted lust, her naked body cleaving to his, and painfully, his empty heart.  He had to have her.  He reached forward and touched her hair with his fingertips.  She shied at his gentle touch, and even in the midst of battle, when he was at his most pitiless, he felt regret.

A man dashed to the side of the woman, knelt on one knee and wrapped his arms protectively round her.  'Spare her.’

'Who in god’s name are you?'

'Her father.'  The man was white with fear, but stared defiantly at Ganuth.

Ganuth grabbed him by the hair and tried to pull him away, but the old man refused to let go of his daughter.  He jerked the father's head back as hard as he could; maybe that would make the old fool let go. Still the man held on to his daughter.  Keltor stepped to the rear of the old man and smashed a mailed fist into the small of his back.  The force of the punch knocked the wind from the old man's body and he let go of his daughter and tumbled forward.  He moaned something inaudible.

'What?'  Ganuth leaned over the old man.

'Have pity, today was her wedding day.'

So this was the bride!  The girl who was to marry the landowner's son.  Well not any more.  He would have her.  The son would have to find a new bride.  It gave Ganuth a perverse sense of pleasure to know he would be taking this girl from another man. 

Bortza, an officer, hurried to Ganuth's side.  He was out of breath and holding his left arm gingerly at his side.  'We've lost between fifteen and twenty men since the beginning of the attack, sir.'

Ganuth ignored him.  'What's your name girl?'

She looked away from him, and instead stretched out a hand to comfort her father.  The old man was on his knees with his head bowed.  Ganuth did not want to damage the girl's looks with a slap or a punch, so he picked on the father, clutching a fistful of the man's white hair again and jerking back his head so his face was turned to the sky.  'What's her name?'

'Spare her.  Take me.'

'You!  What would I want you for?’

The old man edged towards the warriorpriest on his knees, his arms outstretched in supplication.  'Please spare her!'  The father put a hand on the warriorpriest's leg.

Ganuth hated that.  He felt sickness rise in his belly.  Who was this scum to touch him? For the first time he noticed Bortza. 'Give me your sword.’

The girl screamed.  The old man's eyes flickered with bewilderment.  Bortza unsheathed his sword and handed it to Ganuth.  A sickly grin creased Keltor's handsome chiselled features.  The warriorpriest took it in both hands.  He was going to teach the old fool the ultimate lesson.

'No!' The girl scrambled to her feet.

'Hold her,' Ganuth ordered Keltor.

Keltor curled one arm round her neck, the other round her waist, and held her firm.  'Be a good girl and watch now.’

The din in the square seemed to die down for a moment; sunlight reflected off the sword; there was a low whistle as the blade flashed through the air.  Its edge was so sharp that when it had sliced through the man's neck, the head appeared to stay on the shoulders for a fleeting moment.  Blood flowed from the cut, and the head toppled forward landing with a thud on the ground.  The trunk of the body followed with a second dull thud.

Sweet as a  nut, thought Ganuth.  In his military career he had decapitated four people and only one had been as clean as that: a dwarf who had come running at him with a spear during the northern campaign.  Ganuth had been on a horse and had leaned down a long way to strike at him with the sword.  He had taken the dwarf's head off so cleanly that the body had kept running.

The girl was thunderstruck.  She mouthed silently - words of grief and despair and incomprehension.  Sorrow heaved in her chest, but there were no tears, or howls of anguish: shock had robbed her of all tangible emotion.

'Take her to the other side of the square and keep her safe,' Ganuth commanded Keltor.

He wanted her away from the action.  Later, when victory was assured, he would enjoy acquainting himself more intimately with her.  Keltor lifted the bride off her feet and carried her away.  Quite unexpectedly the girl came to life.  She let out a terrifying howl of rage like a she-wolf and sank her teeth deep into Keltor's arm.  The bite drew blood and the warrior's embrace loosed.

'Bitch.’

The girl ducked underneath his arm and ran.

She heading for an alleyway that ran between two buildings halfway along the square.  Keltor raced after her, confident he could catch her before she reached the alley.  He shouted to another bloodeagler to stop her, but amid the tumult his comrade could only shake his head.  The girl dashed past the bloodeagler, and neared the alley.  She turned her head to see how close he was, and was distracted by something to Keltor's right hand side.

Keltor had no warning: the horse hit him with enormous force, knocking him yards sideways.  It was like a stone wall falling on him, jarring every bone and thumping the breath from his body.

END OF SAMPLE