“Is Vaelin Al Sorna,” El-Nestra finished, bowing deeply to the Hope Killer. “The tale of your deeds flies before you, of course…”

“When do we fight?” Al Sorna cut in.

Ell-Nestra’s eyes narrowed a little but his smile never wavered. “Three days hence, my lord. If it suits you.”

“It doesn’t. I wish to conclude this farce as quickly as possible.”

“I was under the impression that you had been languishing at the Emperor’s pleasure for the last five years. Do you not require time to refresh your skills? I should feel dishonoured if folk were to say I had too easy a victory.”

Watching them stare at each other, I was struck by the contrast they made. Although roughly equal in stature, Ell-Nestra’s masculine beauty and blazing smile should have outshone Al Sorna’s stern, angular visage. But there was something about the Hope Killer that defied the islander’s commanding presence, an innate inability to be diminished. I knew why, of course, I could see it in the false humour Ell-Nestra painted on his face, the way his eyes scanned his opponent from head to toe. The Hope Killer was the most dangerous man he would ever face, and he knew it.

“I can assure you,” Al Sorna said. “No one will ever say you had an easy victory.”

Ell-Nestra inclined his head. “Tomorrow then, midday.” He gestured at a group of armed men nearby, hard-eyed sailors festooned with a variety of weapons, all glaring at the Hope Killer with undisguised antipathy. “My crew will escort you to your quarters. I advise you not to linger on the way.”

“Lady Emeren,” I said as he made to walk away. “Where is she?”

“Comfortably situated at my home. You’ll see her tomorrow. She sends you her warmest regards, of course.”

It was a bald lie and I wondered what she had told him about me and how close was their association. Could it perhaps amount to more than just a convenience between two vengeful souls?

Our quarters were a soot blackened building near the centre of town, the finely pointed brickwork and ruined mosaics on the floor indicated it had probably once been a dwelling of considerable status. “Ship Lord Otheran’s house,” one of the sailors explained in gruff response to my query. “The Shield’s father.” He paused to glare at Al Sorna. “He died in the fire. The Shield commanded it be left as it is, a reminder for both him and the people.”

Al Sorna didn’t appear to be listening, his gaze roaming over the ruined, grey-black walls, a strange distance in his eyes.

“Food has been provided,” the sailor told me. “In the kitchen, take the stairs over there to the lower floors. We’ll be outside if you need anything.”

We ate at a large mahogany table in the dining room, an oddly perfect furnishing in so wasted a house. I had found cheese, bread and an assortment of cured meats in the kitchen, together with some very palatable wine Al Sorna recognised as originating from the southern vineyards of Cumbrael.

“Why do they call him the Shield?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of water. I noticed he hardly touched the wine.

“After your father’s visit the Meldeneans decided they needed to look to their defences. Every Ship Lord must contribute five ships to a fleet which constantly patrols the Islands. The captain given the honour of commanding the fleet is known as the Shield of the Isles.” I paused, watching him carefully. “Do you think you can beat him?”

His eyes wandered around the dining room, lingering on the peeled remains of a wall painting, whatever it had depicted now lost in a black-streaked smear of once vibrant colours. “His father was a rich man, bringing an artist from the Empire to paint a mural of the family. The Shield had three brothers, all his elders, and yet he knew his father loved him more than the others.”

There was an unnerving certainty to his words, provoking the suspicion that we sat eating amidst the ghosts of the Shield’s murdered family. “You see much in a patch of faded paint.”

He set his cup down and pushed his plate away. If this was his last meal it seemed to me he had approached it with little enthusiasm. “What will you do with the story I told you?”

The unfinished story you told me, I thought but said, “It has given me much to think about. Although, if I were to publish it I doubt many would be convinced by the picture of the war as simply the deluded agency of a foolish old man.”

“Janus was a schemer, a liar and, on occasion, a murderer. But was he truly a fool? For all the blood and treasure spilt into the sand in that hateful war, I’m still not sure it wasn’t all part of some great design, some final scheme too complex for me to grasp.”

“When you talk of Janus you tell of a callous and devious old man, and yet I hear no anger in your voice. No hatred for the man who betrayed you.”

“Betrayed me? The only loyalty Janus ever felt was to his legacy, a Unified Realm ruled in perpetuity by the House of Al Nieren. It was his only true ambition. Hating him for his actions would be like hating the scorpion that stings you.”

I drained my wine cup and reached for the bottle. I found I had a liking for the fruit of Cumbrael and felt a sudden desire to be drunk. The stress of the day and the prospect of witnessing bloody combat on the morrow left an unease in my gut I was keen to drown. I had seen men die before, criminals and traitors executed at the Emperor’s command, but however bright my hatred burned for this man I found I could no longer relish the impending violence of his end.

“What will you do if you gain victory tomorrow?” I asked, aware I was slurring a little. “Will you return to your Realm? Do you think King Malcius will welcome you?”

He pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I think we both know there will be no victory for me here, whatever transpires tomorrow. Good night, my lord.”

I refilled my cup, listening to him climb the stairs and make his way to one of the bedrooms. I marvelled that he could sleep, knowing that without the wine’s assistance I was unlikely to find any rest this night. And yet I knew he would sleep soundly, untroubled by fearful nightmares, untroubled by guilt.

“Would you have hated him, Seliesen?” I asked aloud, hoping he was among the ghosts crowding this house. “I doubt it. Grist for another poem, no doubt. You always did relish their company, these sword swinging brutes, though you could never truly be one of them. Learn their tricks, learn to ride, learn to make pretty patterns with that sabre they gave you. But you never learned to fight, did you?” Tears were coming now. Here I was, a drunken scribbler weeping in a house of ghosts. “You never learned to fight, you bastard.”

Among the few attractions the Meldenean Islands have to offer the more educated visitor are the many impressive ruins to be found on the coastline of the larger isles. Although varying in scale and purpose they display a uniformity of design and articulation clearly indicative of construction by a single culture, an ancient race possessed of an aesthetic sophistication and elegance entirely absent from the archipelago’s modern inhabitants.

By far the most impressive surviving example of this once great architecture is the amphitheatre situated some two miles from the Meldenean capital. Carved from a depression in the red-veined yellow marble cliffs on the island’s southern shore, the amphitheatre has proven immune to the depredations wrought by successive generations of islanders who display scant reluctance in cannibalising other sites for building materials. A great bowl of terraced seating looking down upon a wide oval stage where, no doubt, great oratory, poetry and drama had once been the delight of a more enlightened audience, the amphitheatre was now the perfect venue for modern islanders to publicly execute miscreants or watch men fight to the death.

We had been roused by the Shield’s crew just as dawn broke over the city. They explained it would be best if we were conveyed to the venue before the populace woke to throng the streets and bay their hatred at the City Burner’s spawn.

As I had come to expect, Al Sorna showed no outward concern as we waited for the sun to climb to its midway place in the sky. He sat in the lowermost tier, sword resting beside him as he gazed out to sea. A stiff breeze was blowing from the south although the absence of cloud foretold a day free of rain. I wondered if Al Sorna felt it was a good day to meet his death.

The Lady Emeren arrived an hour short of noon, accompanied by two more of the Shield’s crewmen, dressed simply as always in a plain white and black robe, her fine features unadorned by paint or jewellery. But for the sapphire ring on her finger there was no outward sign of her rank, however, her innate dignity and poise were unchanged. I rose to greet her as she strode into the oval arena, bowing formally. “My Lady Emeren.”

“Lord Verniers.” Her voice had lost none of the rich timbre I remembered, coloured by a faint trace of the peculiar lilting accent unique to those raised in the Emperor’s court. I was struck once again by her beauty, the flawless skin, the full lips and bright green eyes. She had long been regarded as the perfection of Alpiran womanhood, as dutiful as she was comely, daughter of a noble blood-line and favoured by the Emperor since girlhood, educated at court alongside his own sons, a daughter to him in all but name. When Seliesen was called to his destiny it was inevitable that they would marry. Who else was worthy of her after all?