The Swords of Night and Day (26 page)

“A combination of strengths,” he told her. “Some learned, some gifted by nature. Speed of hand and a good eye, balance. An ability to close off fears and free the mind.”

“Are there tricks you learn?”

“Tricks?”

“Yes. Like when shooting a bow. The secret is to loose the shaft between breaths, so there is no movement in the upper chest. If you hold your breath you will be too tense. If you breathe in, or out, there will be movement that affects the steadiness of the arm. Therefore you breathe out, slowly, and then, with the lungs empty, you let fly.”

“Yes, I see. With the blade, and against another master, one must seek the
Illusion of Elsewhere.
The mind empties of all distractions, like heat, cold, pain, hunger, fear. The body is then freed to do what it has been trained for. A swordsman will have learned scores of moves, variations of attack, counterattack, and defense. He will flow into the combat like a dancer.”

Askari glanced down at the sleeping Harad. His huge hand was curled around the haft of the silver ax.

“How would a swordsman fare against a man with such an ax?”

“That would depend on who was wielding it. There is only one sure fact about such a combat. It would not take long. To kill an axman one must come within range of his ax. If he has speed and skill he will bury the blades in you before you can strike and step back. A good swordsman would kill the axman, because the ax is a heavy offensive weapon, and ill suited to defense. But
that
ax was once carried by a Legend. I know of no swordsman who could have bested him and survived. At least none ever did.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in a battle, not far from here. He was sixty years old, and he still fought like a giant.”

“You speak as if you knew him.”

Harad grunted and sat up. “How is anyone expected to sleep with such chatter?” he grumbled. Scratching his thick, black beard, he asked, “Is there any food left?”

“No,” said Askari. “We carried only enough to bring us to Petar. Tomorrow I will find meat, but we may have to eat it raw. The smell of roasting flesh will carry on the breeze.”

The sound of horses’ hooves came to them, and they fell silent. Skilgannon beckoned Harad to stay where he was, then he and Askari rose smoothly to their feet and edged toward the undergrowth to the south of the hollow. The ground rose here, and they carefully made their way to the rim. Below, on a wide track, they saw six horsemen following a lean Jiamad. The breeze was blowing toward the two watchers, and there was no way the beast could scent them. It dropped to all fours and sniffed the track. Then it pointed to the northwest, and the small group moved on.

Skilgannon and Askari made their way back to the hollow. Harad was standing, ax in hand, waiting for them. “Riders,” said Skilgannon. “They have moved on. We must follow.”

“Why?” asked Harad.

“The lead rider was a killer named Decado. I think he is hunting Gamal.”

“Landis Khan told me of Decado,” said Askari. “He said he was terrifying. He carries two swords, like you. He has killed many men. Landis said no one alive could best him with a blade.”

“That is not the problem now,” said Skilgannon. “First we must follow them. They cannot suspect they have enemies behind. The wind is with us at the moment, but we must move without undue noise. Askari, you set off first. Leave sign on the trail so that we can follow in the dark. With luck they will lose the trail, or stop for the night. If either should prove true we will bypass them and seek out Gamal before they do.”

“And if not?” asked Harad.

“Then we kill them all. You and Askari will take out the Jiamad tracker and the riders. I will deal with Decado.”

Askari looked uncertain. “You need to know that Decado is not human,” she said. “He is one of those soulless Reborns, brought back from hell. Landis told me this.” Touching her brow and chest in the Sign of the Blessed Priestess, she went on. “They are cursed creatures who only look like men. They have demon power and are unconquerable.”

Harad’s face darkened. Skilgannon’s reply was cold. “Let us hope you are right,” he told Askari.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, but this is not the time to discuss it. Set off and we will follow.”

Askari hooked her bow over her shoulder, then turned and loped off toward the northwest.

Skilgannon glanced at Harad, whose expression was thunderous. “She is merely mouthing superstition. It means nothing.”

“What if she’s right?”

“She’s not. You think a man without a soul would seek to rescue a woman in danger?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Harad sighed, yet Skilgannon saw him relax. “A week ago I was a logger. My biggest concern was meeting the quota and earning enough to pay for my winter supplies. Now? Now I have a dead hero’s ax and I have fought and killed.”

Skilgannon said nothing for a moment. He looked into the familiar ice-blue eyes. “The real concern is that you are enjoying it. Is that not so?”

“Yes, I am,” admitted Harad. “And that’s why I fear the girl is right.”

“We are closest to life when we are vying with death,” Skilgannon told him. “The blood runs hot, the air smells sweet, the sky becomes an unbearably beautiful blue. Battle is intoxicating. That is why the ghastly vileness of war has always been so popular. Now let us follow Askari.”

I
t was close to midnight and the pain had moved from the ever-present thudding in his temples to a sharp, nausea-inducing agony behind his eyes. Decado drew rein on a flat shelf of land high on a hillside and, in dismounting, almost fell from the saddle. He staggered for several paces, then slumped down. His stomach heaved, and fresh pain surged through him. From a small pouch at his side he drew out a small glass vial. With trembling fingers he broke the wax seal and drank. He had long ago learned to tolerate the vile, metallic taste. Without a word to the riders he swung the Swords of Blood and Fire from his shoulders and laid them by his side. Then he stretched out on the ground.

Bright colors flashed across his closed lids. His senses grew sharper. The smell of the horses was stronger now, and he could hear their breathing, interspersed with the creaking of leather saddles as the riders fidgeted. The pain grew more intense, as it always did when the poison seeped into his body. Sharp cramps clawed at his belly, and a tingling began in his arms and fingers. Lying very still, he waited. Sometimes the visions were harsh and frightening, causing fresh upsurges of pain. At other times they would be gentle and reassuring and he would slip away into peaceful dreams of better days.

He had long ago given up hoping for these. They either came or they didn’t. There was nothing he could do to encourage them.

The scent of the grass grew stronger, and the breeze seemed full of perfume.

Memnon’s pale, golden features appeared in his mind, his jet-black hair drawn back from his thin face, his large, dark, almond-shaped eyes staring at him intently. He was sitting by Decado’s bedside. Heavy black curtains were drawn across the windows, the only light coming from two flickering lanterns. “Are you feeling better, child?” asked Memnon.

Decado remembered that long-ago night. He had been eleven years old, and the awful headache had lasted for several days. He had tried to knock himself unconscious by head butting a stone wall, but had merely gashed his brow, making the pain worse.

Now he was lying in a broad bed, a cool breeze whispering through a narrow gap in the curtains. His head was resting on a satin pillow. The freedom from pain made him want to weep for joy. “The pain is gone, sir,” he said. Memnon patted the boy’s arm. Decado had flinched. Memnon’s hands were curiously webbed, his fingers long, his nails dark, as if painted. They were also mutilated. The little finger of each hand had been amputated.

Memnon had noticed the boy’s unease and withdrawn his hand. “Do you remember what happened when the pain began?”

Decado had struggled to recall the incident. He had been playing with Tobin and his friends in the open fields behind the apple orchard. The sun had been very bright, and Decado had found it made his eyes water. There had been an argument, but he couldn’t recall what it was about. Then Tobin had thrown an apple at him. It had struck him on the cheek. After that the other boys had pitched in, hurling fruit at him. It was not an unusual scenario. Decado was slim and small, and often the object of bullying.

“Do you remember?” said Memnon, again.

“I was hit by an apple,” the boy told him.

“And after that?”

“I passed out.”

“Do you remember the knife?”

“Tobin’s knife?”

The master nodded.

“Yes, sir, it is a little knife with a curved blade. Tobin’s father gave it to him.”

“What color was the blade?”

“It was red, Master,” said Decado. “Red and wet.” Even as he spoke an image came to him, sharp and vivid. He saw his own fist, smeared with blood, the dagger blade dripping gore. “I don’t understand. And how did I come to be here?”

“It is not important, my boy. You will stay with me for a while. Then we will journey to Diranan.”

Within a day the familiar head pain had begun again, but this time Memnon had given him the black draft. He had gagged and been violently sick, but enough of the noxious substance reached his belly for it to ease the agony. Decado had slept for several hours.

For several days he had remained in the palace. Memnon gave him books to read, but they were dull, full of stories about men with swords and shields, fighting and killing. Decado had no interest in such things. At the orphanage he had become fascinated with the craft of pottery, the shaping of wet clay into useful and beautiful objects. He had been most proud of a jug he had made, with the handle shaped like a lizard. It had cracked in the glazing process, but his tutor—the elderly Caridas—had been most complimentary about his skill. “You are an artist, Decado,” he had said.

It was to Caridas that Decado had always gone when the bullying was at its worst. “Why do they torment me?” he had asked the old man.

“Sadly, it is the nature of children. Do you ever think of fighting back?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“And that is why they feel safe when they attack you, Decado. There is no fear in them, for you will not cause them harm. They see themselves as wolves, and you as the deer. Perhaps they would react differently were you to find a little bit of wolf in yourself.”

“I don’t want to be a wolf.”

“Then you should avoid their company, Decado.”

On the surface it was good advice, but the village was small and there were few places a young boy could go that did not bring him into contact with other children. Decado spent much of his time with Caridas the Potter, and found himself looking forward to the times he would be taken to Lord Memnon’s palace, in the hills outside the village. At least twice a year Memnon would journey west from Diranan. Decado did not know why the courtier should be interested in him, nor did he care. The weeklong visits to Memnon were free of stress and fear. The lord would talk to him about his dreams and his hopes, and would set him little physical tests that were always diverting. Most were simple, and Decado failed to see why Memnon found them fascinating. He would ask Decado to hold out his hand, palm downward. Then he would take a small stick and hold it below the boy’s hand. “When I drop this I want you to catch it,” he said.

Decado had done so. It was not difficult. Memnon, holding the stick between both index fingers, would release it. Decado’s hand snapped downward, catching the stick almost before gravity had exerted its influence. “Wonderful!” said Memnon.

It was baffling. What was wonderful about catching a stick? Decado had put this point to the lord. Memnon bade him wait, then called in several of his servants. One by one he set them the same task. No one caught the stick. It fell from Memnon’s fingers, their fingers scrabbled for it, catching nothing but air.

“Reaction time,” Memnon had said, after the servants had gone. “You see the stick fall, you send a message to your arm and hand, then—and only then—do you instruct the hand to catch the stick. In that time the stick is already falling away from reach. But not for you, Decado. Your reactions are lightning swift. This is good.”

Decado failed to see how this—until now—unrealized skill could have any benefit. One did not have to catch falling clay in order to make a pot. However, the tests engaged Memnon’s interest, and as long as he was interested he would continue to invite Decado to spend time with him. It was a fair trade. Decado was free from the bullies, and all he had to do was catch sticks, or juggle knives, or pluck insects from the air. In the evenings Memnon would ask him about his dreams, or talk about the Eternal and the wars being fought. Decado found talk of war unsettling. There was a man in the village, a friend of Caridas, who had lost an arm during a battle. He had once, according to Caridas, been a fine potter. Now he was a cripple, bitter and lost.

On the last morning before the journey to Diranan, Decado had asked Memnon if he could go and say good-bye to Caridas. The lord shook his head.

“Best not, child.”

“He is my friend.”

“You will make new friends.”

On the journey the head pains had started again. Memnon gave him more of the black draft, and Decado had fallen into a dream-filled sleep.

As he awoke he remembered the incident in the orchard. The boys had been laughing as they threw hard fruit at him. The dreadful pain in his head had increased, and he had rushed at Tobin. At some point he had snatched Tobin’s dagger from its sheath and slashed the blade across the boy’s throat. Blood had bubbled and sprayed from the wound. Decado had shrieked like an animal and leapt on another boy, bearing him to the ground and plunging the small dagger again and again between his shoulder blades. At first the boy had struggled and screamed, but then there was silence.

Someone had grabbed Decado and hauled him off the boy. Decado had spun, the blade flashing out and plunging through Caridas’s right eye. The old man cried out and fell back. His body had twisted and convulsed. Then it, too, lay still alongside Tobin and the other boy.