The Swords of Night and Day (28 page)

It was all so fast Charis could not quite take in what had happened. Callan’s swords had moved with lightning speed. Then he spoke again.

“Are we done?” he asked, coldly. “Can we end this farce now?”

“I cannot disobey my orders,” said the first man.

“I understand,” said Callan. His sword flickered. Blood gushed from the severed artery in the man’s throat. A look of stunned surprise hit his features. He stumbled back, half turned, then pitched to the ground.

For Charis the moment was more shocking than the bloodthirsty attack by Longbear. This was cold and horrible. Murder without emotion. No one moved, and Callan spoke again.

“Can
you
disobey your orders?” he asked the second man.

“Oh yes. Absolutely.”

“Very wise. What about you two?” he asked the others.

Both men nodded. “Then gather your horses.”

They did so with some speed. Callan watched as they rode away. Harad moved to her side, laying his ax upon the grass. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No. It is so good to see you.” She looked into his pale eyes, her gaze soaking in the familiar features. She relaxed then and smiled. “You came after me.”

“Of course I did. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Why did you do that?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to make me wish I hadn’t,” he muttered.

Callan came alongside and knelt by Gamal. The old man was unconscious. Callan laid his fingers on Gamal’s throat, feeling for a pulse. “He’s not dead, is he?” asked Charis, fearfully.

“No.” Callan squeezed the man’s hand. “Gamal, can you hear me. It is Skilgannon.”

At first there was no movement; then a juddering sigh came from Gamal’s lips. “Skilgannon?” he whispered, his blind opal eyes flickering open.

“Yes.”

“The soldiers?”

“They have gone.”

“Help me to sit. There is much to tell, and not a great deal of time left to me.”

“
I
t is not safe here,” said Skilgannon. He turned to Harad. “Will you carry him? We must find a more defensible position. Those riders will seek out comrades and then return.”

Harad passed the ax to Skilgannon and lifted the old man into his arms. Then the group set off toward the higher country. Askari found a campsite on a high shelf of rocky ground under an overhanging cliff. There was a depression in the cliff face out of the wind, and Harad laid Gamal down. The old man’s face was gray, and there was a faint blue tinge to his lips. Skilgannon knelt beside him. “You need to rest,” he said.

Gamal shook his head. “It would do me no good. This body will not survive the night.” A spasm of pain showed in his face, and he groaned. “I shall not be here for the end,” he said. “And I cannot speak to you in this form. The pain is too great. It cuts across the thought processes. Will you journey with me, Skilgannon?”

“He is delirious,” said Askari. “He makes no sense.”

“Yes, he does,” said Skilgannon, softly. “I once did this journey with another.” Returning his attention to the dying man, he asked: “What would you have me do?”

“Lay your body down and take my hand.”

Skilgannon stretched out, then he rose on one elbow. “Let no one touch me or disturb me,” he commanded the others. “Leave me to wake in my own time.” Then he lay back, reached out, and took Gamal’s hand.

His vision swam, bright colors flashing before his mind’s eye. There was a sense of falling, spinning, and a great roaring sound washed across his conscious. Then there was darkness. A light grew. Skilgannon blinked and sat up. The roaring was still there, and he turned to see a waterfall. It was a magnificent sight, the water gushing over black basaltic rock and falling several hundred feet into a wide lake. There was a black stone bridge above the waterfall, high and curving. Sunlight on the water spray around it created a rainbow over the bridge.

“It is so beautiful,” said a voice. Skilgannon glanced to his right. A handsome young man sat there, his hair long and blond, his eyes blue.

“Gamal?”

“Indeed so. I long ago decided that—if it was in my power—I would be here at the point of my death. There is something about this place that feeds my soul.”

“It is not a dream place then?”

Gamal smiled. “Well, yes, it is at the moment. But it exists in the real world.”

“How did they build a bridge across it?” asked Skilgannon.

“No one built it. Ten thousand years ago—perhaps more—a great volcano erupted. A huge river of molten lava swept across the land. It burned a tunnel through the rock face, then swept on down through the valley. The bridge is just the upper section of a cliff that was once here. A long time ago, before one of the many falls and rebirths of the world, there was a race who believed that the rainbow bridge was a connection between their world and the place of the gods. It is easy to see why.”

“At most other times I would be fascinated to know more,” said Skilgannon. “However—as you yourself said—we have little time.”

The young man nodded. “This is true. First let me tell you about the Eternal—”

“She is Jianna, a woman I loved more than life. I know. Now I must destroy her.”

“No!” said Gamal. “That you must not do! She would return instantly.”

“How is that possible?”

“Once more Landis is at fault here,” said Gamal, sadly. “The Eternal’s Reborns are linked to her. Landis believed the process of the Eternal’s rebirth would be more efficient if there was some way to make the process of soul transference immediate upon the Eternal’s death. As it was we had to locate the Reborn and bring her to Diranan, and the palace, and then perform the exchange. This was obviously fraught with difficulty. What if the Reborn, sensing her fate, chose to run away? What if the Eternal died and was destroyed in the Void by some demon? Landis spent many years attempting to refine the process. In the end, though, it was Memnon who supplied the answer.”

“Memnon?”

“I will come to him, Skilgannon. He has a brilliant mind, and is also possessed of great psychic power. When one of the Eternal’s duplicates was born Memnon had a tiny jewel inserted under the skin at the base of the infant’s skull. This jewel carries a spell. If the Eternal dies, her spirit would automatically flow to the eldest of the duplicates, wherever they might be. As far as I know this has been achieved twice. So you must not seek to kill her. It would be a waste of time. There will be more than twenty Reborns scattered around the empire.”

“I understand,” said Skilgannon. “Now tell me of Memnon.”

“He is the Lord of the Shadows—a Jiamad, but of a unique kind. Landis created him a long time ago. It was part of an attempt to find a formula for longer natural life, to counteract the aging process. Landis had begun to loathe the idea of raising duplicates, only to kill their souls in order for the original to live on. He saw it—quite rightly—as evil. So he experimented with Joinings, seeking one who could regenerate more efficiently than nature might intend. He was very successful. His experiments gave many of us longer, healthier lives. Then, a hundred years ago, came Memnon. At first we thought him a triumph. Despite being created from animal and human he was in almost every way a perfect baby. Not a trace of Jiamad. As a child he possessed rare gifts. He could restore faded blooms to health. He could draw wild creatures to him. An amazing child.” Gamal sighed. “His intelligence was—is—phenomenal. By the age of thirteen he was assisting Landis in experiments. He had mastered the machines of the ancients. By twenty he had moved beyond even Landis. The Eternal favored him, allowing him to experiment on more and more humans. Many of them died terrible, agonizing deaths. None of this concerned Memnon at all. The pain of others passed him by. He has no conscience, no sense of what we consider good or evil. His one redeeming feature is his devotion to the Eternal.”

“One of her lovers, I expect,” said Skilgannon, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

“No, not Memnon. I said he was
almost
perfect. There is no way he could perform any meaningful sexual act. Landis believed that was the reason for his lack of passion. He never grows angry, or sad. Memnon just is. He created the Shadows. They will be coming after you before long, Skilgannon. Make sure there is always light around you. They favor the dark. Bright light burns their eyes.”

“They are Jiamads?” asked Skilgannon.

“Of a kind. They have no fur. They are skinny—almost skeletal—and they move with bewildering speed. So fast that if a swordsman were to thrust his blade at one, the sword would cut only air. They have two curved fangs, which inject poison into the victim. It is not deadly, but causes temporary paralysis. They also carry daggers, the blades dipped in similar poison.”

“Apart from light, what other weaknesses do they have?”

“They lack stamina. After an attack they will find some safe, dark place to rest. And, as I said, their eyes are sensitive. Their vision is not strong. In the forest you will hear them. They emit loud, extremely high-pitched shrieks. In some way this allows them to
see
objects. I do not understand how this works. Neither did poor Landis.”

“I take it that he is dead.”

“Yes, Decado killed him. Despite his centuries of life Landis was a romantic. He believed in Ustarte’s prophecy.”

“And you do not?” said Skilgannon.

“The simple answer is that I do not know. I cannot see how one warrior—even one such as you—can end the reign of the Eternal. Even if you did, what would it matter? The artifacts exist. They will always exist. They survived for thousands of years, their powers almost dormant. Nadir shamans found a way to harness the energies radiating from these sleeping machines below the ground. They did not know the artifacts were there, but, like Memnon, they were attuned to the energies pulsing from them. They acted as conduits for that power. All the physical magic in this blighted world emanates from these artifacts.”

“So what changed?” asked Skilgannon.

“The Temple of the Resurrection. An abbot found a way to awaken them. The power in the artifacts swelled. All over this continent and beyond. So you see, Skilgannon, the physical death of the Eternal will do nothing to change the unhappy state of the world.”

“What did he do, this abbot?”

The young Gamal shrugged. “Much is lost in myth now, but he found a passageway inside the holy mountain, and then there was light. I cannot say. I was not there.”

“Then the answer lies at the temple.”

Gamal smiled. “Perhaps it would—if it were still there. Almost five hundred years ago the temple vanished.”

“It was inside a mountain,” said Skilgannon. “It could not vanish. There must have been a more powerful ward spell placed on it.”

“No, Skilgannon. I have walked on the open land where the temple mountain once was. There is nothing there. It is an odd place now. Nothing grows there. The land twists and changes. Metal reacts in a bizarre way. I had copper coins in my pouch. They began to jingle together. I remember feeling nauseous, and could not maintain my balance. My companion and I left the area as soon as we could. Once clear I looked in my pouch. Five coins had somehow welded themselves together. I had to cut my belt loose, for the brass buckle was mangled and bent. Believe me, Skilgannon. The temple is gone. The mountain is gone.”

“But the power remains,” said Skilgannon softly.

“Yes.”

For a while they sat in silence, Skilgannon thinking through what Gamal had said. Gamal suddenly sighed. “It is beginning,” he said. “I can feel the pull of the Void.”

“Are you frightened?”

“A little. My life has not been one spent in philanthropic pursuits. I have been selfish, and my actions have resulted in deaths of innocent people. Yet the Void is not unknown to me. I have traveled there often. It is where you and I met.”

“I have no memory of such a meeting.”

“As I told you, the Void is a place of spirit, and you now live in the world of flesh. The memories will return one day. I wonder if I will find Landis. I was fond of him. It would be good to see him again.”

Suddenly all noise from the waterfall ceased, and the blue sky faded to black. A chill wind blew. Gamal looked fearful, and was staring at a point over Skilgannon’s shoulder. Skilgannon rose to his feet and turned. A tall man was standing close by, dressed in pale robes of shimmering silver. He was dark haired and androgynously good looking. His skin was pale gold, his cheekbones high, his eyes large, dark, and almond shaped, like the peoples of the Chiatze.

“What are you doing here, Memnon?” asked Gamal.

“I have come to say farewell to an old friend,” the man replied, his voice gentle.

“We were not friends.”

“Sadly, that is true. I was attempting to be polite. Go ahead and die, Gamal. It is Skilgannon I wished to speak to.”

“No! He will not die here, Memnon.” Gamal rose swiftly to his feet and reached toward Skilgannon. “Take my hand. Now!”

Memnon’s arm snapped forward. Gamal disappeared. “He chose a pleasant spot,” said Memnon, moving forward to walk past Skilgannon and stare at the towering waterfall.

“Did you kill him?” asked Skilgannon.

Memnon shrugged. “Let us hope so. And before you consider attacking me you should understand that such violence will have no effect here. There is no pain. No blow of yours will concuss me or damage my form. This is merely a dream place. Would you like to hear the water rushing? I find it an annoying distraction, but if you wish I will restore it.”

Skilgannon stepped in, his left fist hammering into what should have been Memnon’s face. The blow passed through the man. “Ah, I see you are a man who needs to discover his own realities. So now that we understand the situation, let us sit and talk. A fire would be pleasant.” Memnon gestured to the ground and a small circle of stones appeared. Flames leapt up from within them. “The Eternal has spoken of you often. She has such fond memories of you.”

“What is it you want from me?” asked Skilgannon.

“Landis should never have brought you back. It was a mistake. I am here to rectify it. However, your passing will be without pain.”