The Swords of Night and Day (13 page)

Harad’s face paled. “Are you telling me that I am Druss the Legend? I do not believe it.”

“No, you are your own man, Harad. Every inch your own man. The reason you were in the Void last night was because Druss’s spirit returned to speak with me. We were friends back then. Good friends. I loved the old man like a father.”

“And now he wants his body back,” said Harad, a hard edge in his voice.

“No, he does not. It is not
his
body. It is yours. He wants you to have a full life. Druss never had sons, Harad. You are like the son he never had. I think he might be watching over you with pride.”

Harad sighed. “Why did Landis bring us back?” he asked. “What was his purpose?”

“Ask him when next you see him. My name, by the way, is Skilgannon. You may call me Olek, if you wish.”

“Is that what Druss called you?”

Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. “No. He called me laddie. But then he called every man laddie. In truth I think he had trouble remembering names.” Moving to his pack, Skilgannon untied the cloth binding around the Swords of Night and Day and lifted them clear. His mood darkened as his hands touched the black scabbard. Pressing the precious stones on the ivory hilts, he drew the weapons clear, two curved blades, one bright and gold, the other silver-gray as a winter moon.

“They are beautiful,” said Harad. “Did Landis Khan give them to you?”

“Yes. But they were always mine.”

“You sound regretful.”

“Oh,
regret
does not begin to describe it. But Druss said I would need them, and I trust him.”

S
tavut the Merchant topped the last rise before the settlement and halted his wagon, allowing his exhausted two-horse team to rest. The climb had been long and hard. Applying the brake and locking it into place with a leather strap, he stepped down to the road and walked alongside the lead horse, stroking his gleaming chestnut neck. The trace leathers were covered in white lather, the horses themselves breathing heavily.

“Almost time to replace you, Longshanks,” said the young merchant. “I think you are getting a little too long in the tooth for this.” As if it had understood him the chestnut shook his head and whinnied. Stavut laughed and moved to the gray gelding on the other side. “As for you, Brightstar, you have no excuse. You’re five years younger and grain fed. A little climb like that should be nothing to you.” The gray stared at him balefully. Stavut patted his neck, then walked closer—though not too close—to the cliff edge and stood staring down at the valley below. From here the settlement looked tiny, and the river running alongside it seemed no more than a shimmering thread of silk. Stavut sighed. He loved coming to this place, even though the profits were meager. There was something about these mountains that lifted the soul. They made thoughts of war drift away like wood smoke on the breeze. His eyes drank in the scene, from the majesty of the snowcapped peaks, through the mysterious deep green forests, and over the apparently tranquil fields dotted with cattle, sheep, and goats. Stavut felt himself relax, all tension easing from his tired frame.

The last week had been particularly stressful. He had been warned about deserters from the rebel army. Some Jiamads had attacked outlying farms. There was talk of mutilations and murder, and the devouring of human flesh. These were not subjects Stavut liked to dwell upon. The journey south with his laden wagon had been long, but had seemed longer because every waking moment Stavut had scanned the land, expecting at any instant to see ferocious Jiamads moving toward him. His nerves were in tatters by the time he finally saw them.

The wagon had been rounding a bend between high cliffs when several beasts emerged from behind the rocks. Stavut found it curious to recall that all his fears had suddenly vanished. The terrors he had felt had all come with the anticipation of danger. With the danger now real he drew rein, took a deep breath, and waited. Stavut carried no sword, but at his side was a curved dagger so sharp he could shave with it. He did not know whether he would have the strength, or the speed, to drive that blade through the fur-covered flesh of a Jiamad.

There were four of them, still sporting the baldrics and leather kilts of an infantry section. Only three of them still carried swords; the fourth was holding a rough-made club.

The scent of them caused the horses to rear. Stavut applied the brake and spoke soothingly to them. “Steady now, Longshanks! Stay calm, Brightstar. All is well.” Transferring his gaze to the Jiamads, he forced a cheerful tone and said: “You are a long way from camp.”

They did not reply, but moved past him, lifting the cover from the back of his wagon and peering at the contents.

“I am carrying no food,” he said.

The closest Jiamad suddenly lunged at Stavut, grabbing his crimson jerkin and hauling him from the wagon. He landed heavily. “Oh, but you are, Skin,” said the Jiamad. “You are scrawny and small, but your blood is still sweet. And your flesh will be tender.”

Stavut rolled to his feet and drew his dagger.

“Look!” snorted the Jiamad. “It wants to fight for its life.”

“Rip its arm off,” said another.

A great calm had settled on Stavut then. He found he had only one regret. He would not see Askari again. He had promised her a new bow, and had searched long to find the perfect weapon, a beautiful recurve bow; a composite of horn and yew, the grip covered in the finest leather. He wished he had it in his hands now.

And then the miracle happened. With death only heartbeats away there had come the sound of galloping hooves. The Jiamads had turned and run toward the hills. Cavalrymen came hurtling past Stavut.

“I think you can sheathe your dagger now,” said a familiar voice. Stavut looked up to see the young mercenary captain, Alahir. The man was grinning at him. “I did warn you about the Jiamads, Tinker,” he said, removing his bronze helm and pushing a hand through his long blond hair.

“I am a merchant, as well you know,” said Stavut.

“Nonsense! You mend kettles. That makes you a tinker.”

“One kettle does not make me a tinker.”

Alahir laughed. Replacing his helm, he heeled his horse forward. “We will talk again when I have finished my task.”

With that he rode away. Stavut started to walk toward his wagon, but his legs began to tremble, and he had to reach out to grab the rear of the wagon to steady himself. He tried to sheathe the dagger, but the trembling now reached his hands and he could not insert the blade into the scabbard. Laying it on the wagon cover, he took several deep breaths. He felt suddenly nauseous and slumped down with his back to the wagon wheel. “No more trips north,” he promised himself. “After the settlement I shall go down and winter with Landis Khan, and then head south to Diranan.”

He sat there quietly waiting for the nausea to pass. Eventually the riders came back. Alahir dismounted. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” answered Stavut. “Just enjoying the afternoon sunshine.” Pushing himself to his feet, he was relieved to find the trembling had passed. “Did you catch them?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me they are all dead.”

“They are all dead.”

Stavut looked up at Alahir. There was blood on his arm. Glancing around at the cavalrymen, he saw three riderless horses. “You lost men,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“It is what we are paid for. You don’t fight Jiamads without losses.”

“Are there more of them in the mountains?”

Alahir shrugged. “I do not know everything, Stavut, my friend. We were told there were four in this area. Will you be coming back in the spring?”

“Maybe.”

“Bring a cask of Southern Red. The wine in this land tastes like vinegar.”

Alahir swung his mount and raised his hand: “Hala!” he shouted. And the troop rode off.

Standing now close to the cliff edge, Stavut felt a great warmth toward the young cavalryman. If he did ever journey north again, he would make sure he had a cask of Lentrian Red for him and his men.

Stavut sighed. Edging forward to the lip of the cliff, he stared down at the awesome drop. Immediately he felt the familiar sense of giddiness, and a growing desire to jump. It was so beguiling. Then fear struck him and he staggered back from the cliff edge. “You are an idiot!” he told himself. “Why do you always do that?”

He saw Longshanks staring at him. Stavut patted the chestnut. “I wasn’t going to jump,” he said. The horse snorted. Stavut imagined the sound to be derisory. “You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he told Longshanks. “And I won’t be criticized by a horse.”

Climbing back to the driver’s seat, he settled himself down and took up the reins. Releasing the brake, he flipped the reins and began the long descent toward the valley.

S
tavut always enjoyed his visits to the small settlement—and not just for the opportunity to seek out Askari’s company. Though the dark-haired huntress was dazzlingly attractive and fired his blood as no woman ever had, there was a spirit of calm and joy that radiated throughout this mountain village. The people were friendly, the hospitality warm, and the food at Kinyon’s kitchen extraordinary. Kinyon was a stout and powerful man whose house also doubled as the village inn. The first time Stavut had visited the settlement—two years ago now—he had found the arrangement faintly comical. Looking for somewhere to dine, he had received directions from a woman outside the bakery and had drawn up his wagon outside Kinyon’s small house. It was an old building with tiny windows and a thatched roof. Stavut had wondered if he had misunderstood the directions, though that was unlikely in a village as small as this one. Climbing down from his wagon, he had approached the front door. It was coming toward dusk, and he could see a man beyond the open door, lighting lanterns and hanging them from the walls.

“Good day,” called Stavut.

“And to you, stranger. Are you hungry? Come in. Set yourself down.”

Stavut had walked into the room, which was no more than twenty feet long and around fifteen wide. A fire was burning in a stone hearth, and there were only two armchairs, set to the left and right of the blaze. It was an ordinary living room, with the exception that it contained three rough-hewn tables with bench seats. “I have a venison pie, with fresh onions, and a raisin cake, if you have a taste for sweet delicacies,” said the tall, sandy-haired man.

Stavut looked around. He could not understand how any profit could be made from a dining hall in a village as small as this. “Sounds fine,” he said. “Where shall I sit?”

“Anywhere you please. My name is Kinyon,” said the man, thrusting out his hand. Stavut shook it, then walked to the farthest table, set alongside a narrow window overlooking a vegetable garden.

“I also have some ale. Dark ale, but tasty if you have the stomach for it.”

The ale had been extraordinary, almost black, but with a head that was white as lamb’s fleece, and the food was the best Stavut had enjoyed in a long time. Later that evening other villagers had turned up and sat in Kinyon’s house, chatting, laughing, and drinking.

Askari had entered the small room late in the evening, resting her longbow against the wall by the door and laying her quiver of arrows alongside it. Stavut had been transfixed. She was tall and slim, and wearing a sleeveless buckskin jerkin, leather leggings, and calf-length moccasins. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a black leather headband. Stavut had sat very still. He had seen some beautiful women in his twenty-six years—had even had the extreme joy of sharing their beds—but never had he seen anyone as beautiful as this girl. She laughed and joked with Kinyon, and then sat down at a table close by. He waited until she looked at him, then gave his best smile. All the women he had known always complimented his smile. He had come to think of it as his strongest weapon of seduction. The girl had nodded to him, then looked away, apparently unimpressed.

Undeterred, he leaned forward. “I am Stavut,” he said.

“Of course you are,” she responded. Then she ignored him. She had eaten a meal and then left.

Later that evening, after the villagers had gone, Stavut paid Kinyon for his meal and made to leave.

“Are you intending to sleep by your wagon?” Kinyon asked him.

“That was my plan.”

“I have another bed. Use that. I think it will rain tonight.”

Stavut had accepted gratefully, and after seeing to his horses he had sat with Kinyon by the fire, chatting about life, his travels, and entertaining the tanner with amusing stories from Outside. “Who was the girl who came in with the bow?” he asked, at last.

Kinyon laughed. “I saw you looking at her. I think your tongue almost flopped to the tabletop.”

“That obvious?”

Kinyon nodded. “She is Askari. Extraordinary girl. You should see her shoot. She can bring down a running quail with a head shot. Can you believe that? I’ve seen her do it. More like magic than skill. And that bow has a sixty-pound pull. You’d think a slim young child like that would never be able to draw it.”

“Is she a relative of yours?” asked Stavut, anxious not to say anything that might offend the man.

“No. She was brought here as a child with her mother. Nice woman. Looked nothing like Askari. Sweet and diffident. Weak lungs, though. Always coughing. Died when Askari was around ten. After that she lived with Shan and his wife . . . the baker who was here earlier.” Stavut recalled the man, small and round shouldered, but with powerful forearms and large hands. When the girl had left she had walked to him and kissed his brow.

“Is she betrothed?”

“No,” said Kinyon. “And unlikely to be to anyone here.”

“Why is that?”

Kinyon suddenly looked wary. “The Lord Landis sometimes visits, and often rides out to speak with Askari. I think he entertains a certain fondness for her. Still, best we don’t speak about the ways of the mighty, eh? I’ll show you your room.”

It had taken Stavut three visits to the settlement before he managed to engage Askari’s interest. Stavut had given the matter a great deal of thought on his travels. She was obviously not interested in his smile, and therefore he would need to plan his campaign with care. There would be no point in bringing her jewelry. People in Landis Khan’s realm wore none. Perfume would be equally useless. No, the girl was an archer. So Stavut sought out bowmen in other towns and asked about the craft. He learned there were many different arrowheads, some heavily barbed, some smooth, some cast in iron, some in bronze. He knew from Kinyon that Askari fashioned her own from flint. He had purchased twenty arrowheads, said to be perfect for the hunting of deer. Askari had looked at them with interest, but with no enthusiasm. Stavut had finally taken the problem to the Legend rider Alahir. His warriors all carried bows and were highly skilled with them.