The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Twelve

Askari eased her way up the slope, keeping downwind of the Jiamad travelling with the riders. Even so she knew that the creature would also have keen hearing, and each time she moved she waited for the breeze to blow, rustling the leaves in the trees above her, and the undergrowth around her. It was slow going. At one point she thought she would lose sight of the riders, but now they had stopped halfway up the slope, some fifty paces from her hiding place. One rider had stepped down from the saddle, staggered, and then slumped to the ground. It seemed that he was ill. The other cavalrymen sat on their horses for a while, then, without conversation, dismounted, and stood quietly. The small Jiamad squatted down on its haunches waiting for orders.

The man on the ground cried out in pain, startling the horses. The riders calmed them. Then a tall man approached the one in pain, crouching down alongside him, and speaking softly. After that the riders drew back, remounted, and set off towards the north, the Jiamad in the lead. Askari waited. They had tethered the suffering man’s horse to a bush and left him behind. He groaned again, then cried out.

What was wrong with the man?

Askari rose from her hiding place, drew her hunting knife and silently approached him.

He was young, dark-haired and — even though his face was contorted in pain — he was handsome.

Beside him lay a single scabbard, from which jutted the ivory hilts of two swords. This then was the demonic Decado. Moonlight shone on the blade in Askari’s hand. It would be the work of but a moment to plunge that blade through his vile throat. Askari knelt beside him, ready to slash open his jugular.

His eyes flickered open. ‘I am sorry, my love,’ he said. ‘I tried. The red mist came. I could not hold it back. Landis is dead, though, his ashes scattered. The blind man is close. I will find him.’

Askari’s knife slid up to the man’s pale throat, the blade resting against the pulse point.

‘Do not be angry with me, Jianna,’ he said. Then his eyes closed.

Jianna!

The name Skilgannon had used when first he saw her. Askari readied herself for the death blow once more.

And could not do it. As a huntress she had killed for meat and skin. As hunted prey she had killed to protect herself and Stavut. This, however, would be murder. Sheathing her blade she looked down at the pale, pain-filled face. Once more his eyes opened. His hand reached up and lightly stroked the skin of her cheek. Instinctively she brushed the hand away. He looked hurt, and almost childlike. ‘What must I do?’ he asked.

‘Go back to Petar,’ she said.

‘What of the blind man? You wanted him dead.’

‘Not any more. Leave him. Go back.’

He struggled to rise, groaned in pain and fell back. Askari took his arm, hauling him to his feet. He sagged against her, and she felt him gently kiss her cheek. ‘Go now!’ she said. Decado took a deep breath, then picked up the sword scabbard and looped it over his shoulder. Askari helped him to his horse, half lifting him to the saddle. ‘Go!’ she shouted, slapping her hand to the grey’s rump. The gelding set off down the hillside. She thought Decado would fall, but he held to the saddle.

And then he was gone.

Askari sighed. I should have killed him, she thought. She shivered. Too late now to worry about it, she decided. Scouting around she found several sticks of dry dead wood. Arranging them in the shape of an arrow pointing north she set off after the hunting party. As she moved higher up the slope the woods grew more dense. The riders had kept to a narrow deer trail, and Askari followed it for around half a mile. Then it swung towards the west. This was a problem. The breeze had shifted and was now blowing from the east. If she continued along the trail she would no longer be downwind of the Jiamad leading them. It would pick up her scent. If it doubled back through the shadow-shrouded trees she would have no warning of its approach. Lifting the bow from her shoulder she notched a shaft to the string. You are Askari the Huntress, she told herself. If it comes you will kill it.

Then she set off once more.

The trail, which had been rising, now dipped down towards a heavily wooded valley. She found where the horses had left the trail, moving down the slope, and caught a glimpse of the last two riders far below, entering the trees. They were around a quarter of a mile ahead.

Askari squatted down to think through her route. Straight ahead would put her on open ground, but to skirt around the bare hillside would take too long. As she considered the question she heard movement in the undergrowth behind her. Spinning round, she drew back the bow string. Skilgannon moved into sight, Harad behind him. Askari eased the pressure on the string. Swiftly she told Skilgannon of the route the riders had taken. He listened quietly. Then his sapphire gaze locked to her eyes. ‘We saw a rider heading south,’ he said.

‘That was Decado.’

He nodded. ‘On the hillside I followed your tracks. You met a man there.’

‘Yes.’

‘The footprints showed you stood very close to him.’

‘You read spoor well. I helped him to his horse.’

‘Why would you do that, Askari?’

She heard the note of suspicion in his voice, and found herself growing irritated. ‘I do not answer to you,’ she snapped.

‘Do you know him?’ he persisted, his voice cool.

‘No. He was lying on the ground, in pain and delirious. I found I could not kill him.’

‘Why did he not seek to kill you?’

‘He thought I was someone else. Like you, he called me Jianna. Then he kissed my cheek and asked me what he should do. I told him to go back to Petar.’ She saw the shock register and his steady gaze faltered.

‘We will talk more of this later,’ he said. ‘For now let us find these riders.’

Rising to his feet he set off down the slope. Harad set off after him, without a word to Askari.

The huntress followed them.

The moon shone brightly as they neared the trees. Then came a high pitched shriek of pain, and the distant sounds of snarling beasts, and terrified horses.

For most of the day Longbear had carried the old blind man, while Charis stumbled behind. Her skirt was torn from the stand of brambles they had scrambled through, to try to gain a march on the mounted men following, and her legs were covered with scratches from the sharp thorns. Charis was wearier than she had ever been. Her legs were leaden, her thighs sore, her calves burning. The higher they climbed the more she felt that she could not breathe swiftly enough to fill her lungs. There was no conversation.

Gamal was old and frail, his strength long gone. His face was grey with exhaustion and there was an unhealthy blue pallor to his lips. Longbear had told them the night before that a Jiamad was leading the pursuers, and that the soldiers hunting them were horsemen. The chances of escape were slight.

Out in the open a bitter wind was blowing from the snow-covered mountains, and even in the cover of the trees Charis began to shiver. Longbear laid Gamal on the ground, then turned and stared back over the ground they had covered. Far below Charis could see horsemen emerging from the trees. Several of the riders carried long lances, and the last of the sunlight gleamed upon their silver breastplates and plumed helms.

Gamal was awake now. Reaching up he laid his hand on Longbear’s furry arm. ‘Save yourself,’ he said. ‘Go now. They are not hunting you.’

‘You die soon,’ muttered the beast.

‘I know.’

Longbear growled, then straightened. ‘I go,’ he said. Without another word he moved off into the trees. Charis sat beside Gamal. The old man was shivering, so she drew him into an embrace, rubbing his back, and holding him against her.

The light was failing, the temperature dropping. Charis leaned back against the tree. The five riders below were on open ground now, and she could see the dark figure of a Jiamad loping ahead of the group, heading unerringly along the trail they had walked an hour before. ‘You go too,’ whispered Gamal. ‘Longbear was right. I am dying. I have a cancer. Even without Decado I would have lived for a few days only. Save yourself, Charis.’

‘I am too tired to run,’ she said. ‘You just rest.’

She saw three running figures emerge some way behind the riders, then cut to the left, re-entering the trees. They were so far away she could not see whether they were soldiers or Jiamads. What does it matter, she thought? Nothing matters any more.

Still holding the old man, she looked up. Darkness had come swiftly and already bright stars were gleaming in the sky. Her father had said that stars were merely holes in the heavens, through which the bright, glorious light of the Source shone down on humanity. Kerena had said this was nonsense. Her father had told her they were the ghosts of dead heroes. The Source had blessed them, and given them a place in the sky until they could be returned to the earth. Sometimes, if one was lucky, it was possible to see a hero flash across the sky upon his return. Charis had seen such a miracle. One night, sitting on the flat roof of the bakery, she had seen a star shooting across the sky. It was so bright it must have been a great hero.

There were no shooting stars tonight.

Gamal’s head felt heavy on her shoulder and she eased her position. The old man was sleeping now.

She found herself thinking of Harad, and hoping that he had survived the attack on Petar. She guessed he probably would. Even a Jiamad would think twice before attacking her Harad.

A stooping Jiamad came into sight. It did not approach her, but squatted down some thirty feet away.

Then the horsemen came. They drew rein, and sat staring at the girl and the sleeping blind man. For a moment no-one moved.

‘Well?’ Charis called out. ‘Which one of you heroes is going to step down and kill an old blind man?’

She saw the riders glance at one another. One man eased his horse forward.

‘No-one here would choose to kill him,’ he said. ‘But his death has been ordered by the Eternal. Step away from him. I have no orders concerning you.’

‘A pox on your orders,’ she sneered. ‘I am going nowhere.’

‘So be it,’ he said, swinging his leg over the saddle and preparing to dismount.

Just then Longbear charged from the trees, letting out a mighty roar. Several of the horses reared. The soldier who had been dismounting was hurled to the ground, his panicked mount racing past Charis.

Longbear rushed at the riders, his talons slashing through the neck of the nearest horse. Blood sprayed in the air, and the animal reared and fell, hurling its rider to the ground. One of the soldiers brought his lance to bear and kicked his mount forward. It charged at Longbear, just as he was rushing towards the enemy Jiamad. The lance took Longbear high in the shoulder, plunging deep before snapping. With a roar of pain and fury Longbear swung and leapt at the rider. As he did so the enemy Jiamad jumped on his back, burying fangs deep into Longbear’s neck. Another lancer charged. His weapon speared the back of his own Jiamad, shattering the beast’s spine. The Jiamad fell from Longbear, who spun and charged at the rider. The lancer tried to turn his mount, but Longbear’s talons ripped into his side, dragging him from the saddle. The rider’s helm came loose and tumbled to the ground. Longbear’s jaws crunched down on the man’s head, crushing the skull. Another lance hammered into him. This too broke. The great beast stumbled, blood pouring from the wounds in his back and the torn flesh of his throat.

Charis watched in horror as the four remaining soldiers closed in on the dying beast. Three of them had dismounted, allowing their horses to run free. The other was baiting Longbear, holding him at bay by stabbing his lance towards him. The beast roared again, but the sound had no power. It tried to rush at the dismounted soldiers, but lost its footing. As Longbear fell they charged him, burying their lances deep.

The beast gave one final cry, high and piercing and grotesquely human. Then it died.

The mounted rider steered his horse towards where Charis sat. Amazingly Gamal had not woken during the battle. Perhaps he is already dead, thought Charis, and will be spared the pain of plunging sword blades.

The rider approached Charis. His face was pale and angry. ‘You knew that beast was close. Now you will die too, you bitch!’ he said.

His head jerked to the right, a black arrow thudding through his temple. He sat very still for a moment, his face showing his shock. Then he dropped his lance and started to reach up. His body slumped forward over the horse’s neck.

The three surviving soldiers swung away from the fallen beast, drawing their sabres and straining to see where the shaft had come from.

They did not have long to wait.

Three people emerged from the trees to the left. Charis saw Harad was one of them, and her heart lifted. The second was Callan, the tattooed man from the palace. He looked different now, harder, his eyes cold. In his hands were two glittering swords. Beyond them was a dark-haired woman, dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and dark leggings. She held a curved bow in her hands, an arrow notched to the string.

Harad moved towards the soldiers, carrying a huge axe, but the tattooed man called him back. Then Callan stepped forward.

‘There is no need for any more to die,’ he told the swordsmen. ‘Gather your horses and be on your way.’

‘We have orders,’ said the young man who had first spoken to Charis. ‘The blind man is a condemned traitor. He has been sentenced to death.’

‘Your orders are now meaningless. You cannot fulfil them.’

‘Large talk. Let’s see you back it with action.’ The man ran at Callan. The tattooed man did not seek to avoid him. Instead he merely blocked the thrusting sword, and rolled his wrist. The soldier’s weapon flew from his hand. Before he could move Callan’s own blade was resting lightly on his throat. The second soldier rushed in. Still keeping his left-hand sword against the first soldier’s jugular, he parried the first clumsy thrust, and once more rolled his own weapon round the enemy’s blade. The soldier cried out as Callan’s sword sliced across his knuckles. The cry was cut off as the shining blade swept up and touched his throat.

It was all so fast Charis could not quite take in what had happened. Callan’s swords had moved with lightning speed. Then he spoke again.

‘Are we done?’ he asked coldly. ‘Can we end this farce now?’

‘I cannot disobey my orders,’ said the first man.

‘I understand,’ said Callan. His sword flickered. Blood gushed from the severed artery in the man’s throat. A look of stunned surprise hit his features. He stumbled back, half turned, then pitched to the ground.

For Charis the moment was more shocking than the bloodthirsty attack by Longbear. This was cold and horrible. Murder without emotion. No-one moved, and Callan spoke again.

‘Can you disobey your orders?’ he asked the second man.

‘Oh yes. Absolutely.’

‘Very wise. What about you?’ he asked the other. The man nodded. ‘Then gather your horses.’

They did so with some speed. Callan watched as they rode away. Harad moved to Charis’s side, laying his axe upon the grass. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No. It is so good to see you.’ She looked into his pale eyes, her gaze drinking in the familiar features.

She relaxed then and smiled. ‘You came after me.’

‘Of course I did. I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘I have a feeling you’re going to make me wish I hadn’t,’ he muttered.

Callan came alongside and knelt by Gamal. The old man was unconscious. Callan laid his fingers on Gamal’s throat, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ asked Charis fearfully.

‘No.’ Callan squeezed the man’s hand. ‘Gamal, can you hear me. It is Skilgannon.’

At first there was no movement, then a juddering sigh came from Gamal’s lips. ‘Skilgannon?’ he whispered, his blind opal eyes flickering open.

‘Yes.’

‘The soldiers?’

‘They have gone.’

‘Help me to sit. There is much to tell, and not a great deal of time left to me.’

‘It is not safe here,’ said Skilgannon. He turned to Harad. ‘Will you carry him? We must find a more defensible position. Those riders will seek out comrades and then return.’

Harad passed the axe to Skilgannon and lifted the old man into his arms. Then the group set off towards the higher country. Askari found a campsite on a high shelf of rocky ground, under an overhanging cliff. There was a depression in the cliff face, out of the wind, and there Harad laid Gamal down. The old man’s face was greyer than before, and the blue tinge to his lips had intensified.

Skilgannon knelt beside him. ‘You need to rest,’ he said.

Gamal shook his head. ‘It would do me no good. This body will not survive the night.’ A spasm of pain showed in his face, and he groaned. ‘I shall not be here for the end,’ he said. ‘And I cannot speak to you in this form. The pain is too great. It cuts across the thought processes. Will you journey with me, Skilgannon?’

‘He is delirious,’ said Askari. ‘He makes no sense.’

‘Yes, he does,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘I once did this journey with another.’ Returning his attention to the dying man he asked: ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Lay your body down and take my hand.’

Skilgannon stretched out, then rose on one elbow. ‘Let no-one touch me or disturb me,’ he commanded the others. ‘Leave me to wake in my own time.’ Then he lay back, reached out, and took Gamal’s hand.

His vision swam, bright colours flashing before his mind’s eye. There was a sense of falling, spinning, and a great roaring sound washed across his conscious. Then there was darkness. A light grew.

Skilgannon blinked and sat up. The roaring was still there, and he turned to see a waterfall. It was a magnificent sight, the water gushing over black basaltic rock, and falling several hundred feet into a wide lake. There was a black stone bridge above the waterfall, high and curving. Sunlight on the water spray around it created a rainbow over the bridge.

‘It is so beautiful,’ said a voice. Skilgannon glanced to his right. A handsome young man sat there, his hair long and blond, his eyes blue.

‘Gamal?’

‘Indeed so. I long ago decided that — if it was in my power — I would be here at the point of my death.

There is something about this place that feeds my soul.’

‘It is not a dream place then?’

Gamal smiled. ‘Well, yes, it is at the moment. But it exists in the real world.’

‘How did they build a bridge across it?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘No-one built it. Ten thousand years ago — perhaps more — a great volcano erupted. A huge river of molten lava swept across the land. It burnt a tunnel through the rock face, then swept on down through the valley. The bridge is just the upper section of a cliff that was once here. A long time ago, before one of the many falls and rebirths of the world, there was a race who believed that the rainbow bridge was a connection between their world and the place of the gods. It is easy to see why.’

‘At most other times I would be fascinated to know more,’ said Skilgannon. ‘However — as you yourself said — we have little time.’

The young man nodded. ‘This is true. First let me tell you about the Eternal. .’

‘She is Jianna, a woman I loved more than life. I know. Now I must destroy her.’

‘No!’ said Gamal. ‘That you must not do! She would return instantly.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘Once more Landis is at fault here,’ said Gamal sadly. ‘The Eternal’s Reborns are linked to her.

Landis believed the process of the Eternal’s rebirth would be more efficient if there was some way to make the process of soul transference immediate upon the Eternal’s death. As it was we had to locate the Reborn and bring her to Diranan, and the palace, and then perform the exchange. This was obviously fraught with difficulty. What if the Reborn, sensing her fate, chose to run away? What if the Eternal died and was destroyed in the Void by some demon? Landis spent many years attempting to refine the process. In the end, though, it was Memnon who supplied the answer.’

‘Memnon?’

‘I will come to him, Skilgannon. He has a brilliant mind, and is also possessed of great psychic power.

When one of the Eternal’s duplicates was born Memnon had a tiny jewel inserted under the skin at the base of the infant’s skull. This jewel carries a spell. If the Eternal dies, her spirit would automatically flow to the eldest of the duplicates, wherever they might be. As far as I know this has been achieved twice. So you must not seek to kill her. It would be a waste of time. There will be more than twenty Reborns scattered around the empire.’

‘I understand,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Now tell me of Memnon.’

‘He is the Lord of the Shadows — a Jiamad, but of a unique kind. Landis created him a long time ago.

It was part of an attempt to find a formula for longer natural life, to counteract the ageing process. Landis had begun to loathe the idea of raising duplicates, only to kill their souls in order for the original to live on.

He saw it — quite rightly — as evil. So he experimented with Joinings, seeking one who could regenerate more efficiently than nature might intend. He was very successful. His experiments gave many of us longer, healthier lives. Then, a hundred years ago, came Memnon. At first we thought him a triumph.

Despite being created from animal and human he was in almost every way a perfect baby. Not a trace of Jiamad. As a child he possessed rare gifts. He could restore faded blooms to health. He could draw wild creatures to him. An amazing child.’ Gamal sighed. ‘His intelligence was — is — phenomenal. By the age of thirteen he was assisting Landis in experiments. He had mastered the machines of the ancients. By twenty he had moved beyond even Landis. The Eternal favoured him, allowing him to experiment on more and more humans. Many of them died terrible, agonizing deaths. None of this concerned Memnon at all. The pain of others passed him by. He has no conscience, no sense of what we consider good or evil. His one redeeming feature is his devotion to the Eternal.’

‘One of her lovers, I expect,’ said Skilgannon, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

‘No, not Memnon. I said he was almost perfect. There is no way he could perform any meaningful sexual act. Landis believed that was the reason for his lack of passion. He never grows angry, or sad.

Memnon just is. He created the Shadows. They will be coming after you before long, Skilgannon. Make sure there is always light around you. They favour the dark. Bright light burns their eyes.’

‘They are Jiamads?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Of a kind. They have no fur. They are skinny — almost skeletal — and they move with bewildering speed. So fast that if a swordsman were to thrust his blade at one the sword would cut only air. They have two curved fangs, which inject poison into the victim. It is not deadly, but causes temporary paralysis. They also carry daggers, the blades dipped in similar poison. ‘

‘Apart from light what other weaknesses do they have?’

‘They lack stamina. After an attack they will find some safe, dark place to rest. And, as I said, their eyes are sensitive. Their vision is not strong. In the forest you will hear them. They emit loud, extremely high pitched shrieks. In some way this allows them to see objects. I do not understand how this works.

Neither did poor Landis.’

‘I take it that he is dead.’

‘Yes, Decado killed him. Despite his centuries of life Landis was a romantic. He believed in Ustarte’s prophecy.’

‘And you do not?’ said Skilgannon.

‘The simple answer is that I do not know. I cannot see how one warrior — even one such as you — can end the reign of the Eternal. Even if you did, what would it matter? The artefacts exist. They will always exist. They survived for thousands of years, their powers almost dormant. Nadir shamans found a way to harness the energies radiating from these sleeping machines below the ground. They did not know the artefacts were there, but, like Memnon, they were attuned to the energies pulsing from them. They acted as conduits for that power. All the physical magic in this blighted world emanates from these artefacts.’

‘So what changed?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘The Temple of the Resurrection. An abbot found a way to awaken them. The power in the artefacts swelled. All over this continent and beyond. So you see, Skilgannon, the physical death of the Eternal will do nothing to change the unhappy state of the world.’

‘What did he do, this abbot?’

The young Gamal shrugged. ‘Much is lost in myth now, but he found a passageway inside the holy mountain, and then there was light. I cannot say. I was not there.’

‘Then the answer lies at the temple.’

Gamal smiled. ‘Perhaps it would — if it was still there. Almost five hundred years ago the temple vanished.’

‘It was inside a mountain,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It could not vanish. There must have been a more powerful ward spell placed on it.’

‘No, Skilgannon. I have walked on the open land where the temple mountain once was. There is nothing there. It is an odd place now. Nothing grows there. The land twists and changes. Metal reacts in a bizarre way. I had copper coins in my pouch. They began to jingle together. I remember feeling nauseous, and not being able to maintain my balance. My companion and I left the area as soon as we could. Once clear I looked in my pouch. Five coins had somehow welded themselves together. I had to cut my belt loose, for the brass buckle was mangled and bent. Believe me, Skilgannon. The temple is gone. The mountain is gone.’

‘But the power remains,’ said Skilgannon softly.

‘Yes.’

For a while they sat in silence, Skilgannon thinking through what Gamal had said. Gamal suddenly sighed. ‘It is beginning,’ he said. ‘I can feel the pull of the Void.’

‘Are you frightened?’

‘A little. My life has not been one spent in philanthropic pursuits. I have been selfish, and my actions have resulted in the deaths of innocent people. Yet the Void is not unknown to me. I have travelled there often. It is where you and I met.’

‘I have no memory of such a meeting.’

‘As I told you, the Void is a place of spirit, and you now live in the world of flesh. The memories will return one day. I wonder if I will find Landis. I was fond of him. It would be good to see him again.’

Suddenly all noise from the waterfall ceased, and the blue sky faded to black. A chill wind blew.

Gamal looked fearful, and was staring at a point over Skilgannon’s shoulder. Skilgannon rose to his feet and turned. A tall man was standing close by, dressed in pale robes of shimmering silver. He was dark-haired and androgynously good-looking. His skin was pale gold, his cheekbones high, his eyes large, dark, and almond shaped, like the peoples of the Chiatze.

‘What are you doing here, Memnon?’ asked Gamal.

‘I have come to say farewell to an old friend,’ the man replied, his voice gentle.

‘We were not friends.’

‘Sadly, that is true. I was attempting to be polite. Go ahead and die, Gamal. It is Skilgannon I wished to speak to.’

‘No! He will not die here, Memnon.’ Gamal rose swiftly to his feet and reached towards Skilgannon.

‘Take my hand. Now!’

Memnon’s arm snapped forward. Gamal disappeared. ‘He chose a pleasant spot,’ said Memnon, moving forward to walk past Skilgannon and stare at the towering waterfall.

‘Did you kill him?’ asked Skilgannon.

Memnon shrugged. ‘Let us hope so. And before you consider attacking me you should understand that such violence will have no effect here. There is no pain. No blow of yours will concuss me, or damage my form. This is merely a dream place. Would you like to hear the water rushing? I find it an annoying distraction, but if you wish I will restore it.’

Skilgannon stepped in, his left fist hammering into what should have been Memnon’s face. The blow passed through the man. ‘Ah, I see you are a man who needs to discover his own realities. So, now that we understand the situation, let us sit and talk. A fire would be pleasant.’ Memnon gestured to the ground and a small circle of stones appeared. Flames leapt up from within them. ‘The Eternal has spoken of you often. She has such fond memories of you.’

‘What is it you want from me?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Landis should never have brought you back. It was a mistake. I am here to rectify it. However, your passing will be without pain.’

‘How do you intend to kill me?’

‘Ah, did Gamal not indicate to you the dangers of these kinds of journeys? How remiss of him. Let me explain. The essence of your life force is now here. For short periods such departures from the flesh can be tolerated. After a few hours, though, the body begins to die. Time here does not flow in the same way as beyond. I would say that your new form is already fighting for life. So, what would you like to talk about, in the brief time that we have?’

Skilgannon closed his eyes. He pictured the shallow depression in the rocks where his body lay, and tried to will his spirit to return. When he opened his eyes the dark-haired Shadowlord was staring at him.

‘You are not as godlike as the Eternal described you,’ said Memnon. ‘True, you have beautiful eyes, but you are merely a man. I suppose that is what legends do. They exaggerate and amplify. However, she loved you, and I suppose that does colour the memories. Even so you do not seem like a man who would butcher the inhabitants of an entire city.’

‘Looks can be deceiving,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Quite so. Excuse me for a moment.’ Memnon faded from view. Alone now, Skilgannon sought again to return to his body, but to no avail. He walked to the water’s edge, and found a sharp stone, which he tried to cut into his palm, thinking that pain might restore him. There was no pain. The skin cut and bled, then resealed instantly.

Memnon reappeared. ‘I apologize for leaving you. I wanted to see how close the pursuers were to your little group. Their deaths will not be long after yours — and considerably more painful, I would say.’

Harad was standing on the shelf of rock, staring out over the land, Charis beside him. Askari had left some time before, to scout for any sign of their enemies returning. The sun was setting, the sky red as blood. Brilliantly lit clouds hovered above the western mountains, themselves dramatically colourful with their crimson bases, their flanks a mixture of coral and black, and their rounded peaks white as snow.

‘It is so beautiful,’ said Charis, taking Harad’s arm, and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Look at those clouds.’

‘I am looking at the clouds. I think it will rain tomorrow.’

‘Oh, Harad,’ she said. He heard the disappointment in her voice, and felt a sense of loss as she withdrew her arm and moved away from him.

‘They are beautiful,’ he said swiftly.

‘You don’t see it though, do you?’ she said, turning towards him. ‘You look at clouds and you think of rain. A deer is just meat on four legs. A tree is something to chop down to make a table, or a chair.’

‘Aye, well, that’s all true, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it’s true, you clod! There is so much more, though. I wish you could see it.’

‘Why? What difference does it make what I see?’

Chads did not answer. She rubbed at her stinging eyes, and then ran her hand through her golden hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘I am really tired,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go and rest.’

‘I understand beauty,’ he said softly. ‘When you just brushed your fingers through your hair. That was beautiful. Sometimes, on a cold autumn day, after the rain, when the sun shines through the broken clouds, that is beautiful too. When you live alone in the mountains you tend to deal in realities, like food and shelter and comforts. Clouds bring rain, deer is meat.’

‘Well,’ she said, with a smile. ‘You used up a whole winter of words there.’

‘I didn’t want you to go away,’ he told her, his face reddening.

‘Why did you come after me, Harad?’ she asked, stepping in close.

‘Thought you might need me.’

‘And I did. Not just because I was in danger. I needed you before that. Did you never wonder why I always brought your food?’

‘I thought it was because you enjoyed irritating me.’

Her face darkened. ‘Did it not occur to you that I might have been attracted to you?’

‘To me?’ he said, shocked.

‘Yes, to you, you dimwit! Did I not ask you to the Feast? Did I not promise to teach you to dance?’

Harad struggled in vain to bring his thoughts into focus. It was as if the sea was roaring between his ears. ‘I’m not a handsome man,’ he said at last. ‘It never entered my mind that you. . I don’t. . I don’t know what to say.’

‘Tell me you love me. Or not,’ she added swiftly.

Harad drew in a deep breath. Then he relaxed, and gave a broad smile. ‘Of course I love you. When I thought you might have been. . hurt,’ he said, unwilling to voice the real fear, ‘I thought I would go out of my mind.’

‘Then perhaps you should kiss me,’ she said, moving closer.

At that moment there came a strangled cry of pure agony from behind them. Harad swung round. The old man, Gamal, was writhing on the ground. His body spasmed, and there was blood upon his lips.

Charis ran to him, kneeling by his side. Gamal’s face was a mask of agony. ‘The swords!’ he groaned.

‘Skilgannon!’ Then he screamed in pain. His body convulsed, and more blood sprayed from his mouth as he cried out.

‘Help me, Harad!’ pleaded Charis.

The axeman knelt down beside Gamal. The old man sagged unconscious into Harad’s arms, and was lowered gently to the floor.

Charis held her fingers to Gamal’s throat. The pulse flickered briefly for a few moments, then stopped.

Charis sighed, and a tear fell to her cheek. ‘I liked him,’ she said.

She began to weep and Harad sat close to her, his huge arm round her shoulder. He knew a touch of guilt, for, despite her distress, Harad himself felt content. In fact more content than at any time he could remember. The woman he loved was nestled close to him. He could feel her warmth, and smell the scent of her hair. The moment was blissful. For the first time in days the glittering axe was forgotten. All that mattered was that he comforted the woman in his arms.

Charis relaxed, her head against his chest. ‘He was a kindly old man,’ she said. ‘It was so cruel to hunt him in this way.’

Harad said nothing. The old man had been one of the lords, one of the creators of beasts. Harad had little sympathy for his passing.

‘I am so glad you are here, Harad.’

‘Where else would I be?’

Charis sighed and moved back a little from him. She leaned in and closed the dead man’s eyes. ‘Your friend is still asleep. Should we wake him?’

‘He said not to.’ A sense of emptiness touched Harad as Charis drew away from him. A flicker of anger replaced it. Then she smiled at him, and the anger melted away.

‘Where did you find that big axe?’

‘It was a gift,’ he told her.

‘It is a horrible weapon.’ She shuddered. ‘Why do we need such things?’

‘What sort of question is that?’ he responded. ‘Without the axe I would have been killed. Then I couldn’t have been here to help you.’

‘I meant why do people want to make such weapons. Why do we fight each other?’

‘I don’t know. I never know the answers to the questions you ask. Everything is so complicated when you are around. It makes my head swim.’ Yet there was no irritation now. Harad wondered if there ever would be again. He gazed at her face. She had never been more beautiful.

‘I’m really frightened, Harad,’ she said suddenly. ‘All I’ve wanted for the last two years is for us to be together. Now we are. And people are trying to kill us.’

His pale eyes glittered. ‘No-one is going to kill you, Charis. They’d have to get past me. I may not be handsome, and I’m not a great thinker, but I am a fighter. Ten days ago that was not a virtue. Now it is.

We’ll get away from here. We’ll find a place. With the Legend people, maybe, to the north. Or high in the mountains, away from Jems and armies.’

Askari came running over the lip of the rock shelf. ‘They are closing in,’ she said. ‘Around twenty riders and four Jems. Not seen their kind before. They move on four legs, like hounds, but they are big.

Almost as big as ponies.’ She glanced at the dead man, then at Skilgannon. ‘Best wake him,’ she said.

Harad leaned over and shook Skilgannon. There was no response.

Charis touched his face. ‘The skin is cold,’ she whispered. ‘I think he’s dead.’

Askari knelt on the other side of Skilgannon and shook him roughly. Charis touched his throat. ‘There is a heartbeat,’ she said. ‘It is very faint.’

The sound of a distant howl came to them. Charis shivered. ‘Doesn’t sound like a wolf,’ she said. ‘It makes the blood run cold.’

‘Wait till you see them,’ said Askari. ‘Your blood will turn to ice!’ She shook Skilgannon again. ‘We have to get away from here,’ she told Harad. ‘Can you carry him?’

Harad grabbed Skilgannon’s arm and hauled him upright. Askari ran to the edge of the rock shelf.

‘Too late,’ she called back. ‘The beasts are coming.’

Harad laid Skilgannon down, then took up Snaga and moved out into the moonlight. He followed Askari for some fifty paces to the edge of the slope.

Four huge beasts were bounding up the trail.

Askari notched an arrow to her bow.

The grotesque hounds came rushing up the hillside. Harad had once seen a lion in the high country, but these creatures were far bigger. For the first time in his life he knew fear. Not for himself, but because Charis was behind him, and if the beasts got past him, she would be torn to pieces. The fear was replaced by a sudden blazing fury. These creatures were threatening the woman he loved. He hefted the axe and waited. Askari let fly. The shaft flashed through the air, thudding into the chest of the first beast.

It howled in pain and swerved, but then came on. A second arrow plunged into its gaping maw. Its jaws snapped shut, snapping the shaft. Then it continued its run.

Harad leapt out to meet the charge. Snaga hammered into the beast with terrible force, half severing the head. Harad wrenched it clear. A second creature leapt at him. A shaft plunged into its side. Snaga clove into the jaws, splitting the skull. A third Jiamad leapt over Harad as he killed the second beast, and ran on towards the cave. The fourth stumbled and fell as a shaft from Askari tore into its throat.

Harad turned back towards where he had left Charis. The last beast had almost reached the campsite.

Harad could never make it in time. He ran up the hill as fast as he could. As he came over the lip of the rock he saw the beast sprawled on the ground. Skilgannon was standing there, the Swords of Night and Day in his hands.

Without a word to the swordsman Harad ran to the campsite beyond. Charis was standing in the shadows. Dropping the axe he swept her into his arms, holding her close. Then he let out a sigh of pure relief, and turned to Skilgannon. ‘Thank the Source you woke in time,’ he said.

Skilgannon merely nodded. Harad saw that he looked exhausted. Releasing Charis, he moved to the swordsman. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Weak,’ said Skilgannon. He staggered and almost fell.

Harad caught him. ‘Rest a moment,’ he said.

‘No time for that,’ said Askari, running into the camp. ‘The riders are already in sight. We need to get higher into the tree line.’

Skilgannon sheathed his swords, then swung to Charis. ‘You saved me,’ he said. ‘I would have died there.’

Then he followed Askari out into the open. Harad took Charis by the hand and they moved after the huntress and the swordsman. The twenty riders were still some way distant. Harad glanced up at the tree line. It was at least a half a mile away. Skilgannon and Askari were already running. Harad and Charis followed them. Skilgannon stumbled twice, then fell to his knees. Harad hauled him to his feet, then ducked down and lifted the exhausted swordsman onto his shoulders. Then he ran again. Charis and Askari were far ahead, but Harad pounded on. The slope was steep, and there was scree underfoot.

Even Harad’s great strength began to fail. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he forced himself on. He could hear the pounding of hooves getting closer. An arrow sang past him, and he heard a horse whinny in pain.

Then he was into the trees. Askari sent another shaft down into the riders. It sank into the shoulder of a bearded horseman. The other soldiers hauled on their reins and turned their mounts, riding back down the slope.

Harad laid Skilgannon down. The man was unconscious again, but breathing normally. Charis came alongside, and felt his pulse. ‘He’s just sleeping now,’ she said. ‘When I woke him he could barely stand.

I don’t know how he found the strength to kill that awful creature.’

‘How did you wake him?’ asked Harad.

‘The swords,’ she told him. ‘You remember when Gamal woke. He shouted: “The swords.

Skilgannon.” When you ran out to fight the Jems I drew one of his swords and put it in his hand. His body jerked and he cried out. I helped him to stand, then we saw the beast coming. He drew the other sword, the golden one, and stepped out to meet it. I thought there was no way he could survive. He is an amazing man.’

‘I killed two of them and he’s the amazing man?’ grumbled Harad good-naturedly.

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good!’

Askari kept watch, and Charis slept for a while. Harad dozed beside her. After an hour Skilgannon woke. He sat up. The movement roused Harad.

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Stronger. Thank you, Harad. I couldn’t have made it.’

‘It was a pleasure. So, what do we do now?’

‘You should take your lady and find somewhere safe. As for me? I’m going to fulfil a prophecy.’

Alahir was glad to be away from the encampment. The army of Agrias had swelled to around twelve thousand now — more than a third of them Jiamads. They were camped on high ground near a deserted and ruined city that had once been the capital of the Sathuli lands. Every day more troops arrived, along with an endless stream of supply wagons. Alahir found the encampment too noisy and far too unpleasant on the nose. Latrine trenches had been dug, but Jiamads tended to squat wherever and whenever they felt the need, and the stench was overpowering.

The tall cavalryman led his troop of fifty riders over a ridge, heading south. It was not a routine patrol, hunting runaways and scouting for any sign of enemy movement. Agrias had said the Eternal was moving her forces into the lands of Landis Kan, and there were reports of enemy cavalry moving through the mountain passes. So all the riders wore full armour: heavy, hooded mail shirts and breastplates, and horsehair-crested battle helms, with long bronze nasal guards. Each man possessed a recurve bow with fifty shafts, a heavy cavalry sabre, and a short sword in a scabbard fitted to the left shoulder. Agrias had said the final battle was approaching. His words were full of confidence about the outcome, but Alahir didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. There was fear there. He had expected a huge uprising to follow his rebellion, and it had not materialized. Alahir wouldn’t have cared one way or another who won, save that his own homeland was at risk.

The Last of the Drenai.

It was not just a romantic phrase to Alahir. It meant everything to the young soldier. The lands around the city of Siccus had been ruled by the descendants of the Drenai for more than three hundred years.

The borders were closed, and though the inhabitants paid lip service to the Eternal, sending taxes and maintaining her laws, the old ways remained paramount. Honour, nobility of spirit, courage and a love of the homeland were the first virtues instilled in the young. Lessons in Drenai history followed, to make the young citizens aware of the great ones in whose footsteps they would be expected to walk. Karnak the One-Eyed, who had held Dros Purdol against impossible odds; Egel, the first Earl of Bronze, builder of the great fortresses. Adaran, who had won the War of the Twins, and Banalion, the White Wolf, who had fought his way back from the disasters of the last Ventrian wars, and helped to rebuild a shattered empire. There were stories of villains too, not all of them power-hungry foreigners seeking to destroy the greatness of the Drenai. There was Waylander the assassin, who had sold his soul to the enemy and murdered the Drenai king, and Lascarin, the thief who had stolen the legendary Armour of Bronze.

Stories of men like these were told to stem the arrogance that might flower instead of pride in a Drenai youngster’s heart.

Alahir smiled. The tales of many heroes had been imparted to him, but few had touched his heart as had the tale of Druss the Legend.

He sighed and rode on.

The day was a bright one. The heavy clouds of the night before had moved on, and the air was clean and crisp.

They scouted for several hours, then Alahir headed to a campsite they had used before, and the men dismounted, picketed the horses and prepared cook fires for the midday meal. Alahir was happy to be out of the saddle. His favourite horse, Napalas, a speckled grey, had thrown a shoe, and he was riding a mount loaned to him by his aide, Bagalan. The beast was skittish. If Alahir’s cloak flared in the breeze the horse would rear and try to bolt. Several times he had glanced at his aide, and the youngster was trying hard not to chuckle.

‘It is the last time I borrow a horse of yours,’ he said, as they dismounted.

‘He has great speed,’ said the dark-haired youngster, trying to keep the smile from his face. ‘He’s just a little nervous.’ The boy was a practical joker of some renown, and Alahir only had himself to blame for trusting the lad. ‘Anyway, you always said you could ride anything you could throw a saddle on.’

Alahir untied the chin straps of his helm and lifted it clear. Then he brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume, knocking the dust clear. Removing his sword belt he pushed back his mail hood, sat down on the ground, and stretched out.

‘Are you tired, uncle?’ asked Bagalan, sitting alongside him.

‘Don’t call me uncle.’

‘Why is it you are always so scratchy after a night with the whores?’

‘I am not scratchy. And the whores were. . were fine.’

‘The one you went off with had a face like a goat.’

Alahir sighed and sat up. ‘I was drunk. I do not remember what she looked like. In fact I don’t care what she looked like. My sister promised me you would be a fine aide. She obviously has your sense of humour. Now go and get me some stew.’ The young man chuckled and moved off towards one of the cook fires. He was right. Alahir was scratchy, and the camp whores were ugly. But the two facts were not connected.

His sergeant, a twenty-year veteran named Gilden, approached him. ‘You want some time alone?’ he asked. Alahir looked up into the man’s thin, bearded face. Two white scars ran through the beard from the right cheekbone down to the chin, permanent reminders of a clash with renegade Jiamads three years before. Gilden also had scars on his chest, arms and legs. But none on his back. Not a man to run in the face of an enemy.

‘No, sit. Your company is always welcome.’

Gilden removed his sword and sat on the ground. ‘The boy is all right, captain. Just a little brash. You were much the same ten years ago.’

‘Ten years ago I thought I was saving the homeland. I believed I could change the world.’

‘You were eighteen. You’re supposed to feel like that at eighteen.’

‘You felt like that?’

Gilden spread his hands. ‘Too long ago to remember. I don’t like what’s happening now, though. Bad feel to it.’

Alahir nodded. There was no need for elucidation. Agrias had begun talking about the need to protect the port areas around Siccus against enemy invasion from the sea. The whole point of serving the man was to prevent the war from reaching the homeland, to protect the borders and keep Jiamads out.

‘The council will argue against the plan,’ said Alahir at last.

‘Old men. Once strong, now fragile. Lukan argued against Agrias. He was the best of them. True Drenai. Heart and soul. Deserved better than a knife in the back for his efforts.’

‘Shadowmen serving the Eternal. Nothing to do with Agrias,’ replied Alahir doubtfully.

‘Maybe. Even so there is no-one to stand against him now.’ Gilden swore, which was rare. Alahir glanced at him.

‘Problems for another day,’ said Alahir.

‘Never did study much, save for Drenai history,’ said Gilden. ‘But I know that civilizations rise and fall and die away. The Sathuli used to inhabit this region. Where are they now? Dust. All but forgotten. The Nadir hordes swept across these lands and butchered them all. And where are the Nadir? Dust. All my life I’ve fought to keep the Drenai alive. Yet we are dying, Alahir. Slowly. If not Agrias, then it will be the Eternal. A pox on them both!’

‘No argument there. I agree the future looks bleak,’ he said, seeking to find something hopeful to say to the man, ‘but it has been bleak before, and we are still here. Think of Dros Delnoch, when Ulric’s Nadir were before it. Hundreds of thousands of warriors, and only a handful of soldiers and volunteer farmers. They held, though, and the Drenai lived on.’

‘They had Druss.’

‘And we have you and me — and five thousand like us. If we have to go down, Gil, we’ll carve a legend of our own.’

‘Aye, that we will.’ Alahir saw the man relax. Gilden suddenly smiled. ‘That was the ugliest whore I’ve ever seen. She had a face like a horse.’

‘Goat,’ corrected Alahir.

‘Ah, I see,’ said Gilden. ‘I’d forgotten you’re from farming country. Sing love songs about goats up there.’

‘Only the pretty ones,’ replied Alahir.