The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Fifteen

Gilden was growing worried as he led the riders down a treacherous slope towards the east. Alahir had been gone too long, and he feared some disaster had befallen him. The veteran soldier had every faith in Alahir’s skills with bow or blade, but in the mountains a horse could stumble, pitching its rider over the edge of a precipice, or fall, trapping him beneath its body. One man had been killed last year when his horse fell and rolled, the saddle pommel crushing his breastbone. No matter how skilled the rider, or how brave, accidents could kill.

The young aide, Bagalan, rode alongside Gilden as the trail widened. By rights he should be leading the troop, for he was the only officer present. But the lad was canny, and knew Gilden had the experience. So he stayed silent, and followed Gilden’s lead. The elder man drew rein, scanning the ground ahead. Bagalan leaned over to him. ‘Why did you never accept a commission?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I know Alahir has twice tried to make you an officer.’

‘Family tradition,’ answered Gilden, straight-faced. ‘Peasant stock. We hate officers. If I took a commission my father would never speak to me again.’

‘Gods!’ said the boy. ‘Is he still alive? He must be a hundred and twenty.’

‘Sixty-eight,’ snapped Gilden. ‘And if that skittish horse of yours has killed Alahir you won’t forget what I’ll do to you if you live a hundred and twenty years.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said the young man. ‘It was stupid — but I wasn’t expecting earthquakes.’

A burly rider eased his way up to Gilden. ‘That slope looks treacherous,’ he said, indicating the scree-covered ground ahead.

‘It does,’ agreed Gilden. ‘So you’d better scout it.’

‘Why me?’

‘You know how it goes, Barik. The least useful gets the most dangerous assignments.’

Barik gave a broad grin, showing a broken front tooth. ‘I see. Not because you owe me a month’s wages then?’

‘That did have a small part to play in my decision.’

‘Nothing worse than a bad loser,’ replied Barik, touching heels to his mount, and carefully picking out a path through the scree. Twice the horse slithered, but Barik was probably the best rider in the troop, and Gilden had little doubt he would find a way down.

‘You follow him,’ he told Bagalan. ‘I was lying when I said he was the least useful. I’m not lying when I say it to you.’

‘No way to speak to an officer, grandfather.’ The boy chuckled and set off after Barik.

I should be a grandfather, thought Gilden. I should be sitting on the two acres of land my service has paid for. I should be watching my crops grow, and my horses feed. There should be children at my feet.

And a wife? The thought sprang unbidden.

Gilden had been wed twice, outliving the first. The second had been a mistake. Loneliness had clouded his judgement. She had begun an affair with a neighbour, and Gilden had challenged him, and killed him in a sabre duel. He still regretted that. He had liked the man. After that he had gone to the public square and snapped the Marriage Wand, giving the pieces to the Source priest there. His wife had married a merchant, and now lived on his ship.

So, no grandchildren, and the farmland he had been awarded for his twenty years was being managed by tenants, and he sat in his saddle, waiting to negotiate a dangerous slope.

Gilden sighed, raised his arm, and led his troops out onto the slope. Barik and Bagalan had made it to firmer ground. Gilden followed the trail they had set, and soon joined them. Both men looked tense, and said nothing. Gilden glanced down the trail and saw Alahir’s horse standing, reins trailing.

‘Well,’ said the sergeant, ‘let’s find out the worst.’

The earthquake had felled several trees ahead, but Gilden rode at them with speed, leaping his mount over the obstructions until he drew level with the waiting horse. He glanced up at the rock-slide ahead, and saw Alahir sitting there.

‘Nice afternoon for a nap,’ said Gilden, trying to keep the relief from his voice. Alahir did not respond.

One by one the other riders gathered at the foot of the slide. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Something you need to see,’ Alahir told him. ‘Come up. Bring Barik and Bagalan with you. The others can take turns later.’

Gilden dismounted and scrambled up the slope. ‘What’s wrong with you, lad?’ he asked.

‘Nothing and everything. You’ll understand. Follow me.’

Alahir led the three Drenai soldiers through the half-covered entrance and along the corridor beyond.

Once into the inner chamber all three men stopped, and stared at the Armour of Bronze.

‘That cannot be what I think it is?’ said Gilden at last.

‘It is,’ Alahir told him.

‘No, it is a hoax of some kind,’ said Barik. ‘You don’t stumble on the answer to your dreams in a rockslide.’

‘I have always wanted to know what it really looked like,’ said Alahir, his tone reverential. ‘I never dreamed it would be so beautiful.’

‘What good is it, though?’ asked Bagalan. ‘Locked in crystal.’

‘It is not crystal,’ Alahir told him. ‘It is some sort of illusion. Try it. I have already done so.’

Bagalan strolled over to the huge, shimmering crystal and thrust out his hand towards the winged helm.

He cried out as his fingers cracked against the cold, hard block, and stared accusingly at Alahir. ‘I could have broken my hand.’ Gilden walked to the block and reached out. The surface was cool and firm and seamless. Carefully he ran his hand over the entire front. There was no opening. Alahir stepped forward, and Gilden could see the reluctance in his every movement. Slowly the captain reached out his hand. It passed through the crystal, his fingers curling round the winged sword hilt. The weapon slid free of the scabbard.

‘How in the name of the Source did you do that?’ asked Bagalan, still rubbing at his bruised fingers.

Alahir sighed and passed the blade to Gilden. Then he moved across the chamber and sat down on a shelf of rock. ‘It is all wrong,’ he said.

Gilden sat beside him. ‘Tell it all, lad. What is going on here?’

He listened as Alahir talked of the voice that led him to the Armour, and how it had said he should don it. Then he stopped. ‘There is more,’ prompted Gilden.

‘She said I was the Earl of Bronze, by blood and by right.’

‘And that has dispirited you?’

‘Of course it has,’ said Alahir. ‘I’m not a Druss the Legend, Gil. I’m just a soldier. I was third from last in my class at the academy. You’re a better swordsman, and Barik a finer archer. The voice was wrong. I’d follow the Earl of Bronze into fire. I’d willingly give my life for the Drenai. But I am not good enough for this.’

‘You are probably right,’ Gilden told him. ‘We are none of us worthy of our ancestors. They were giants. You said it yourself, lad, only yesterday. They had Druss, we have you and me. You say you’d ride through fire for the Earl of Bronze. There’s not one of us who wouldn’t ride into Hell itself if you gave the order.’ Clapping Alahir on the shoulder he rose. ‘Now come on, do as she bid — whoever she was. Don the Armour. I’ll help you.’

Alahir returned to the block and removed the scaled breastplate, with the flaring eagle motif, then the mail shirt and leggings, and the winged helm. Removing his own chain mail he donned the shirt. Gilden lifted the breastplate. Alahir opened his arms, allowing Gilden to buckle it into place. Then he added the wrist guards and the gauntlets. Gilden settled the scabbard belt round his waist, thrusting the sword back into its bronze sheath. Lastly Alahir lifted the winged helm. He was about to place it on his head when he stopped. ‘I feel as if I am desecrating something holy,’ he said.

‘You are not, lad. You are honouring it. Put on the helm.’

A rumble began in the stone beneath their feet. Dust fell from the ceiling, and a huge chunk of rock fell

— and bounced from the now empty crystal block.

‘Another earthquake!’ shouted Barik.

‘Everyone out!’ ordered Alahir.

They ran back through the tunnel. Gilden fell. Alahir hoisted him to his feet. Just before they reached the entrance there came what sounded like a clap of thunder from behind them. The entire roof collapsed. Then the side wall of the tunnel split open, a massive slab of rock sliding away.

Gilden, Barik and Bagalan scrambled out onto the open slope. The tremor faded away and Gilden saw the rest of the troop standing below them, looking up in awe. He turned. Standing in the new cave mouth, dust billowing around him, was a golden figure. Gilden knew it was Alahir. He had helped him don the armour. Yet now, in the bright sunlight, it seemed that a hero of legend had emerged from the bowels of the earth, his arrival heralded by an earthquake. He was Alahir no longer.

This golden man on the mountainside was the Earl of Bronze.

Memnon stood quietly in Landis Kan’s upper apartments as the Eternal and Unwallis spoke. It always fascinated the slender minister to see how men reacted around the Eternal. Whenever he did so he found himself grateful for his own lack of sexual desire. Men became such fools as they moved into the orbit of her beauty. Memnon had always rather admired Unwallis. The man had a fine intellect, but it was so obvious that the Eternal had taken him once more to her bed. He fawned around her like an ageing puppy. It had, though, Memnon conceded, improved his dress sense. Clothes were Memnon’s second obsession: delicate silks, rich satins, fine wools; brilliant and beautiful dyes. He adored designing new tunics and gowns, employing the finest embroiderers and artists. Since becoming the Eternal’s lover for the second time Unwallis had put aside the grey, lacklustre clothes that were his trademark, and was now wearing a quite delightful shirt tunic of blue silk, over cream leggings and grey boots. It seemed to Memnon that the boots were an inspired choice, complementing the silver grey of Unwallis’s hair.

The Eternal had taken less care with her appearance, but then when someone had such natural beauty it would not matter were they to dress in sackcloth. Her knee-length tunic was simple white wool, the only adornment being a filigree gold belt, with small ornaments hanging from it. Several of them were quite exquisitely fashioned, but, Memnon decided, would look better against the backdrop of a darker dress or gown.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stood quietly, arms folded, his fingers stroking the soft sleeves of his own, ankle-length gown of rich blue silk.

Unwallis was concerned about the prophecy. He had studied more of Landis Kan’s notes, and had become convinced — as had Landis — that Skilgannon could threaten the reign of the Eternal. Jianna did not share his conviction. ‘He is one man. No army, no magic. Even with the Swords of Night and Day he could not overcome a regiment of Jiamads, or even a troop of lancers.’

‘The prophecy says. .’ began Unwallis.

‘To hell with prophecies,’ she snapped. ‘This one is merely wish fulfilment. Can you not see it? An ancient crone talks of Skilgannon’s return, so Landis Kan brings him back. Even Landis had no idea how the prophecy could be fulfilled. You think Skilgannon will know?’

‘What I do know, Highness, is that the Blessed Priestess was a genuine seer.’

Jianna laughed. ‘Would you really like to know what she was? I met her once. She was a Joining — a Jiamad — created by men. She wore gloves to disguise her talons, and long-sleeved gowns to hide the fur.

And, yes, she was gifted — but not gifted enough to read a future a thousand years after her death.’ She turned her dark gaze on Memnon. ‘And what of Decado? I take it from your expression that he is not dead?’

‘No, Highness. He met Skilgannon, and together they killed three of my Shadows.’

‘Your invincible Shadows? Three of them?’ He thought she was going to become angry. Instead she smiled. As always the shock of her smile caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was exquisite, stunning. Even without the vile drawback of sexual arousal Memnon felt the extraordinary power of her beauty.

‘It is amusing, Highness?’ he managed to ask.

‘Only to me. The man I knew would not be killed by such creatures.’

‘Decado warned him. They were ready. The next time it will be different.’

‘There will be no next time. I do not want Olek killed. You understand me, Memnon? That man was -

is — the love of my life. If I can speak to him he will return to me.’

‘Of course, Highness. The Shadows were following Decado. It was mere happenstance that he was with Skilgannon and the others.’

‘Is he still with them?’

‘No, Highness. He rode north.’

‘And Olek?’

‘A woman with them was killed in the earthquake. They buried her and also headed north.’

‘Not my Reborn?’

‘No, Highness. A peasant from Petar.’

‘Good. What is their destination?’

‘Skilgannon seeks the lost temple,’ Memnon told her.

‘Of course he does. Haven’t we all? He will find the twisted crater that remains. Then he will seek to come after me. He will not succeed. Even if he reaches me he will be unable to kill me. I know him. I know his love for me.’

‘Then you also know how resourceful he is,’ put in Unwallis.

Memnon watched the Eternal closely, seeing her smile fade, and her dark eyes narrowing. ‘Yes, I do, Unwallis. And you are right to remind me of it. Skilgannon is unlike any other man I ever knew. He failed at nothing. Even at the tender age of sixteen he evaded the skills of trackers and assassins. By twenty-one he had won every battle he fought. Once, with only a handful of men, he assaulted a citadel, and killed a man I believed to be the finest swordsman alive. He should not be underestimated -

especially by me. Send a regiment of Eternal Guardsman and their Jiamads to the temple site. They can take ship from Draspartha.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘Now to more immediate matters. The army should cross the mountains within the next three days. I will ride with them. We will crush Agrias once and for all.’ She turned to Unwallis. ‘Now leave me. I wish to talk to Memnon.’

He looked crestfallen, but merely bowed and backed away. As the door closed behind him Jianna raised her arms above her head and stretched. Then she sighed. ‘We will talk on the balcony,’ she said.

Memnon followed her out into the fading light. She beckoned him to a wicker chair. He waited for her to seat herself, then slightly raised his gown and perched on the edge of his chair. He had no wish to stretch the gown, and spoil the line.

‘Has he bedded her yet?’ she asked.

He noted the jealousy in her voice. It was surprising. He had never known her show such emotion.

‘No, Highness. It is obvious they have great attraction for one another, but there has been nothing. .

carnal.’

She laughed. ‘You make the word carnal sound like something stuck to the bottom of a boot.’ The smile faded. ‘So, she is a virgin still. Good. I always enjoy being a virgin again.’ Jianna sat silently for a while. Then she spoke again. ‘When you watched him did he speak of me?’

Memnon had known this moment would arrive. He had planned to lie, but now that he had observed the depth of her feelings for the man he decided the truth would be far more potent. ‘Yes, Highness. I don’t think you would like to hear it, however.’

‘I will judge that! Speak!’

‘The Reborn now knows of her origins. She asked Skilgannon about you. He said you had been corrupted by power, and had become evil, and that he would do everything he could to end your reign.’

‘Yes, that is my Olek! A true romantic. Good and evil as separate as night and day. It will be so wonderful to see him again.’

Her response shocked him. ‘You are not angry?’

‘I might as well be angry at the sun for shining too brightly. Olek is an unusual man. He had great intelligence, and yet he insists on seeing the world in a basically simple way. He looks at my Reborns and no doubt says that I steal their bodies and banish their souls. Quite true. However, I look at those Reborns and say, “But they would not exist, save for my bones and my blood. Without me they would have had no life at all. They would never have been born. Therefore I have given them twenty years of life they would otherwise never have experienced. I have loaned them a part of my life. When the loan period is up I take it back.” Equally true. You think I am evil, Memnon?’

‘I do not know what evil is,’ he answered.

‘When you send out your Shadows to kill a rival, is that evil?’

‘I expect the rival would think so. Would you mind if I stood, Highness?’

‘Not at all.’

Memnon rose and smoothed his hands down the sides of his gown. ‘The material stretches badly,’ he explained.

Reaching up she took hold of his mutilated hand. ‘How are your Reborns faring?’

‘All dead, but one. And he will not last the winter.’

‘No more mutilations, Memnon. You are having difficulty walking now. How many toes have you taken?’

‘Two from each foot. I must find a way, Highness. Or I too shall be dead.’

‘Not for some years yet, my dear. There is still time.’

‘There is something wrong, and I cannot find it. The artefacts are flawless, and everything is fine until the children reach eight, sometimes nine. Then the cancers begin. They are eaten alive by them.’

‘I recall that you yourself were the only survivor of the. . the family created by Landis. The other children also died. In the end he used all the bones he found.’

‘That is a great shame,’ he said. ‘Perhaps with them I could create a more perfect duplicate.’

‘I do not think so. The bones were not human, Memnon.’

‘What?’ He was shocked. ‘Landis told me he found the remains of a great wizard from the past.’

‘Yes, he did. There was enormous excitement. According to legends the wizard, a man named Zhujow, made a pact with a demon lord. He was being hunted by a knight named Rulander. Zhujow called on the demon to give him the power to defeat the knight. The demon changed Zhujow into a Joining. Rulander still slew him. It was the bones of the Joining Landis discovered. That is why it was so difficult for him to refine the process and produce you. I still do not know how he did it, but I recall the horrors of his first attempts. One child clawed its way from the womb of the mother. Both died. Others were born hideously deformed and had to be destroyed. Then you arrived. Almost perfect.’

‘Why was I never told this before, Highness?’

‘When you were young Landis believed the knowledge would have a detrimental effect on you. As you grew older. .’ she shrugged, ‘the subject just never arose. Is it helpful to know?’

‘It could be. It might explain why the children’s bodies become so unstable. I need to study more.

Unwallis has become fascinated by Landis Kan’s journals of his experiments with Skilgannon. For myself I prefer the more detailed journals I have discovered in the artefacts chamber. They are more concerned with the various refinements he made.’

‘Well, make sure you get enough rest,’ she said, releasing his hand.

‘Thank you, Highness, for your concern. As you know, my demise will not affect the passage of your soul to the first of the Reborns.’

‘That is not what I meant. You are dear to me, Memnon. I want you to be well.’

He was momentarily touched by her concern. But then he thought, ‘Decado was dear to you too.’ The Eternal was beautiful, and kind, and considerate, when it suited her. And chilling and deadly when the mood took her.

‘I shall rest now, Highness, by your leave.’

‘Do that. On your way out you will see a handsome soldier, with blond hair, guarding my door. Send him to me.’

Memnon did not go to his bed. Instead he walked from the palace, cutting through the gardens to the stables at the rear. Beyond them was a long, black wagon, high-sided, with a curving roof. The six-wheeled vehicle was more than twenty feet long. It had no windows, but a series of covered slits could be seen along both sides. The entrance was at the rear. The sun had sunk behind the mountains, and although the sky was still blue no direct sunlight shone upon the wagon. Memnon pulled on a lever and three steps slid into view. Mounting the first, he tapped on the wood. ‘Close your eyes, my children,’

he said. Swiftly he opened the door and moved inside, pulling it shut behind him.

The darkness within was absolute. A soft chittering sound began. Memnon felt the Shadows moving around him. ‘Three of your brothers are no more,’ he said, his voice a mere whisper. ‘They failed. They have brought shame upon us. Their deaths must be avenged.’ Reaching out his hands, he continued,

‘Touch me, my children. Touch me and see the enemies whose deaths are required.’ Eyes closed, he summoned images of Decado and Skilgannon to his mind, holding to them, as each of the seven Shadows closed around him, their touch as light as a morning breeze. ‘First must be Decado. You know his scent. Then the other, the carrier of two swords. He is a danger to us all. Kill him, and any with him.

Devour their hearts. And hide the bodies where none will find them. Tonight there will be clouds. You must travel far. I will commune with you, and lead you to the prey. Now close your eyes, my children, for I must open the door and there is still daylight beyond.’

Memnon left the wagon swiftly and returned to his apartments. A servant girl with frightened eyes brought him food and a goblet of red wine. She had not served him before, and did not know of his distaste for liquor of any kind.

As he ate he considered the events of the day. The Eternal’s desire to keep Skilgannon alive was a mystery to him. It was also ill advised. Of course some prophecies would prove false. Equally some would prove true, and it was foolish to allow an enemy to walk free. Memnon would keep his death secret. Eventually the Eternal would tire of looking for him, and all would be as it was.

Not quite all, he hoped.

The failure of his Reborns to survive beyond childhood was proving bitter and frightening. How was it that beings fashioned from his own bones should prove so frail? Why indeed had he not died as a child?

Lighting a lantern, he gathered up yet more of the papers he had discovered in the artefacts chamber and began to study them. They were interesting. Landis Kan had a fine mind, and many of his theories were thought-provoking. Yet nothing Memnon found cast any new light on the problem he faced.

Pushing the papers aside he lay back on a couch, staring up at the ornate ceiling.

As he drifted towards exhausted sleep he released his mind, allowing it to float clear of his weary frame. His spirit drifted along deserted corridors and down to the servants’ quarters, where young women were preparing food for the soldiers who guarded the palace. Their conversation was dull and predictable and he flowed past them, and down into the artefact chambers below the palace. Here his two aides were also studying Landis Kan’s journals. Patiacus, bald and round-shouldered, sat hunched by a table reading slowly. The younger Oranin suddenly leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. ‘A clever man,’ he said.

‘Too clever,’ responded Patiacus. ‘His ashes are scattered through the gardens.’

‘Why do you think he spent so much time drawing necklaces?’

‘Necklaces?’

‘These notes are full of them. He talks of structures and debilities and instabilities. I cannot understand a tenth of it.’

‘Look for references to the Lord Memnon,’ advised Patiacus. ‘That is what is important.’

Oranin rose from his chair and ran his hand over his close-cropped red hair. ‘There are hundreds of these journals. It will take weeks.’

‘You have other plans?’ asked Patiacus.

‘There is a plump serving girl with inviting eyes. I think she likes me.’

‘Then she has no taste,’ observed Patiacus. ‘Now stop interrupting me.’

The two men returned to their work. It was obvious to Memnon, and not for the first time, that the two men liked one another. In a way he could not explain Memnon found this dispiriting. Affection was an emotion he had never experienced. There had never been anyone that Memnon had truly liked. At first he thought most people were like him, learning how to socialize, establishing working relationships, knowing when to smile and when to be solemn. But he was older and wiser now, and knew that he was different from others in many subtle ways. Mostly he tried to convince himself that his lack of emotional response to people was an asset. At times like this his confidence in that belief was less sure.

Returning to his body, he sat up and drank a little water.

People believed he was devoted to the Eternal. Once, when floating unobserved above Unwallis, he had listened as the statesman told a colleague: ‘It is his only redeeming human quality.’

Yet even this was not true. He looked upon the Eternal as he looked upon his clothes. Beautiful to gaze upon, to observe, to enjoy.

‘ You think I am evil, Memnon?’ she had asked.

‘ I do not know what evil is,’ he had replied.

It was not strictly true. Evil was anything that hampered or obstructed his life and his plans. Good was anything that facilitated his desires.

He felt the weariness of his body and decided to float free once more. In spirit form there was no exhaustion, no heavy weariness. He swam up to the royal apartments, and watched as Jianna entertained the young cavalry officer, their bodies locked together, sweat glistening on their skin. Then he moved away and saw Unwallis pacing the corridor outside, his eyes angry.

Memnon relaxed. Who could possibly desire to know such jealousy? Who could want to be locked in such a sweaty embrace with a stranger? Leaving the palace, his spirit soared up and over the mountains.

The machines of the ancients were incredibly complex, their component parts a mystery. It was not even possible to ascertain the method of their construction. The metals were extraordinarily fine and light, alloys, Memnon guessed, of gold and other metals unknown in the present. When the power was in them they functioned automatically, following a pattern laid down by ancient wizards, whose knowledge was as far above Memnon’s as could be imagined. They were perfect. Which made the failures of Memnon’s own Reborns all the more galling. His Reborns should have been exact duplicates of himself. Why they should be prone to cancerous growths in childhood was a mystery that filled his mind. He could not recall ever being ill. His own body seemed capable of fighting off any infection or disease.

Pausing in his flight, he realized he had come to the site of the lost temple. He gazed down at the two passes leading to what had once been the Mountain of the Resurrection. Now there was just an empty bowl of land, full of twisted shrubs. He saw the wind blow a dust cloud towards the bowl. The cloud disappeared as it reached it.

How Skilgannon’s heart would sink when he saw this place.

He thought of the man he had encountered in Gamal’s dream place. Jianna was right. There was a fierce intelligence in his eyes, and there was no doubt he was possessed of an indomitable spirit. Memnon had observed the peasant girl placing the swords in his hands, and had seen him awaken. He was weak and disoriented — and yet still he summoned the strength to kill the beast that came at him.

Memnon turned south, soaring high above the river Rostrias and back towards the distant mountains.

He passed over valleys and hills, forests and streams, seeking out the swordsman. At one point he saw a group of Joinings and a small man in a red tunic. It was an incongruous sight. Two of the Joinings were hauling a wagon. At any other time such a tableau would have piqued his interest. He flew on, scanning the forest trails.

Then he saw a flickering campfire set in a wooded hollow. It was well placed and could not have been seen from ground level. Memnon floated down, to hover above the trio sitting quietly by the fire. He gazed at Skilgannon. The man’s expression was stern and distant. Close by, the Eternal Reborn kept glancing at him. Beyond them both was the huge peasant with the ancient axe.

‘How did you die. . the first time?’ he heard the woman ask.

‘Painfully,’ replied Skilgannon. He glanced across at the peasant. ‘How are you faring, Harad?’

‘I’m hungry,’ answered the man. He looked up. ‘Did you see Druss in the Void when you were there?’

‘I do not remember. It is all hazy now.’

‘Why did you not reach the Golden Valley he spoke of?’

‘The evils of my life prevented me. All I remember is that I did not look as you see me now. My arms were scaled. There were no mirrors there, but I would guess my face was scaled also. The evil do not cross into the Valley.’

‘What do they do?’ asked the woman.

‘They fight to survive.’

‘But they are already dead,’ said the woman. ‘What more can happen to them?’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘I do not have the answer to that. When you kill a beast in the Void it simply disappears. Ceases to exist, perhaps.’

‘And these beasts attack those who. . who are not scaled?’ asked Harad.

‘Yes.’

‘Hardly seems fair,’ pointed out the woman. ‘Someone good dies, enters the Void, and is then killed again by a demon.’

Skilgannon laughed. ‘Fair? In my previous life I heard that so often. I would like to meet the man who first suggested that life was fair. It is not. It is just life. Some people are lucky. Some are not. Fairness has nothing to do with it. And if that is the situation in life, then why should the Void operate any differently?’

‘Do you fear returning to it?’

‘Would it make a difference?’ he responded. ‘I do not fear the inevitable.’

‘Druss said he would take Charis to the Golden Valley,’ said Harad.

‘Then he will,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Be assured of that.’

‘I wish that I had been killed with her,’ said Harad. ‘We would be together then.’

‘One day you will be together,’ said the woman.

That day will be soon, thought Memnon. Judging by the distance his spirit had travelled it would take the Shadows no more than three nights to reach them. Memnon was about to return to his body when the woman spoke again, this time to Skilgannon.

‘Do you regret loving the Eternal?’

He smiled. ‘One fact I learned in my life is that we should never regret love. In many ways it is what defines us. In that respect I have been lucky. I have been loved, and I have loved. Ultimately that is all that counts. The dreams of men all come to dust. If I did not know that in my first life, I know it now.

Nothing remains of the world I knew — not even its history. All is fable and shadow.’

‘The Eternal remains,’ she said.

‘For now,’ he told her.

‘You really believe we can end her reign?’

‘Askari, there are many areas of my life which have fallen short of what could have been. There were -

and there are — men more clever, more powerful, more wise than I. But I have never been defeated in life or in war. Ustarte — whom you call the Blessed Priestess — said I would change this world. And I trust her wisdom.’

Arrogant man, thought Memnon, but then he looked into the sapphire eyes.

And felt a stab of fear.

Gilden rode down the slope and onto the flatland. The troop was some little way behind him, and Gilden had volunteered to scout ahead. Some way ahead was a thick, wooded area that could conceal enemy troops. Gilden rode slowly towards it, his bow in his left hand, an arrow notched. As he approached the trees the wind changed. His mount’s ears pricked up, and it veered to the left. Calming the horse he stared into the wood. At first there was nothing to be seen. Then came a movement, as the undergrowth rustled. A Jiamad stepped out, and stood staring at the rider. It was a big beast, maybe seven and a half feet tall, with a massive breadth of shoulder. Gently pulling back on the reins Gilden walked his horse backwards, creating space between himself and the monster. Over short distances a Jiamad could run down a horse. Another Jiamad appeared. Then another. They made no hostile move towards him, but they watched him. None of them were wearing baldrics, or other indications of army apparel. It was likely they were runaways.

Suddenly a familiar voice called out: ‘Is that you, Gilden?’ Before he could answer he saw the young merchant, Stavut, emerge from the trees. He strolled past the beasts and out into the open. ‘Good to see you. Is Alahir with you?’

It was like a dream. There was no sense to it. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Gilden, staring at the merchant. His clothes were filthy, and stained with what looked like dried blood. He was unshaven, but as jaunty as ever.

‘It is a long story. You can relax. Not one of my lads will attack you.’

‘Your lads?’

‘As I said, it is a long story. I’ve been teaching them how to hunt.’

Gilden’s horse backed away as more Jiamads emerged from the trees. Gilden watched them. There were over forty beasts. ‘These are all yours?’

‘Not mine exactly. They are free, you see.’

‘Oh, yes, I see. I also see you have blood on your clothes. Did you get that bringing down a deer, Stavut?’

Stavut sighed. ‘No. We were in a battle. We killed the soldiers who had massacred some villagers. It was not pretty.’

‘Why don’t you climb up behind me, Stavut?’ said Gilden softly. ‘I’ll ride you away from here. We’ll see Alahir together.’

‘Can’t leave my lads,’ said Stavut. ‘Did you know there is an army marching from the south? We saw them. Must be twenty, thirty thousand strong. That’s why we are moving north. Keeping out of their way.’

If Gilden had been surprised to find Stavut with a pack of beasts he was even more amazed moments later. Two huge Jiamads came into sight, pulling Stavut’s wagon behind them. They paused at the tree line. Stavut turned. ‘Wolves killed my horses,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand any of this,’ admitted Gilden. ‘I think you should ride with me. You may think these beasts are tame, Stavut, but you are in great danger. You can’t trust them. They are vermin.’

‘Vermin? Did you know they don’t even like killing people?’ said Stavut, his eyes angry. ‘We don’t taste good. They kill us because they are bred to do that, trained to do that, ordered to do that. By men.

Vermin? We are the vermin, Gilden. I am not in danger from them. Go and tell Alahir we need to talk.

We’ll wait here.’

Gilden took a deep breath. ‘You are not thinking straight, boy. Our job is to kill these monsters. What do you think is going to happen when Alahir gets here? You think he’s going to talk? Of course he isn’t.

He hates these beasts as much as any of us. Come on, Stavut! See sense. Just ride with me.’

‘I would be glad to see Alahir. He is my friend. As you are, Gilden. I wanted to tell him of the army’s approach. However, you can do that. I shall stay with my lads.’ Stavut turned, as if to walk away. Then he swung back. ‘We will do you no harm. We are merely moving north. You come after us, Gilden, and you will regret it.’

‘You are siding with them against us? Are you mad?’

‘Put up your bow and ride away, Gilden.’

‘You know we will be back.’

‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ hissed Stavut. ‘I know your patrols usually number around fifty men. I have fifty Jiamads. Now it may just be that you Legend Riders are all great heroes, with the strength of ten.

But we just wiped out around your number of the Eternal’s soldiers. Killed them all. We lost no-one.

Come after us at your peril.’

‘You would send these beasts against your friends?’ said Gilden, aghast. He looked into Stavut’s eyes, and saw they were glittering strangely.

‘You come after my lads,’ the merchant said, ‘and I’ll rip your heart out myself.’

‘I shall remember that, renegade, when next we meet,’ said Gilden, tugging on the reins and riding back to the hills.

Skilgannon could scarce believe it when he saw the horse. It was pure white and beautiful, strong-limbed, with powerful hindquarters. Its neck was long, its eyes fierce and proud. It was standing with six other mounts, all saddled, with no riders in sight.

Telling Askari and Harad to remain where they were, for fear of causing the horses to bolt, Skilgannon walked slowly down the hillside towards them. He could not take his eyes off the white stallion. He had not seen such a horse in this world, and knew instantly it was a Ventrian purebred. In his own time it would have cost hundreds of gold raq. It was a mount for princes, kings or conquerors.

As he approached he saw all the horses staring at him, ears pulled back. Slowly he sat upon the grass and began to speak to them, in a soft, soothing voice. ‘How is it that you are here, my beauties?’ he said.

‘And where are the lucky men who rode you? Hmmm?’ Reaching down he tugged a handful of long grass from the earth, then another. Keeping his movements slow and un-threatening he angled towards the horses, holding out the grass. ‘You should be eating grain,’ he said, ‘but this will have to suffice.’ His easy manner calmed them, though the great white stallion — he estimated almost seventeen hands tall -

eyed him warily. ‘Come, eat with me, Greatheart,’ he said, offering the grass. The horse dipped its head, and took the grass from his hand. Skilgannon stroked its sleek neck, and noted there was dried blood upon the ornate, silver-mounted saddle. Two of the other horses carried cuts, and one had a broken arrow hanging loosely from the skin of its flanks. ‘Ah, you have been in a battle,’ said Skilgannon. ‘And your riders were slain, or unhorsed.’ Moving alongside the white he carried on stroking it, while taking hold of the reins along with the long, snowy mane. Then he raised his foot into the stirrup. The animal immediately reared and bolted. Skilgannon heaved himself up and swung his leg over the saddle, seeking out the second stirrup. The speed of the gallop both astonished and exhilarated him. In his previous life he had possessed some truly great horses, and this stallion would take his place among the best of them. He had no idea yet as to the beast’s temperament, but its power was outstanding. Gently, but firmly, he guided it into a wide turn, heading back up the hill towards the waiting Askari and Harad. Drawing on the rein brought an instant response. The horse slowed and stood quietly. Just as Skilgannon relaxed it leapt and bucked. He was almost unseated, but clung on. The stallion bolted again, leaping and twisting. Then it slowed once more. Skilgannon sensed what was coming. Kicking his feet from the stirrups he sprang clear just as the horse rolled. As it struggled to regain its feet Skilgannon vaulted back into the saddle.

‘Nice try, Greatheart,’ he said, patting the long sleek neck. ‘Are we done now? Do we know each other yet?’

They did not. The stallion bounded off again.

Askari watched in silent wonder, struck by the awesome beauty of the horse, and the almost uncanny skill of the rider. She had ridden only twice in her life, and had enjoyed the experience. However, the horse she had borrowed from Kinyon was a sway-back more used to pulling carts than carrying people.

There was no comparison between old Shavu and this magnificent creature. She glanced at Harad.

‘Have you ever seen a more beautiful horse?’

‘It is big,’ he said.

‘Have you ever ridden?’

He smiled. ‘Once when I was a lad. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t find the rhythm. After an hour I was wearing my arse round my shoulders.’

Askari laughed, then leaned in and kissed Harad’s bearded cheek.

‘What was that for?’

‘Good to see you smile, Harad,’ she told him.

His face darkened, and she thought she had offended him. Then she saw he was staring down the hillside. A group of heavily armed riders had emerged from the trees and had spread out as they rode towards Skilgannon.

The Armour of Bronze, wrapped in blankets, was being carried on the back of one of the spare mounts, and Alahir had once more donned his own armour. The chain mail hauberk had been worn by his grandfather at the Battle of Larness, and by his father at the Siege of Raboas. The coif head and neck protector had been a gift from his uncle, the warrior Elingel, and he had worn it proudly during the Four Year War that saw the end of the Gothir Successors. His sabre was the oldest piece in his armoury, and was said to date back to the War of the Twins, though that conflict was now considered to be mostly fable. Alahir felt more comfortable in his own armour.

Not in a physical way, he realized. The Armour of Bronze, as the voice had promised, fitted him perfectly. It was lighter than his own chain mail. Truth was it just felt wrong to be wearing it. Regnak, the Great Earl, had first donned it at Dros Delnoch, in the mighty war that claimed the life of Druss the Legend. Other heroes had worn it. That a farmer’s son from the high country should now be in possession of it seemed almost sacrilegious. He was also uncomfortable with the way the men reacted to him; men he had known since childhood seemed in awe, and responded to his every word with undue courtesy.

Alahir had become a man apart. And he didn’t like it.

After the second quake they had all waited for him to make a decision as to their actions now. Were they to ride back to camp, or was there some wondrous plan that the new earl had for them? It was all too much for Alahir.

Then he remembered the white horse. Was it an omen? Was this horse meant to be ridden by the new Earl of Bronze? Alahir had no idea, but tracking a runaway stallion at least gave the men something to think about. Indeed, it gave Alahir time to think about all that had happened.

He was no nearer a conclusion when Gilden came riding back over the brow of the hill. The veteran rode up and saluted — something Alahir could never remember him doing before.

‘What are you doing back here, Gil?’ he asked. ‘Is there trouble ahead?’

‘Could be. I just saw your friend Stavut.’

Alahir’s mood brightened. Stavut was a clever man. He might offer some answers to the problems Alahir faced.

‘Why did you not bring him with you? This is dangerous land for a merchant.’

Gilden removed his helm, pushed back his coif, and brushed his fingers through his sweat-streaked grey hair. ‘I offered to. You should know he’s travelling with a large pack of Jiamad runaways. Calls them “his lads”. I tried to tell him it’s our job to hunt them down, and you know what he said? He said he’d cut my heart out himself if anyone attacked them. What do you think of that?’

‘Stavut said that? We are talking about the same Stavut? Small man, wagon, scared rigid of Jiamads?’

‘Aye, the same. Only he’s not scared now. Must have fifty of the beasts with him. Been teaching them to hunt, he told me.’

Alahir burst out laughing. ‘What is so funny?’ asked Gilden, eyes narrowing.

‘That was a good jest, Gil. And you sold it well. I never realized you had such a dry sense of humour.

So, where is he? Is he following you?’

‘I wish it was a jest. His clothes are covered in dried blood. He even has two Jiamads pulling his wagon — and don’t you dare laugh again. This is all true. What are we to do? Our orders are clear when we come across Jems.’

‘Our orders no longer apply, Gil. Not since we found the Armour.’

‘It’s not right letting those beasts walk free. I think Stavut is deranged. They’ll kill him as soon as hunger takes them.’

‘I hate the creatures as much as you, Gil. But he was in no danger when you saw him. What else did he say?’

‘He said there’s an army moving from the south, thousands of men. Looks like the final confrontation is coming.’

‘Let’s find the horse, then we’ll swing north.’

‘Whatever you say,’ replied Gilden glumly.

The troop rode on for just under an hour, entering a thinly wooded area of flatland. As they emerged onto open ground they saw the white horse and its rider. Alahir’s breath caught in his throat. The beast was majestic, thundering across the land, seeking to unseat the man. The rider also was magnificent, reading the stallion’s every move. When the horse rolled, and the rider leapt clear, only to vault back into the saddle as it rose, Alahir felt like applauding. Every man in the troop watched with admiration as the contest of wills continued. At last the horse realized it had met its match, and the rider put it through a series of sharp turns and sudden sprints. Only then did he look up and see the Legend Riders. Patting the horse’s neck he rode towards them, drawing rein and sitting silently. Alahir stared at the man. His face was lean and handsome, his eyes ferociously blue. He did not seem ill at ease. Heeling his own mount forward Alahir spoke. ‘Thank you for finding my horse,’ he said.

‘It is not your horse,’ said the man. The words were not spoken angrily, nor was there any sense of confrontation. They were just spoken, matter of fact.

‘How do you arrive at that conclusion?’

The man smiled, and pointed to the riders around Alahir. ‘You all have the same saddle designs, stirrup protectors, horns from which to hang your bows. This saddle has no such refinements. Added to which there was blood upon it. My guess is the rider was killed.’

‘Very astute,’ said Alahir, ‘and entirely right. However, the horse is mine by right of conquest, since I killed its rider.’

‘Ah well,’ replied the man, ‘that sets an interesting precedent. Are you intending to conquer me also?’

‘You think we cannot?’

‘I would be a fool to believe I could beat forty armed soldiers. No, there is no doubt that the survivors would claim the horse.’ His voice hardened. ‘You, however, would not be among the survivors. Nor the two riding with you. I am not sure how many others I could take with me on the Swan’s Path. Three or four probably. Even so it might be worth the risk. It is a fine horse.’

Alahir laughed. ‘Then you think we should attack you for it?’

‘Depends how much you want it.’

At that moment two other people came into view, a staggeringly beautiful young woman, dark-haired and slim, carrying a recurve bow, and a huge, black-bearded warrior bearing a massive axe.

‘Stay back,’ the rider told them, ‘and do nothing.’

Alahir stared at the woman, and the bow she carried. ‘Are you Askari?’ he asked.

‘I am. How would you know that?’

‘I chose that bow myself. Stavut wanted a fine present for you.’

‘You are Alahir?’

‘Indeed I am, beautiful lady,’ he replied, bowing low.

She laughed. ‘He said you were ugly and crookbacked and had lost all your teeth.’

Gilden edged alongside him. ‘Have you seen the axe?’ he said. Alahir looked more closely at the weapon carried by the massive young man. He said nothing for a moment.

‘Are there runes upon that blade?’ he asked at last.

‘Aye, in silver.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Step down first,’ said the axeman. ‘I’ll not be passing my weapon to mounted men.’

Alahir dismounted and walked over to the man, who held up the axe so that the runes on the haft could be seen.

‘Does it say what I think it might?’ called out Gilden.

‘It does.’ Walking back to his horse Alahir stepped into the saddle and returned his attention to the man with the sapphire eyes.

‘This is a day of surprises,’ he said. ‘Would you do me a kindness, and show me the weapons you would have used to defend your right to the horse?’

The man’s arms swept up and back, and two gleaming swords flashed in the sunlight. One was gold, the other moonlight silver.

‘The Swords of Night and Day,’ said Alahir. ‘We are to follow where you lead.’