The Swords of Night and Day (30 page)

The Last of the Drenai.

It was not just a romantic phrase to Alahir. It meant everything to the young soldier. The lands around the city of Siccus had been ruled by the descendants of the Drenai for more than three hundred years. The borders were closed, and though they paid lip service to the Eternal, sending taxes and maintaining her laws, the old ways remained paramount. Honor, nobility of spirit, courage, and a love of the homeland were the first virtues instilled in the young. This was followed by lessons in Drenai history, to make the young citizens aware of the great ones in whose footsteps they would be expected to walk. Karnak the One Eyed, who had held Dros Purdol against impossible odds; Egel, the first earl of Bronze, builder of the great fortresses. Adaran, who had won the War of the Twins, and Banalion, the White Wolf, who had fought his way back from the disasters of the last Ventrian wars and helped to rebuild a shattered empire. There were stories of villains, too, not all of them power-hungry foreigners seeking to destroy the greatness of the Drenai. There was Waylander the Assassin, who had sold his soul to the enemy and murdered the Drenai king, and Lascarin the Thief, who had stolen the legendary Armor of Bronze. Stories of men like these were told to stem the arrogance that might flower instead of pride in a Drenai youngster’s heart.

Alahir smiled. The tales of many heroes had been imparted to him, but few had touched his heart as had the tale of Druss the Legend.

He sighed and rode on.

The day was a bright one. The heavy clouds of the night before had moved on, and the air was clean and crisp.

They scouted for several hours, then Alahir headed to a campsite they had used before, and the men dismounted, picketed the horses, and prepared cook fires for the midday meal. Alahir was happy to be out of the saddle. His own favorite horse, Napalas, a speckled gray, had thrown a shoe, and he was riding a mount loaned to him by his aide, Bagalan. The beast was skittish. If Alahir’s cloak flared in the breeze the horse would rear and try to bolt. Several times he had glanced at his aide, and the youngster was trying hard not to chuckle.

“It is the last time I borrow a horse of yours,” he said as they dismounted.

“He has great speed,” said the dark-haired youngster, trying to keep the smile from his face. “He’s just a little nervous.” The boy was a practical joker of some renown, and Alahir had only himself to blame for trusting the lad. “Anyway, you always said you could ride anything you could throw a saddle on.”

Alahir untied the chin straps of his helm and lifted it clear. Then he brushed his hand over the white horsehair plume, knocking the dust clear. Removing his sword belt, he pushed back his mail hood, sat down on the ground, and stretched out.

“Are you tired, Uncle?” asked Bagalan, sitting alongside him.

“Don’t call me Uncle.”

“Why is it you are always so scratchy after a night with the whores?”

“I am not scratchy. And the whores were . . . were fine.”

“The one you went off with had a face like a goat.”

Alahir sighed and sat up. “I was drunk. I do not remember what she looked like. In fact I don’t care what she looked like. My sister promised me you would be a fine aide. She obviously has your sense of humor. Now go and get me some stew.” The young man chuckled and moved off toward one of the cook fires. The boy was right. He was scratchy, and the camp whores were ugly. But the two facts were not connected.

His sergeant, a twenty-year veteran named Gilden, approached him. “You want some time alone?” he asked. Alahir looked up into the man’s thin, bearded face. Two white scars ran through the beard from the right cheekbone down to the chin, permanent reminders of a clash with renegade Jiamads three years before. Gilden also had scars on his chest, arms, and legs. But none on his back. Not a man to run in the face of an enemy.

“No, sit.
Your
company is always welcome.”

Gilden removed his sword and sat on the ground. “The boy is all right, Captain. Just a little brash. You were much the same ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago I thought I was saving the homeland. I believed I could change the world.”

“You were eighteen. You’re supposed to feel like that at eighteen.”

“You felt like that?”

Gilden spread his hands. “Too long ago to remember. I don’t like what’s happening now, though. Bad feel to it.”

Alahir nodded. There was no need for elucidation. Agrias had begun talking about the need to protect the port areas around Siccus against enemy invasion from the sea. The whole point of serving the man was to prevent the war reaching the homeland, to protect the borders and keep Jiamads out.

“The council will argue against the plan,” said Alahir, at last.

“Old men. Once strong, now fragile. Lukan argued against Agrias. He was the best of them. True Drenai. Heart and soul. Deserved better than a knife in the back for his efforts.”

“Shadowmen serving the Eternal. Nothing to do with Agrias,” replied Alahir, doubtfully.

“Maybe. Even so there is no one to stand against him now.” Gilden swore, which was rare. Alahir glanced at him.

“Problems for another day,” said Alahir.

“Never did study much, save for Drenai history,” said Gilden. “But I know that civilizations rise and fall and die away. The Sathuli used to inhabit this region. Where are they now? Dust. All but forgotten. The Nadir hordes swept across these lands and butchered them all. And where are the Nadir? Dust. All my life I’ve fought to keep the Drenai alive. Yet we are dying, Alahir. Slowly. If not Agrias, then it will be the Eternal. A pox on them both!”

“No argument there. I agree the future looks bleak,” he said, seeking to find something hopeful to say to the man, “but it has been bleak before, and we are still here. Think of Dros Delnoch, when Ulric’s Nadir were before it. Hundreds of thousands of warriors, and only a handful of soldiers and volunteer farmers. They held, though, and the Drenai lived on.”

“They had Druss.”

“And we have you and me—and five thousand like us. If we have to go down, Gil, we’ll carve a legend of our own.”

“Aye, that we will.” Alahir saw the man relax. Gilden suddenly smiled. “That was the ugliest whore I’ve ever seen. She had a face like a horse.”

“Goat,” corrected Alahir.

“Ah, I see,” put in Gilden. “I’d forgotten you’re from farming country. Sing love songs about goats up there?”

“Only the pretty ones,” replied Alahir.

13

T
he long ride back to Petar helped clear Decado’s head. The pain finally faded away, and the freedom from it was almost as blissful as a kiss from the Eternal.

There were people moving through the streets of the town, and a semblance of normality had returned. There were no Jiamads in sight, but he saw several groups of soldiers walking among the citizenry.

At Landis Khan’s palace he dismounted, handed the reins of the horse to a servant, and walked up the steps to the great doors. Once inside he saw two female servants carrying a heavy rug. They were young women, and quite pretty. One of them glanced up. He smiled. The girl cried out, dropped her end of the rug, and fled. The second girl also let go of the rug and backed away, her eyes wide, her face pale. “I am not going to hurt you,” said Decado. The girl turned, gathered up her long skirt, and ran after her friend. Decado looked down at the embroidered rug, which had partially unrolled. It was stained with dried blood.

He wandered up to his rooms, wondering how long it would be before the Eternal returned from the high country. Now that his head was clearer he found it strange she should have been there at all. It was rare for her to travel without her guards. And she had been dressed strangely. In disguise, he guessed. The outfit suited her, the leather leggings emphasizing the sleekness of her figure. Once in his rooms he removed the scabbarded Swords of Blood and Fire, laying them on a couch, then stripped off his travel-stained clothes. He needed a bath, but no servants were close by. Even if there were, he realized, they would run from him. Pulling on a clean shirt and leggings, he searched the room for some wine. There was nothing here.

Tugging on his boots, he walked to the door. At that moment there came a tap at the wood frame outside.

“Come in,” he ordered, hoping it was a servant. Instead it was the old statesman Unwallis. Decado gazed at him curiously. The man seemed different, younger. Lines of stress had vanished from his face. Though his hair was still iron gray there was a brightness to his eyes, and the smile he offered was warm and friendly.

“Welcome back, Decado,” he said. “How was your mission?”

“I fell ill. The Eternal ordered me back here. Let me know when she returns.”

“Returns?”

“I saw her in the high country. She said to come back to Petar.”

“Er . . . She is here, in Landis Khan’s old apartments.”

“That’s not possible. She could not have returned before me.”

Decado saw the confusion in Unwallis. The statesman stood silently for a moment. “May I come in? We should sit down and talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Decado, my boy, there is everything to talk about. The Eternal arrived here two days ago. She has not left the palace.” He sighed. “Is it possible you dreamed it? I know of the head pains, and the narcotics Memnon supplies. They are very powerful.”

“Yes, they are,” snapped Decado. “But I always know the difference between dreams and reality. She was there, dressed as a hunter. She even had a bow.” He went on to explain that he had been following the trail of the blind man, but had been struck down by terrible pain in the head. Then he described how she came to him and ordered him back to Petar. Unwallis listened intently.

“So,” he said, at last, “there were some things Landis did not note down. Fascinating.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She was not the Eternal. That is the only point you need to realize. I take it you did not find the nephew?”

“No.”

“Then you should know he is not the nephew. Landis Khan rebirthed the bones of Skilgannon. He also found the man’s soul and reunited it. The man you were chasing is the legendary Skilgannon himself.”

Decado walked back into the apartment and sat down on a wide couch. The Swords of Blood and Fire were beside him, and he absently reached out and laid his hand on one of the hilts. Unwallis moved into the room and sat beside him. “The woman you saw is a Reborn. Landis obviously stole some bones from the Eternal’s last resurrection two decades ago.”

“I need to see Jianna,” said Decado. “I need to explain . . .”

“Of course—but may I suggest that you bathe first? The days of travel have left you . . . somewhat pungent, Decado. Servants are preparing a bath downstairs.”

Decado, still shaken by what the statesman told him, nodded. “Yes, that is a good idea. Thank you, Unwallis.”

“A pleasure, my boy. Come. I will have fresh clothes brought for you.”

“Just lead on!” snapped the swordsman. There was something about the urbane statesman that always riled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had once been a lover of the Eternal. Decado didn’t know—but he did know she did not want Unwallis killed. This was a problem for the young swordsman. Often he had no control over such matters. Just like the first time in the orchard. He would hear a roaring in his ears, and then—apparently—pass out. Only he did not pass out. He would
awaken
some time later to discover either bloodstains on his clothing, or the corpses of those he had slain. Only later would the memories return, and with them the shame of his murderous rage. Memnon called it the Sleep of Death and had offered advice on how to prevent, or at worst delay the onset of the Sleep. Curiously it involved being more aggressive with people. According to Memnon the condition was triggered by Decado’s attempts to hold in his rage. “Let it out a little at a time with angry words,” Memnon had advised. Mostly it worked, though as Decado followed Unwallis down the long corridor he saw more bloodstains on the rugs there, and he remembered the unfortunate servants who had fallen victim to his insanity. A deep depression settled on the young man, and he focused on the wall murals they passed, hoping his concentration on works of art would prevent the images of the terrified victims. It was a vain hope.

They reached the lower levels and Decado followed Unwallis into a small, lantern-lit bathhouse. There was already hot water in the deep marble bath. Decado sighed. If only he could wash away the sins of his flesh as simply as he could sponge away the dust and the dirt on his body.

“I will leave you to relax, my boy,” said Unwallis, stepping to the long, garden window and pulling shut the heavy drapes.

“I . . . thank you,” said Decado. “I am sorry that I have been so boorish in your company.” Unwallis looked shocked. He stood waiting for some barbed comment. When he realized none was to come, he smiled.

“Enjoy the bath,” he said. Decado removed his clothes and laid them on a chair, placing his scabbarded swords on top of them. Then he moved toward the bath. There was a mirror on the wall, and his anger returned. Decado did not like mirrors. He could not stand to look at himself. The eyes always accused, as if the man in the mirror were someone else entirely. Someone who knew him and, in knowing him, loathed him. Almost against his wishes he stared back at the slender, naked man.

“You do not deserve to live,” the mirror man told him.

“I know,” he replied. Stepping forward, he lifted the mirror from the wall, intending to smash it. Yet he did not. He had destroyed so much in his young life. Instead he placed the mirror on the floor, resting it against a table on which clean, white towels had been laid.

Then he entered the bath. The warmth was welcome. The water was lightly perfumed. Decado sank beneath the surface, running his fingers through his hair to wash off the dust. Then he surfaced and looked around for some soap. He saw several small blocks in a wicker basket to his right. As he reached for one he froze. In the mirror he had placed against the table he saw the reflection of a crossbowman, stealthily moving from the door behind him.

The weapon came up. Decado hurled himself to his left. The twang of the twisted string came to him just before the bolt splashed into the water. Decado heaved himself from the bath and rolled to his feet.

The crossbowman, a slim dark-haired young man, threw aside his weapon and drew a dagger from his belt. Decado darted toward him. Even as he did so he saw the heavy drapes over the garden window drawn back, and two more armed men ran in. The first assassin rushed forward, dagger extended. Decado flung himself to the floor, swinging around to kick the man’s legs from under him. The assassin fell heavily, cracking his head on the marble floor.

Decado came up fast. A second man came at him. Decado leapt feetfirst, his heel slamming into the man’s chin, hurling him back. Rising, Decado ran for the Swords of Blood and Fire. Two more killers had entered the room. They were soldiers, and carried both swords and daggers. Decado drew his swords and ran to meet them. The newcomers were terrified. One tried to run, the other slashed his saber at the swordsman. The Sword of Blood clove into his neck, severing the jugular and slicing through muscle, sinew, and bone. The fleeing soldier had reached the door, but, as he pulled it open, the Sword of Fire plunged through his back. The soldier gave a gurgling cry and slid down the door. Decado spun. The second attacker was unconscious. The first groaned and tried to sit. Blood was smeared above his left eye and flowing down over his right.

Decado ran to the drapes, pulling them shut, then moved to the injured man, pushing him to his back. Resting the Sword of Blood against the man’s throat, he said, “Who sent you?”

“The Eternal has spoken the words of your death,” said the man. “What choice did I have but to obey?”

“You lie!”

“I am not an imbecile, Decado. You think I
wanted
to come after you? The Eternal ordered me. Personally. Unwallis was with her, and the Shadowlord.”

“I don’t understand,” said Decado, stepping back from the surprised man. “She . . . loves me.”

“I don’t understand, either,” said the man, rubbing blood from his eye. “Are you going to kill me? Or can I go?”

“Sit over there while I think,” said Decado, gesturing to a chair. Moving to his clothes, he dressed swiftly. Then he returned to the soldier. “What exactly did she say to you?”

“I was summoned by my captain, and sent in to see her. She asked me if I was good with a crossbow. I said I was. She said she wanted the death to be clean and fast. Then the Shadowlord said I was to cut off your finger and bring it to him. Don’t ask me why.”

“I don’t need to. What happened then?”

“Nothing,” said the man, but he looked away.

“Be careful, my friend, for your life depends on this.”

The other attacker groaned and started to rise. Decado stepped in, slashing a blade through the back of the man’s neck. The soldier slumped to his face, twitched once, then lay still.

“Oh, careful, is it?” said the first man, his expression hardening at the murder of his comrade. “You won’t let me live anyway.”

“Then you would have nothing to lose by speaking. You would gain a little more time. However, I am telling you the truth. Speak freely and I will let you live.”

The prisoner considered his words, then shrugged. “She said some stuff about you, Decado. Not complimentary. She told Memnon he’d made a mistake with you, and she didn’t want him repeating it.”

“Exactly
what did she say?”

The man took a deep breath. “She said you were insane, and she told me to forget the finger. We were to carry your body out into the garden and burn it to ash.”

“Take off your clothes,” said Decado.

“What for?”

The Sword of Fire nicked a cut into the man’s neck. “So that you can live. Be swift!”

The man undressed. “Now get in the bath.”

The slim soldier looked nonplussed, but he slowly waded down into the water. “Good,” said Decado. “Now come out, and pick up the two sabers your friends dropped.”

“I can’t fight you!”

“You don’t have to fight me. Just do as I say.”

Decado followed him across the room to prevent any sudden flight. The naked man took up the two swords. “Now what?”

“Now you can leave—through the garden.”

“Without any clothes on?”

“Alive, though.”

“You’re going to stab me in the back.”

“Just leave,” said Decado, tapping the man’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.

“Whatever you say.”

The man walked to the heavy drape and pulled it back. Then he opened the garden door and stepped outside. Something moved past him in a blur. He cried out and fell back into the bathhouse. Dropping the swords he began to crawl, but his body spasmed. A pale shape appeared in the doorway, large round eyes narrowed against the lantern light. Its thin face was corpse gray, and its lipless mouth hung open. A wide, curved single tooth jutted from its maw. It was stained with blood.

The Sword of Fire lanced out from behind the curtain, spearing through both the creature’s temples. Decado dragged the blade clear, then walked back to the twitching soldier. “You are not dying,” he said. “You will be paralyzed for an hour or two. After that you will be dead. The Eternal does not appreciate failure.”

The man passed out. Decado stood silently, trying to think of what to do. The one joyous, true, and perfect part of his life had been his time with the Eternal. Now she had betrayed him. Decado felt the pain of it, and a cold anger began. He considered striding through the palace and cutting out her heart. Then he would kill Unwallis and . . . Memnon?

The Shadowlord had been like a father to him, helping him with his pain and his rages. And the soldier had said he wanted a piece of bone, and that could only have been used to bring Decado back.

Decado needed time to think.

Swords in hand, he left the bathhouse. The gardens were empty, and he walked around the rear of the building until he reached the stable. There he chose a sturdy chestnut gelding, saddled it, and rode from the palace grounds.

T
he battle was short and fierce. Enemy lancers, some two hundred strong, hidden in the woods on the slopes of the mountains, had suddenly charged Alahir’s troop. They had obviously expected the surprise of their attack to disconcert the Legend riders. The enemy were charging from the high ground. All the advantages were theirs. Alahir yelled an order, and his fifty men coolly swung their mounts and lifted bows from saddle pommels. The first volley sent horses and men tumbling to the ground. The charge faltered as the charging men, behind the fallen, swerved their mounts to avoid running down their own wounded. A second volley tore into them. Then a third.