Enchanter: Book Two of the Axis Trilogy. Sara Douglass

Again Arne paused. “But I trust him. And he seems eager that you move this rag-tag army to Sigholt. He says he has a job for some strong backs.”

      Belial frowned. These were strange words for a pig-herder. He looked at Magariz. “My friend. What do you think?”

      “I am surprised,” said Magariz, “that Sigholt should be sitting there waiting for us as eager and as open as an Ysbadd whore – and I wonder if it has as many traps. I say we should approach … carefully. Why has Gorgrael not attacked?”

      “Jack said he could answer that when you arrived,” Arne replied, giving Belial and Magariz the pig-herder’s name. “He said to remind you that Sigholt was where Axis was conceived, and,” Arne hesitated, “that Sigholt was an Icarii stronghold long before the Acharites and the pox-cursed Dukes of Ichtar made it their home. He said Sigholt has some secrets that you could make good use of.”

      “A most unusual pig-herder, Belial,” Magariz murmured. “Either a friend or a cunningly laid trap for us.”

      Belial considered a moment. “Then we will break camp in the morning and ride west to Sigholt. But we ride carefully.”

      Arne spat on the ground. “If you had been an enemy, the first you would have known of my approach was the feel of my blade in your neck. Perhaps it is as well you only have a cook and a pig-herder to battle with at Sigholt.”

      Belial grimaced and swung onto his horse. Arne was right. He should have been more careful.

      Three days later Belial sat Belaguez a half-league from Sigholt. Approaching him was an open- and genial-faced middle-aged man in peasant garb. Dark blond hair flopped untidily over his forehead and he carried a heavy staff with a curiously worked metal head. At his heels trotted a number of well-fed pigs, grunting and rolling cheerfully as they picked their way across the stony ground.

      Belial had ridden out alone, leaving Magariz and the three thousand some one hundred paces behind him.

      He risked taking his eyes off the approach of the pig-herder to glance at Sigholt itself, standing stark but peaceful in the cold morning air. If there were troops waiting to surprise him, then they were hidden well.

      “Peace, Belial,” said the pig-herder and stopped a few paces from him. “Sigholt is yours. Use it.”

      “Jack,” Belial said by way of brief greeting. “I hope you mean that. Why should I trust you?”

      Jack smiled. “You have known my friends well, Belial. Through them, I know you.”

      “Your friends?”

      “Ogden and Veremund. My friends and my companions.”

      Belial’s mouth dropped open. “You’re one of the … ?”

      “My task is to serve the Prophecy, Belial TrueHeart, as yours is to serve Axis.” His eyes suddenly glowed a vivid emerald.

      “You’re a Sentinel!” Belial gasped, his shock making Belaguez sidestep nervously.

      “Then trust me,” Jack said, as the light died in his eyes.

      Belial still hesitated. “Jack. I come from Gorkenfort. I have had enough of sieges at the mercy of the Skraelings. What chance is there that once I have this army settled into Sigholt the Skraelings will lay siege to us? I have no wish to endure another Gorkenfort.”

      “I understand your concern,” Jack replied. “But there are good reasons why the Skraelings would hesitate to come within leagues of Sigholt. They have destroyed Hsingard, which is not a great distance from here. Do you not think that if they destroyed Hsingard they would have destroyed Sigholt if not for very good reasons?”

      “Such as?”

      “Come inside, Belial, and bring your army. It is a long story.”

       6

       New Responsibilities, Old Friends

      Axis stood at the open window and watched two Wings of the Strike Force wheel and somersault through the sky in a dazzling but utterly useless display of grace and fluidity.

      He sighed and turned into the spacious meeting chamber. Soft light shone from concealed ceiling lamps on a massive round table of highly polished dark-green stone that dominated the room. The mottoes of the various Crests were carved in elegant gilded Icarii script into the walls above pennants and standards.

      Around the stone table sat the twelve Crest-Leaders of the Icarii Strike Force, their wings draped across the gleaming floor behind their stools. Each Crest-Leader commanded twelve Wings of twelve members; the total Strike Force composed over seventeen hundred Icarii. Not overly large, Axis mused, but their flight abilities should give them the advantage over any ground force. But Axis had severe doubts about the capabilities of the Strike Force. Currently they were more gorgeously decorative than practically potent.

      Axis gazed at the Crest-Leaders, all with their wings dyed in the black of war, all staring back at him flintily. He, too, had dressed entirely in black; it was the colour he’d worn as BattleAxe. Except now the twin crossed axes were gone from his chest. He felt naked without a badge of office.

      RavenCrest SunSoar, sitting with the jewelled torc of his office glowing about his neck and his black brows meeting at an acute angle above sharp eyes, had called the Crest-Leaders together to meet Axis. FarSight CutSpur, the senior among the Crest-Leaders, had made a gracious speech of welcome. Axis had made, he hoped, an equally gracious reply. And now no-one quite knew what to say next.

      Finally Axis broke the uncomfortable silence. “You have the makings of a good Strike Force. But I need to take command and shape it to make it more effective.”

      Backs stiffened noticeably about the table and wings rustled in agitation. Looking each Crest-Leader in the eye as he slowly circled the table Axis continued, his voice low but intense. “Do you really think the Strike Force can harm Gorgrael in its current state?”

      There were low murmurs of protest, but Axis ignored them. “You have a Strike Force, but what are its accomplishments? What its experience? Where its battle honours?” he asked. “Where its successes?”

      Crest-Leader SharpEye BlueFeather suddenly pushed his stool back and stood. “Do you accuse us of failure, BattleAxe?” he hissed, his neck feathers rising aggressively.

      SharpEye’s use of this title was an indication of the depth of ill will that some in the room bore him. For a thousand years the person and the office of BattleAxe had been reviled and loathed among both Icarii and Avar.

      Axis held the birdman’s eyes in a fierce stare. “I am Axis SunSoar,” he retorted. “And, yes, it is true, I have the experience of a successful BattleAxe behind me. But I am BattleAxe no longer, SharpEye. I am SunSoar born and it is with that right and heritage that I stand here today.” SharpEye dropped his eyes a fraction, and Axis shifted his gaze about the table. “Should I accuse you of failure? If not, then inform me of your successes.”

      There was a telling silence about the table.

      “Was Yuletide a success?” Axis asked, anger creeping into his voice. “How many died, FarSight?”

      “We lost several hundred, the Avar lost more.” FarSight looked steadily at Axis. “I am not proud of that, Axis Sun-Soar. But we rallied after the surprise of the initial attack.”

      “You rallied after Azhure showed you how to kill!” Axis snapped. “Did not Azhure kill most of the wraiths until the Earth Tree struck? And would you have triumphed over the Skraelings if StarDrifter had not roused the Earth Tree?”

      “What would you have done differently, Axis?” FarSight challenged, his fists clenching.

      “You gave them a