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 for the fact that 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 ax 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 toward the cave. The fourth stumbled and fell as a shaft from Askari tore into its throat.
Harad ran back toward 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 ax he swept her into his arms, holding her close. Then he let out a sigh of pure relief.
He 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 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 shoulder. 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 fulfill a prophecy.”
A lahir 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 Khan, and there were reports of enemy cavalry moving through the mountain passes. So all the riders wore full armor, 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 saber, 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 at 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 they paid lip service to the Eternal, sending taxes and maintaining her laws, the old ways remained paramount. Honor, nobility of spirit, courage, and a love of the homeland were the first virtues instilled in the young. This was followed by lessons in Drenai history, 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 Armor 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 own favorite horse, Napalas, a speckled gray, 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 d
ark-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 had only 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 humor. Now go and get me some stew.” The young man chuckled and moved off toward one of the cook fires. The boy was right. He 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 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,” put in Gilden. “I’d forgotten you’re from farming country. Sing love songs about goats up there?”
“Only the pretty ones,” replied Alahir.
13
T he long ride back to Petar helped clear Decado’s head. The pain finally faded away, and the freedom from it was almost as blissful as a kiss from the Eternal.
There were people moving through the streets of the town, and a semblance of normality had returned. There were no Jiamads in sight, but he saw several groups of soldiers walking among the citizenry.
At Landis Khan’s palace he dismounted, handed the reins of the horse to a servant, and walked up the steps to the great doors. Once inside he saw two female servants carrying a heavy rug. They were young women, and quite pretty. One of them glanced up. He smiled. The girl cried out, dropped her end of the rug, and fled. The second girl also let go of the rug and backed away, her eyes wide, her face pale. “I am not going to hurt you,” said Decado. The girl turned, gathered up her long skirt, and ran after her friend. Decado looked down at the embroidered rug, which had partially unrolled. It was stained with dried blood.
He wandered up to his rooms, wondering how long it would be before the Eternal returned from the high country. Now that his head was clearer he found it strange she should have been there at all. It was rare for her to travel without her guards. And she had been dressed strangely. In disguise, he guessed. The outfit suited her, the leather leggings emphasizing the sleekness of her figure. Once in his rooms he removed the scabbarded Swords of Blood and Fire, laying them on a couch, then stripped off his travel-stained clothes. He needed a bath, but no servants were close by. Even if there were, he realized, they would run from him. Pulling on a clean shirt and leggings, he searched the room for some wine. There was nothing here.
Tugging on his boots, he walked to the door. At that moment there came a tap at the wood frame outside.
“Come in,” he ordered, hoping it was a servant. Instead it was the old statesman Unwallis. Decado gazed at him curiously. The man seemed different, younger. Lines of stress had vanished from his face. Though his hair was still iron gray there was a brightness to his eyes, and the smile he offered was warm and friendly.
“Welcome back, Decado,” he said. “How was your mission?”
“I fell ill. The Eternal ordered me back here. Let me know when she returns.”
“Returns?”
“I saw her in the high country. She said to come back to Petar.”
“Er . . . She is here, in Landis Khan’s old apartments.”
“That’s not possible. She could not have returned before me.”
Decado saw the confusion in Unwallis. The statesman stood silently for a moment. “May I come in? We should sit down and talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Decado, my boy, there is everything to talk about. The Eternal arrived here two days ago. She has not left the palace.” He sighed. “Is it possible you dreamed it? I know of the head pains, and the narcotics Memnon supplies. They are very powerful.”
“Yes, they are,” snapped Decado. “But I always know the difference between dreams and reality. She was there, dressed as a hunter. She even had a bow.” He went on to explain that he had been following the trail of the blind man, but had been struck down by terrible pain in the head. Then he described how she came to him and ordered him back to Petar. Unwallis listened intently.
“So,” he said, at last, “there were some things Landis did not note down. Fascinating.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She was not the Eternal. That is the only point you need to realize. I take it you did not find the nephew?”
“No.”
“Then you should know he is not the nephew. Landis Khan rebirthed the bones of Skilgannon. He also found the man’s soul and reunited it. The man you
were chasing is the legendary Skilgannon himself.”
Decado walked back into the apartment and sat down on a wide couch. The Swords of Blood and Fire were beside him, and he absently reached out and laid his hand on one of the hilts. Unwallis moved into the room and sat beside him. “The woman you saw is a Reborn. Landis obviously stole some bones from the Eternal’s last resurrection two decades ago.”
“I need to see Jianna,” said Decado. “I need to explain . . .”
“Of course—but may I suggest that you bathe first? The days of travel have left you . . . somewhat pungent, Decado. Servants are preparing a bath downstairs.”
Decado, still shaken by what the statesman told him, nodded. “Yes, that is a good idea. Thank you, Unwallis.”
“A pleasure, my boy. Come. I will have fresh clothes brought for you.”
“Just lead on!” snapped the swordsman. There was something about the urbane statesman that always riled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had once been a lover of the Eternal. Decado didn’t know—but he did know she did not want Unwallis killed. This was a problem for the young swordsman. Often he had no control over such matters. Just like the first time in the orchard. He would hear a roaring in his ears, and then—apparently—pass out. Only he did not pass out. He would awaken some time later to discover either bloodstains on his clothing, or the corpses of those he had slain. Only later would the memories return, and with them the shame of his murderous rage. Memnon called it the Sleep of Death and had offered advice on how to prevent, or at worst delay the onset of the Sleep. Curiously it involved being more aggressive with people. According to Memnon the condition was triggered by Decado’s attempts to hold in his rage. “Let it out a little at a time with angry words,” Memnon had advised. Mostly it worked, though as Decado followed Unwallis down the long corridor he saw more bloodstains on the rugs there, and he remembered the unfortunate servants who had fallen victim to his insanity. A deep depression settled on the young man, and he focused on the wall murals they passed, hoping his concentration on works of art would prevent the images of the terrified victims. It was a vain hope.
The Swords of Night and Day Page 27