The Swords of Night and Day (10 page)

Callan did not reply. He sat quietly in the firelight eating the dried meat.

Outside, the rain pounded on. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed. A shape loomed at the cave entrance. It was a black bear. It stood for a few moments, then caught a whiff of the smoke and padded away.

“Lots of bears up here,” said Harad. “A few big cats, too. Where are you from?” he asked. “I have not heard that accent before.” Returning to the fire and sitting down, he laid the ax beside him but could not resist continuing to touch it.

“A long way from here,” said Callan. Harad thought he detected a note of bitterness in the answer, and did not press him. After a while it became obvious that the storm was locked in for the night. Both men unrolled their blankets. Callan fell asleep almost instantly, but Harad sat up, holding the ax and staring at his reflection in the butterfly blades. Just for a moment he felt as if he were looking at someone else, and he shivered and put the ax down. A feeling of disquiet touched him. He looked over at the sleeping Outsider. He had to admit the man was easy company. Callan did not question Harad or seek to impress him. Perhaps these few days in the mountain would not be so arduous.

Harad stood and, ax in hand, wandered to the mouth of the cave.

Snaga.

It was a good name. The Blades of No Return. He found himself wondering about the hero who had carried it. Where was he from? Where had he fought?

In that moment the bear returned, ambling through the rain. Harad stood very still. The bear came closer, staring at the powerful figure in the cave mouth. Suddenly he reared up on his hind legs, towering above the man.

“Let’s not do this,” said Harad softly. “We are not enemies, you and I.”

For a moment more the bear continued to loom above him. Then he dropped back to all fours and moved off into the trees.

“You have a way with bears,” said Callan. Harad glanced around. The tall, blue-eyed Outsider was standing behind him, a hunting knife in his hand. Harad had not heard him approach.

“I have seen him before. He once got into my cabin and ate three months’ of supplies. My own fault for leaving the door open.” Harad glanced down at the knife and grinned. “Good blade, but you’d need a lot of luck to kill him with that.”

“I am a lucky man,” answered Callan, sheathing the knife and walking back to his blankets.

The storm lasted for most of the night, but the dawn was bright and clear, the sky cloudless.

They walked without conversation for most of the morning, though this time Harad found the silence companionable and pleasant. In the distance Harad caught sight of several gray wolves and a small herd of deer. They were grazing near some ruins in an area of flatland. “Who used to live here?” asked Callan. “In the old days.”

Harad shrugged. “I don’t know much history. They were called Sathular—or something like it. They were wiped out way, way back.”

“Sathuli,” said Callan. “I have heard of them. Fierce tribal warriors. They were constantly at war with the Drenai.”

“Whatever,” muttered Harad, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. “Good land. Few people. There’s a small settlement to the north. No others. A man can walk here for weeks and never see anyone. I like that.”

They moved on, crossing a small valley before climbing again. “Still tired?” asked Harad as dusk approached.

Callan smiled. “Less so since I gave you that ax. A heavy piece.”

Harad hefted it. “It is a beauty. I feel as if I have carried it all my life.”

They camped that night in a small hollow. The wind had picked up. It was cold with snow from the mountain peaks. Callan lit a fire against a boulder, seeking to gain some added warmth from reflected heat. But the wind whipped through the hollow, scattering sparks. Eventually the fire went out, and both men sat wrapped in their cloaks.

“Do you know anything about the hero who carried Snaga?” asked Harad.

“Yes. His name was Druss. He was known as Druss the Legend. A Drenai hero.”

“What was he like?”

Callan’s bright blue eyes suddenly met his own pale gaze. Harad sensed a moment of tension. Then it passed. “He was mighty. He lived by a code of honor.”

“What does that mean?”

Callan shrugged. “A set of standards, rules, if you like. You want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

Callan took a deep breath.
“Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat, or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.
That was the iron code of Druss the Legend.”

“I like that,” said Harad. “Say it again.” Callan did so. Harad sat silently, thinking it through. Then he spoke the code himself. “Did I get it right?” he asked.

“Aye, you did. You mean to follow it?”

Harad nodded. “If I carry his ax, I think I should carry also the code that went with it.”

“He would have liked that,” said Callan. “Where are we heading tomorrow?”

“The ruins. I go there sometimes. I thought perhaps you would like to see them.”

5

T
hey left the cave soon after dawn and climbed a series of steep, rock-strewn rises for more than two hours. Topping a crest, Harad paused. Skilgannon moved alongside him. His breath caught in his throat. From this high point he could see the land stretching out over the steppes to the north, and the wide plains to the south. Far below was a huge and derelict fortress, with six walls and a once mighty keep, now shattered and partly collapsed. The walls stretched across the pass, blocking the way north. Skilgannon shivered. For the first time since he had awoken in this new body he knew
exactly
where he was. The weight of a thousand years bore down on him. When he had last seen this fortress it had been mighty, and impregnable, towering and majestic. Yet now it was broken, ruined by time and the power of nature. It was a vivid reminder of how greatly the world had changed, and made him even more like a man out of his time.

He glanced at Harad. This man was the image of a younger Druss, and yet he knew nothing of the struggle for survival that once took place on these now shattered ramparts.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Harad. “It’s called the Ghost Fortress.”

“Once it had another name,” said Skilgannon softly. Shrugging off his pack, he sat down and stared at the ruin. Sometime in the last hundred years there had been an earthquake here. The first wall was fractured and half covered by an avalanche. The keep had split and crumbled.

“What name?” asked Harad, sitting alongside him.

“Dros Delnoch. It was said it would never fall while men with courage stood upon its walls.”

“It did fall, though,” said Harad. “I don’t know much history, but I do know it was conquered by a warrior chief named Tenaka Khan. The Nadir swarmed over it. Conquered the old lands.”

“I never heard of him,” said Skilgannon. “The last battle I know of was fought by Druss the Legend and the earl of Bronze. Druss died here. And the fortress held. Ten thousand men against an army fifty times greater.”

Skilgannon drew in a deep breath, remembering the day he had ridden into the Nadir camp.

Two hundred thousand warriors were besieging the Dros. But on this night there was no assault. A great funeral pyre had been prepared, and the body upon it was that of Druss the Legend. He had fallen that day, battling impossible odds. The Nadir, who knew him as Deathwalker, both feared and revered him. They had carried his corpse from the battleground and were preparing to honor him.

Skilgannon had dismounted close to the tent of Ulric, Lord of Wolves. The royal guards had recognized him and led him into the presence of the khan. “Why are you here, my friend?” asked the violet-eyed man. “I know it is not to fight in my cause.”

“I came for the reward you promised me, Great Khan.”

“This is a battlefield, Skilgannon. My riches are not here.”

“I do not require riches.”

“I owe you my life. You may ask of me anything I have and I will grant it.”

“Druss was dear to me, Ulric. We were friends. I require only a keepsake, a lock of his hair, and a small sliver of bone. I would ask also for his ax.”

The Great Khan stood silently for a moment. “He was dear to me also. What will you do with the hair and bone?”

“I will place them in a locket, my lord, and carry it around my neck.”

“Then it shall be done,” said Ulric.

“You are lost in thought,” said Harad, “and you are looking sad.”

“It is a sad sight,” said Skilgannon.

The earthquake and the subsequent avalanche meant that it was now possible to access the fortress from the mountains, rather than through the high keep above the Sentran Plain to the south. The descent was still perilous, but Harad and Skilgannon slowly made their way down until they were standing on the ramparts of Wall One. Two of the towers that were set every fifty paces had been smashed by the avalanche. The others still stood. Skilgannon walked to the crenellated rampart wall and stared down. Sixty feet high, and four hundred paces wide, it had been the first line of defense. Harad strolled along it, ax in hand. Skilgannon watched him. Druss would have been sixty years old when he last stood on this wall. Now—in a way—he was here again. Once more Skilgannon shivered.

“You want to go farther up?” asked Harad. Skilgannon nodded. The two men walked down the rampart steps and crossed the open ground between the first two walls. The second wall had ruptured during the earthquake, and they climbed the crack that had opened between them.

Beyond Wall Two the gate tunnels had been cleared, and Harad and Skilgannon made their way up to the ruined keep. Here Harad prepared a fire close to an old well, and the two men sat quietly. Harad produced a pot from his pack and walked to the well. Lowering a bucket to the water below, he hauled it back, drank deeply, then half filled the pot. “Brought the bucket and rope here last year,” he said. “The water is cold and sweet to the taste. Makes for a good stew.”

He glanced at Skilgannon. “I thought you would enjoy seeing this,” he said, “but I think I was wrong.”

“You were not wrong. I am glad we came. How often do you come here?”

“As often as I can,” said Harad. “I feel—” He gave an embarrassed smile. “—I feel at peace here.”

“A sense of belonging, perhaps.”

“Yes. That’s it exactly.”

“Do you have a favorite place here?”

“Yes.”

“Is it at the gate of Wall Four?”

Harad gave a start, and instinctively made the sign of the Protective Horn. “Are you a wizard or some such?”

“No,” said Skilgannon. “I saw the ashes of old campfires at the gate as we passed.”

“Ah!” Harad seemed satisfied and relaxed.

“Can you read the inscriptions above each gate?” asked Skilgannon.

“No. I have often wondered what they meant. Just names, I suppose.”

“More than that, Harad. Wall One was called
Eldibar.
It was from an ancient tongue. It means ‘Exultation.’ It is where the enemy is first fought and turned back. The defenders are exultant. They believe they can win. Wall Two was called
Musif.
This means ‘Despair.’ For the defenders of Wall Two have seen Eldibar fall, and that is the widest, strongest wall. If that can fall, then perhaps they are doomed. Wall Three was
Kania
. ‘Renewed Hope.’ Two walls have fallen, but the men on Wall Three are still alive, and there are still walls to retreat to. Wall Four is
Sumitos.
‘Desperation.’ The three strongest walls have fallen, and it is now a desperate struggle for survival. Wall Five is ‘Serenity.’ The defenders have fought hard and well. The best of them have survived this far. They know death is coming, but they are brave and determined. They will not run. They will face the end with courage.” He fell silent.

“And Wall Six?” asked Harad.

“Geddon.
Wall Six is
Geddon.
‘Death.’ ”

“Where did Druss the Legend fall?”

“At the gate of Wall Four.”

“How is it you know all this, but you don’t know about when the fortress fell?”

“My memory is not what it was.”

They fell silent, and Harad prepared a broth of barley and dried meat. After they had eaten Harad wandered off into the ruins, and Skilgannon sat alone, lost in thought and ancient memory.

T
he stars were bright above the ancient fortress, the night calm and windless. Harad had built the fire from a small stock of wood piled against the keep wall. It was gone now, and the flames were slowly dying away. Skilgannon stood and wandered around the area, seeking any source of fuel. There was nothing, just stony ground, scattered rocks, and a few tiny bushes. He felt a sense of unease, though he could find no reason for it.

Moving away from their camp, he walked up to the ramparts of Wall Six. From here he could just see a twinkling campfire. Harad had other stores of wood down at Wall Four, yet he obviously wanted to be alone. Skilgannon decided to return to his own blankets. Just then a sudden breeze whispered across him.

Where are you, laddie?

Skilgannon froze—then spun around. There was no one close. His heart began to beat wildly. “Druss, is that you?”

Come down to my fire,
whispered a voice in his mind.

Skilgannon knew that voice, and it was as if a cool, welcome breeze had arrived on a hot summer’s day. Swiftly he set off through the darkened tunnel and down to the gate of Wall Four. As he emerged on the open ground before it, he paused. The campfire was burning brightly. Close by, Harad was swinging the ax in a series of overhand sweeps and sideways cuts. But it was not Harad. Skilgannon had watched the young logger earlier practicing with the weapon. His movements had been clumsy and untrained. This man was a master.

Skilgannon did not move. Moonlight glistened on the flashing ax blade. Memories flowed through the swordsman’s mind: the attack on the citadel, the rescue of the child, Elanin, the last farewell on the high ramparts. He stared at the giant figure, his emotions roiling.

The axman plunged Snaga into the ground and turned toward him. “Good to see you, laddie,” said Druss the Legend.

Skilgannon took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sweet heaven, it is
better
than good to see you, Druss.”

Druss stepped in and patted Skilgannon’s shoulder. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I shall not be here long.” He swung around, his pale eyes scanning the ancient ramparts. “Egel’s Folly they used to call it,” he said. “But it proved its worth.” Druss wandered back to the fire and sat. Skilgannon joined him.

“Why can you not stay?”

“You know why. This is not my life, boy. It belongs to Harad. Ah, but it is good to breathe mountain air again, and to see the stars. But let us talk of you. How are you faring?”

Skilgannon did not answer at first. The shock at seeing Druss had been replaced by a huge sense of relief. He was no longer alone in an alien world. That relief had now been dashed. The loneliness was merely waiting in the shadows. “I should not be here, Druss. It is that simple. I lived my life.”

“No, you shouldn’t, laddie. What are your plans?”

“To go back to Naashan. Apart from that I have none.”

Druss remained silent for a moment. “Perhaps that is your destiny,” he said, doubtfully. “I don’t think so, though. You came back. There will be a reason for it—a purpose. This I know.”

“I was brought back because an arrogant man believed in an ancient prophecy. He thought I rode a horse with wings of fire. He thought I could change the horrors of this new world.”

“Maybe you can.”

Skilgannon laughed. “I am one man, with no army.”

“Ah, laddie! If you need an army you’ll find one.” He looked around at the ruined fortress. “This was what I was born for, all those centuries ago. To come to this place and help save a nation. One old man with an ax. That was my destiny. This is yours. Here and now.”

“More like punishment than destiny,” said Skilgannon, without rancor. “A thousand years in the Void. Now this. At least I knew why I was in the Void.”

“No, you did not,” said Druss, quietly. Before Skilgannon could reply the axman glanced up at the high peaks. “There is evil here, walking these mountains. I can feel it. Innocent blood will be shed.”

“What evil?”

“Do you have your swords?”

“I will not use them, Druss. I cannot.”

“Trust me, you are stronger than the evil they carry. You will need them, boy. And Harad will need you.” Druss sighed. “Time I was leaving.”

“No! Stay just a little while longer.” Skilgannon heard the sound of desperation in his voice, and struggled for calm.

“I can only guess at how lonely you must feel, laddie,” said Druss. “But I cannot stay. There is someone I must protect. The Void is no place to be alone for long.”

“I don’t understand.
You
are trapped in the Void? It makes no sense.”

“I am not trapped. It is my choice to be there now. When I choose to leave, I can. You don’t remember much of it, do you?”

“No.”

“Probably just as well.” He sighed. “Take care now.”

Skilgannon felt a sense of desolation, but he forced a smile. “You, too, Druss. I don’t remember much, but there are beasts in the Void that could kill even you.”

Druss laughed, the sound rich and full of life. “In your dreams, laddie!” he said.

Returning to the blankets by the fire, the axman lay down. His huge body relaxed—then jerked suddenly.

Harad rolled to his feet, eyes staring, fists clenched. He saw Skilgannon and suddenly looked embarrassed. “I had a nightmare,” he said. He was breathing heavily. Rising, he walked to the ax and hefted it. His breathing calmed. “I don’t usually dream much,” he said. “When I do it is always here.”

“What did you dream of?” asked Skilgannon, heavy of heart.

“It is fading now. Gray skies, demons.” Harad shuddered. “This time I had the ax. That is all I remember. What are you doing here?”

“I came down to take some of your wood,” said Skilgannon. “My fire went out.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Harad spoke. “You know a great deal about this Druss. Do you know what he wore?”

“A black jerkin, edged with silver plates at the shoulder. And a helm.”

“Were there skulls upon it? In silver?”

“Yes, alongside an ax blade.”

Harad rubbed at his face. “Ah, I am being stupid. Someone must have told me the story. Maybe my mother. Yes, that’s it.”

“You dreamed of Druss?”

“I don’t remember now,” said Harad. He glanced at the sky. “Dawn is close. We should be heading back.”

L
andis Khan bade his guests farewell and watched as they mounted their horses. He was shaken by the look Decado gave him. There was a glittering hatred in his eyes, and something else. A look of anticipation that unnerved Landis. He turned back into his palace, heavy of heart, and walked to his library study.
How could you have been so arrogant?
he asked himself.
To believe that you could deceive the Eternal; to think that you could re-create the one great moment of your life?