The Swords of Night and Day (17 page)

“Moonlight?”

“Yes. We need to climb again. Be patient. It will come.”

Stavut did not know how long they were standing together, but at last a faint light began to glow above them. He saw there was a crack in the rocks, and moonlight was seeping through it. He could just make out Askari’s face. She was standing alongside another sheer rock wall. “Up there,” she whispered, “is another cave. I have tools there, and a few items we might find useful. It is an easy climb. You go first. I will follow and guide your feet as you climb.”

“Gods!” whispered Stavut. “Do we have to climb again?”

“If you want to live,” she said.

Stavut climbed. The rock face here was heavily pitted, and, as she had promised, the climb was not difficult. Toward the top, however, the holds were smaller. Askari braced herself beneath him, supporting his feet. Finally Stavut dragged himself onto yet another wide ledge. Askari came alongside him, then moved on, crawling along a narrow tunnel into a wider cave. Here there was another jagged opening in the wall, some twelve feet high—a natural window through which moonlight shone. Weary now, Stavut stumbled into the cave. There was wood here for a fire, and an old lantern stood on a shelf of rock. A quiver of arrows was lying nearby, and a long spear with a leaf-shaped iron head. There were also three blankets and some clay pots.

“Very homey,” said Stavut. Askari gestured for him to remain silent. Stepping in close she whispered in his ear.

“Sound travels far in these caves. Let us not speak.”

“How many ways in?” he replied, his lips close to her ear.

“Just the way we came. The Jiamads are too large to crawl through. You will be safe here. Get some rest. I shall scout.” She pointed up to a narrow shelf of rock just below and to the left of the window in the cave wall. “Take a blanket and climb up there. I doubt your scent will carry to them from there.”

This seemed sound advice to Stavut. Taking her bow, Askari returned to the entrance, dropped to her stomach, and eased her way into the low tunnel. Stavut wandered across the cave to where the blankets lay. Then he glanced at the spear. Hefting it, he practiced a few stabbing motions. It would probably be useless against a Jiamad, but he felt more comfortable with it in his hands. Taking blanket and spear, he returned to the far wall. At this point he realized he could not climb to his hiding place with the spear in his hands. He tied the blanket tightly around his waist. Then he slid the spear, haft-first, between his shoulder blades and under the blanket. The spear was six feet long, which meant that the iron point jutted above Stavut’s head. Satisfied the blanket would hold the spear in place, he began to climb.

Everything went well until he tried to lever himself over the lip of the shelf. The jutting spear point scraped against the rock. Stavut had to bend and twist in order to tumble onto the shelf. The area he found himself in was no bigger than a large bed. The roof was low, and there was certainly no space to use a spear. It took an age to squirm around and untie the blanket, pulling the spear loose. “Gods, you are an idiot!” he told himself.

S
kilgannon moved past the dead officer and knelt beside the wounded villager. Harad came alongside. “This is Kinyon,” he said. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a series of rolling thunderclaps. The skies opened and rain began to pour down on the burning village.

“Help me get him inside,” said Skilgannon. “Careful now—that wound might open further.”

With great care they lifted the burly villager, who groaned. His head sagged against Skilgannon’s shoulder, and he tried to speak. “Stay quiet, man. Conserve your strength.”

Carrying him into his house, they laid him on a table in the dining area. Skilgannon untied the leather apron the man wore, pulling it clear. He had been stabbed just below the heart, and he was bleeding profusely. Skilgannon took a lantern from the wall and bade Harad to hold it over the wound. There was a long tear to the skin, indicating the dagger blade had slid against a rib. There was no way of knowing how deep the wound was, but it had missed the heart; otherwise the villager would have died some time ago. There was no blood on his lips, and no major swelling around the wound itself. With luck the blade might also have missed the lungs, or only nicked them.

“See of you can find some wine and honey,” Skilgannon told Harad. The logger laid the lantern on the table, then moved off toward the kitchen. “Can you breathe deeply?” Skilgannon asked Kinyon. The man gave the merest nod. “I think you might be lucky, though it probably doesn’t feel that way just at this moment. Do you possess needle and thread?”

“Back room,” whispered Kinyon. Skilgannon moved away to the small bedroom at the rear of the house, searching through drawers and cupboards. Finally he found a length of white thread and several needles. He also uncovered a pair of scissors. Taking a sheet from the bed, he cut strips from it for bandages and returned to the dining room. Harad was beside Kinyon when he returned. Carefully Skilgannon stitched the long wound, then smeared honey over it. With Harad’s help he sat Kinyon upright and bandaged his chest. Lastly, he poured wine over the area of the wound, watching as it seeped through the bandage. Kinyon’s face was gray. Skilgannon fetched a goblet and filled it with water. “Drink,” he said. The villager sipped at it, then sank back.

Touching his fingers to the man’s throat, Skilgannon took his pulse. The heart was fluttering wildly, but this was as likely to be as a result of shock and terror as the wound itself. He and Harad helped Kinyon to his bed. Outside the rain was lashing down in a torrent, thunder constantly rolling across the sky.

Once Kinyon was sleeping, Skilgannon walked out into the dining room. Harad was by the window, staring out into the darkness. Many of the house fires were beginning to fail, but there were still enough flames to illuminate the bodies on the ground outside.

“Why did they kill these people?” asked Harad. “What purpose did it serve?”

Skilgannon shrugged. “Fox in a henhouse.”

“What?”

“A fox gets into a henhouse. It doesn’t just kill to eat. It kills everything. An orgy of death. I don’t know why. Some men just like to kill. That officer was such a man. We shouldn’t stay here long. There are far more of those Joinings—Jiamads as you call them.”

“We can’t leave Kinyon to them.”

“He is not my responsibility.”

“Then leave,” snapped Harad. “I will defend him.”

Skilgannon laughed. “No, Harad, I will not leave. Kinyon may not be my responsibility, but you are.”

Harad turned and stared at the swordsman, his pale blue eyes glittering. “I am no one’s responsibility.”

“Try to control your anger,” advised Skilgannon. “I meant that you are my friend, and I do not desert my friends.”

Harad relaxed. “Will he live, do you think?”

“I don’t know. He is strong.”

“There was a lot of blood.”

“Not really. A little blood goes a long way. I have bled worse than that, and recovered within days. It depends on whether the dagger pierced any vital organs. We will not know for a while.”

Harad rose from beside the window and walked back to the kitchen, returning with the remains of a pie. He sat quietly for a while eating. The storm continued into the night, and eventually all the fires went out. Skilgannon found the remains of a loaf and half a round of cheese. Then he, too, ate. There was no conversation for some time, but the silence was comfortable. Several times the swordsman moved back into the bedroom, checking on Kinyon, who was sleeping.

The rain eased away just before the dawn. Harad was dozing in a chair by the hearth. Skilgannon left the house and walked out into the open. The smell of smoke was still in the air. In the gathering light he walked down the main road, scanning the ground for tracks. He found the body of a Jiamad with a black-feathered shaft jutting from its skull. So someone had put up a fight. Moving farther on, he came to rising ground. Here there were other tracks. With great care he examined them. Someone had come down from the high country, stopped, then turned and run back into the hills. A group of Jiamads had followed. The Jiamad tracks were large. The person they were chasing had small feet, like a child, but the length of the running stride showed it was no child. More likely it was a woman. He followed the tracks for a while. It was not easy. The pursuing Jiamads had run over the same ground, mostly obliterating the trail of the quarry. Here and there, however, Skilgannon found traces of human feet. Two sets of tracks. Someone wearing boots, and the second person—the one with the small feet—wearing moccasins.

He did not want to venture too far and returned to Kinyon’s house. When he got back he found several people there, a small man with frightened eyes and two weary women. They were sitting with Harad. They, and some of the other villagers, had escaped into the woods to the east. Skilgannon moved past the group and into Kinyon’s bedroom. The sandy-haired man was awake, and his color was better.

“I thank you for your help,” he said. “Have the beasts gone?”

“For now. Do you know why they came?”

“They were looking for Askari.”

“Who is he?”

“She,” corrected Kinyon. “A young huntress who lives here.”

“Ah! That explains the dead Jiamad shot by an arrow. Why did they want her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was with her?”

“A merchant named Stavut. Nice young man. He is very fond of her, though I think his hopes will be dashed. The Lord Landis Khan takes a great personal interest in Askari. I think he wants her for himself.”

“I take it she is beautiful.”

“All women are, in my experience,” said Kinyon with a smile. “Did she escape them?”

“She made it to the high woods. What happened then I do not know. The beasts were following her.”

“She’ll kill a lot of them,” said Kinyon. “A year back we had a rogue bear in the high country. Butchered three travelers. Askari hunted and slew it. She is fearless and very, very good with a bow.”

“I like the sound of her. I hope she made it.”

“On her own she’d get away from them,” said Kinyon. “I’m not sure, though, if Stavut is with her. He is a good lad, but not a woodsman. He’ll slow her down, for sure. Added to that he always wears red clothes, so they’ll not be able to hide very easily.”

“You don’t think she’ll leave him behind?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Not the kind of woman who would leave a friend to his fate, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” said Skilgannon.

Leaving Kinyon, he returned to the main room. More villagers had arrived, and the room was crowded. They had lit a fire in the hearth and were sitting with the others. Harad was outside. Skilgannon joined him.

“What do we do now?” asked the young logger.

“Either we leave and forget about the beasts, or we follow them and kill as many as we can.”

“I say follow them.”

“I thought you would. This time I agree with you.”

“You do?” said Harad, surprised. “Why the change of heart?”

“They came to capture a woman dear to Landis Khan. I want to know why she is important enough to send a raiding party.”

8

S
tavut lay in his blankets, unable to sleep. Images of Jiamads with slavering jaws filled his mind. He had fought hard to retain his composure while with Askari. No man liked to look feeble in front of a woman he desired. Alahir called it the “swan impersonation”—serene on the surface, little legs paddling furiously below. But the horror of the night’s events were telling on Stavut now. His hands were trembling, and his fertile imagination produced more images of dismemberment and death.

“Imagination is a curse to a warrior,” Alahir had said once. He was mildly drunk, and working hard to reach a comatose state. “I once saw a friend have his spine snapped. We were out riding—racing in fact—and his horse stumbled and threw him. When I got to him I thought he was just stunned. But he was awake and couldn’t move. Took him a month to die.” Alahir had shivered. “That haunted me for a while.”

“How did you overcome it?” Stavut had asked.

“You know the Dragon’s Horns?”

Stavut nodded. A tower of rock close to Alahir’s home city of Siccus. Around two hundred feet high, the top was split, creating the impression of horns. “Well, I saw a holy man and told him that I couldn’t get the thought of Egar’s accident out of my mind. He told me to leap the Dragon’s Horns, then mention my fears to the Source.”

Stavut was horrified. “You didn’t do it?”

“Of course I did. Holy men know what they’re talking about.”

“You jumped across a chasm.”

“It wasn’t a chasm, idiot. No more than ten feet wide at the narrowest point. Then I sat down and talked to the Source. After that all my fear went away.”

“Did the Source answer you?”

“Of course He did. Didn’t I just say my fears went away?”

“No, I mean did you hear His voice?”

“I don’t hear voices anymore,” replied Alahir, his expression hardening. “I wish I’d never mentioned them to you. Anyway, that’s not the point of the story.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know,” said Alahir, returning to his ninth jug of ale and draining it. “Can’t remember why I even mentioned it. Oh yes!” he added, brightly, “fears and suchlike.”

“The Source had nothing to do with it,” insisted Stavut. “You became aware of mortality when your friend died, and then did something mindless, stupid, and dangerous in order to convince yourself that you are really immortal and nothing can hurt you.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Alahir amicably, his voice slurring. “I don’t much care which it was. The fear went away. Maybe you should try it.”

“I will. I’ll put it high on my list of things to do. Just behind slapping the balls of a hungry lion.”

Alahir smiled. “You are a strange man, Tinker. You talk yourself down all the time. But I know you—better than you know yourself. You are stronger than you think. And that’s your problem, you know. You think too much.” Then he belched loudly. “You think this ale is a little weak?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem to be hitting the spot.”

Stavut was about to answer, but Alahir rose to call for another jug. His legs gave way and he sank slowly to the floor.

“What do you think you are doing?” asked Stavut.

“I think I’ll camp here for the night,” said Alahir, lying down.

Thoughts of his friend helped ease Stavut’s fears as he lay wedged on the narrow rock shelf.

A noise from below jerked him back to the present. Fear blossomed. Easing himself up, he glanced over the shelf. Moonlight was shining through the high opening in the roof of the cave. By its light he saw that Askari had returned. There was blood on her face. Then the moonlight was cut off. Stavut swung his head. A huge Jiamad was clambering through the window opening. Askari swept up her bow and loosed a shaft. It slammed against a wide bronze rivet on the creature’s leather breastplate and ricocheted away. With a bloodcurdling roar the beast leapt into the cave.

Grabbing the spear Stavut levered himself over the ledge and jumped, screaming at the top of his voice. The Jiamad spun and looked up. Stavut slammed into the beast, the spear hammering into its neck, then plunging down through its chest. Stavut hit the ground hard. He rolled to his knees. Askari was shooting again. A second beast fell to the cave floor, an arrow through its eye. It was thrashing around in its death throes. Stavut glanced around at the Jiamad he had leapt upon. It was dead. The spear had hit it at the base of the neck and been driven through it, impaling the heart.

“We are in trouble,” said Askari. “There is no way out.”

H
arad sat in the entrance of a shallow cave, overlooking a sheer cliff face. Moonlight bathed the rocks only intermittently, as gathering rain clouds filled the sky. They had followed the tracks to this spot, but lack of light led Skilgannon to call off the hunt until dawn.

The swordsman was sleeping lightly at the rear of the cave, his two swords lying beside him unsheathed.

Harad felt at peace. He knew this was strange. All his life he had struggled with a volatile temper, and an underlying anger that troubled him. Now, however, in the midst of a hostile forest, in pursuit of terrifying beasts, he felt calm and untroubled. Hefting the ax, he stared at the silver runes engraved on the black haft. The weapon was beautiful. There was not a single nick in the blades, not a speck of rust. With Snaga in his hands Harad felt almost immortal.

“You should get some rest,” said Skilgannon, moving silently alongside him. Harad jerked.

“By heaven, must you always creep up on a man?”

Skilgannon smiled. “My apologies, Axman.”

Harad shivered. “Don’t call me that. It feels . . . wrong somehow. I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to.” The moon appeared again, shining down on the Jiamad body at the base of the cliff face, some thirty feet below them. “They climbed that cliff,” said Skilgannon. “The Jiamads did not follow. They skirted it to the west. The girl and the merchant found either a way over, or a way in. Let us hope it was the latter.”

“A way in to what?” asked Harad.

Skilgannon pointed to the cliff wall. It was pitted with cave entrances. “I’d say there were tunnels and crevices within the cliff. I think she knew where she was going. On the other hand she may have tried to outrun them. That would not have been wise. Joinings have immense stamina.”

“How long do we wait?”

“Until dawn. We don’t want to be stumbling around in the dark.”

“They could kill her by then.”

“Yes, they could. But once inside, in the dark, we could face two sets of perils. She is a huntress. As far as she knows there are only enemies close by. I would rather not be shot by someone I am trying to help.”

“Good point,” agreed Harad. They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Harad spoke again. “How skilled was that officer you killed?”

“He had talent and speed of hand.”

“You beat him easily.”

“He lacked heart, Harad.”

“Courage, you mean?”

“Not exactly. A warrior with heart can reach inside himself and find the impossible. Druss was like that. He was an older man when I met him—around fifty. He was ill. Yet when we were attacked he found strength somewhere, and tore into the Nadir warriors facing us. You can’t teach that. You can improve skill and speed and strength. But heart is something a man is born with. Or not—as with that officer. You have it, Harad. He did not.”

“Aye, but it is not mine, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am a Reborn. Everything I have comes from Druss the Legend. What is there of Harad?”

“I am no philosopher, my friend. And I do not understand the magic by which you were born. And, yes, there is much of Druss in you. But you are who you are. More than that, you are who you choose to be. It seems to me that the same concerns could be voiced by any man born of woman. How much of my father is in me? How much of my mother? How many of their weaknesses am I cursed with? How much of their strength can I call my own? Landis Khan tried to explain to me the process of rebirth, but I confess it shot past me like an arrow. What I did manage to hold on to was that the
physical
essence of the original person, their seed if you like, is obtained from the bones. The only difference between you and any other man is that you have only one parent and not two.”

“There is nothing of my mother in me?” asked Harad. “How can that be?”

Skilgannon spread his hands. “Landis Khan spoke of seeds and eggs and arcane machines. None of it made much sense to me. What I did understand was that the rebirth produced a physical duplicate of the original. But this is my point. It is
physical.
What truly makes a man who he is? Is it the strength of his arms, or the courage in his soul? You have your own soul, Harad. You are not Druss. Live your own life.”

Harad let out a long deep breath. “Aye, it is good advice. I know that. And yet . . .” The big man sighed. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

“I’ll keep watch,” said Skilgannon.

Rain began to fall, at first merely a few drops pitter-pattering on the rocks around the cave entrance. Then the clouds opened. Skilgannon eased himself back from the entrance. Rivulets of water began to stream down the cave wall as the sudden storm found cracks in the cliff face above. Skilgannon sheathed his swords and sat on a rock. As fast as it had come the storm suddenly passed, and the sky cleared. Moonlight bathed the cliffs opposite. Harad began to snore. Skilgannon moved back to the entrance.

The air was fresh, and he could smell the closeness of the nearby pine trees. High above him the stars were bright in the night sky. The same stars he recalled from his youth.

His heart felt suddenly heavy. The same stars that had shone upon him when he had first met Jianna, that had blazed above him as he had grown to manhood and taken up the cursed Swords of Night and Day. And by their light he had overseen the slaughter of every man, woman, and child in the city of Perapolis.

Another life.

He shivered suddenly, as the old memories flowed. Like the rivulets on the cave wall they seeped out from the hidden recesses of his mind.

He and the young Angostin warrior, Vakasul, had just returned from a scouting trip into the mountains. Skilgannon had been tired, and yet exultant. News had reached them of a great battle to the south. The Naashanites had fought the Zharn outside the old city of Sherak. Jianna, the Witch Queen, had crushed the Zharn army and sent them fleeing north. Such a victory was sure to have earned breathing space for the Angostins, and Skilgannon, returning once more to his home on the cliffs above the sea, felt confident for the first time in months. There were gulls wheeling in the air, and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. Skilgannon’s aches had all but disappeared; he felt at peace with himself. Vakasul had taken the horses back to the stables. Skilgannon had strode into the east wing of the house, and then through to the rear gardens. A team of gardeners were at work, pruning back flowering shrubs and preparing the soil for bedding plants. The air was rich with the scent of honeysuckle and rose. A servant brought him a cool drink, and another carried out letters that had arrived from court. These he left unopened while he enjoyed the scene in the gardens. Stepping from the broad patio, he wandered out to speak to the gardeners. One of them was planting pockets of golden blooms, edged with crimson, along the line of the path. The man glanced up as Skilgannon approached, and grinned. “I know, General! They will spread too far and block the path. But they are so pretty it will be worth it.”

Skilgannon squatted down. “They are beautiful. What are they called?”

“Bride’s Garland is the common name, General. Sadly, there is no scent.” Skilgannon chatted to the man for a while, and then saw Vakasul approaching. He walked with the young warrior back to a shaded area of the patio, and they sat together while Skilgannon opened his letters. There was little of import. Putting down the last of them, he glanced at his companion. The warrior seemed edgy.

“What is troubling you, my friend?”

“News from the south, General. I don’t know how it will affect us. After the Battle of Sherak the Witch Queen took ill and died. You think that will affect how the Naashanites deal with the Zharn?”

Then—as now—the shock of the words stunned him. The world changed in an instant. Above the garden the sky was unbearably blue, and he found himself staring up into the heavens. “Are you ill, General?” Vakasul’s concern was genuine, but Skilgannon raised a hand.

“Leave me now,” he said.

He could not remember the young man’s departure, nor what happened to the rest of that once beautiful afternoon.

Jianna was dead. The reality was so shocking that he could find no way of dealing with it. He had not seen her in thirty years, but rarely an hour passed in his life without him thinking of her, knowing that she stood under the same sun, and breathed the same air. Only now she did not, and Skilgannon felt more alone than at any other time in his life.

The shock was too great for tears. He sat quietly, thinking back to those glorious first days when she was disguised as a common whore, her dark hair dyed yellow with red strands. Her courage in the face of peril and treachery was colossal, her spirit unconquerable. And he had loved her with such passion there had been no room for any other in his life.

What he had not realized, until the moment he heard the news of her death, was that—despite the physical distance between them—the knowledge that she was alive
somewhere
was sustaining him in his own life. Added to which, he realized, he had secretly believed that someday they would find a way to be together.

Sitting now in the cave, the anguish he felt then returned with renewed power. He found himself wondering if he could have lived his life differently. Had he stayed with her perhaps he might have softened her thirst for power and empire. His eyes misted, and then anger flickered. “This would be a good time for Jiamads to come upon you, you weeping fool!” he whispered.

“You say something?” asked Harad, rolling to his feet, ax in hand.

“Talking to myself.”