The Swords of Night and Day (39 page)

“Stavut said that? We are talking about the same Stavut? Small man, wagon, scared rigid of Jiamads?”

“Aye, the same. Only he’s not scared now. Must have fifty of the beasts with him. Been teaching them to hunt, he told me.”

Alahir burst out laughing. “What is so funny?” asked Gilden, eyes narrowing.

“This is a good jest, Gil. And you sold it well. I never realized you had such a dry sense of humor. So where is he? Is he following you?”

“I wish it was a jest. His clothes are covered in dried blood. He even has two Jiamads pulling his wagon—and don’t you dare laugh again. This is all true. What are we to do? Our orders are clear when we come across Jems.”

“Our orders no longer apply, Gil. Not since we found the Armor.”

“It’s not right letting those beasts walk free. I think Stavut is deranged. They’ll kill him as soon as hunger takes them.”

“I hate the creatures as much as you, Gil. But he was in no danger when you saw him. What else did he say?”

“He said there’s an army moving from the south, thousands of men. Looks like the final confrontation is coming.”

“Let’s find the horse, then we’ll swing north.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Gilden, glumly.

The troop rode on for just under an hour, entering a thinly wooded area of flatland. As they emerged onto open ground they saw the white horse and its rider. Alahir’s breath caught in his throat. The beast was majestic, thundering across the land, seeking to unseat the man. The rider also was magnificent, reading the stallion’s every move. When the horse rolled, and the rider leapt clear, only to vault back into the saddle as it rose, Alahir felt like applauding. Every man in the troop watched with admiration as the contest of wills continued. At last the horse realized it had met its match, and the rider put it through a series of sharp turns and sudden sprints. Only then did he look up and see the Legend riders. Patting the horse’s neck he rode toward them, drawing rein and sitting silently. Alahir stared at the man. His face was lean and handsome, his eyes ferociously blue. He did not seem ill at ease. Heeling his own mount forward, Alahir spoke. “Thank you for finding my horse,” he said.

“It is not your horse,” said the man. The words were not spoken angrily; nor was there any sense of confrontation. They were just spoken, matter-of-factly.

“How do you arrive at that conclusion?”

The man smiled and pointed to the riders around Alahir. “You all have the same saddle designs, stirrup protectors, horns from which to hang your bows. This saddle has no such designs. Added to which there was blood upon it. My guess is the rider was killed.”

“Very astute,” said Alahir, “and entirely right. However, the horse is mine by right of conquest, since I killed its rider.”

“Ah well,” replied the man, “that sets an interesting precedent. Are you intending to conquer me also?”

“You think we cannot?”

“I would be a fool to believe I could beat forty armed soldiers. No, there is no doubt that the survivors would claim the horse.” His voice hardened. “You, however, would not be among the survivors. Nor the two riding with you. I am not sure how many others I could take with me on the Swans’ Path. Three or four probably. Even so it might be worth the risk. It is a fine horse.”

Alahir laughed. “Then you think we
should
attack you for it?”

“Depends how much you want the horse.”

At that moment two other people came into view, a staggeringly beautiful young woman, dark haired and slim, carrying a recurve bow, and a huge, black-bearded warrior bearing a massive ax.

“Stay back,” the rider told them, “and do nothing.”

Alahir stared at the woman, and the bow she carried. “Would you be Askari?” he asked.

“I am. How would you know that?”

“I chose that bow myself. Stavut wanted a fine present for you.”

“You are Alahir?”

“Indeed I am, beautiful lady,” he replied, bowing low.

She laughed. “He said you were ugly and crookbacked and had lost all your teeth.”

Gilden edged alongside him. “Have you seen the ax?” he said. Alahir looked more closely at the weapon carried by the massive young man. He said nothing for a moment.

“Are there runes upon that blade?” he asked the man.

“Aye, in silver.”

“May I see it?”

“Step down first,” said the man. “I’ll not be passing my weapon to armed men.”

Alahir dismounted and walked over to the man, who held up the ax so that the runes on the haft could be seen.

“Does it say what I think it might?” called out Gilden.

“It does.” Walking back to his horse, he stepped into the saddle and returned his attention to the man with the sapphire eyes.

“This is a day of surprises,” he said. “Would you do me a kindness, and show me the weapons you would have used to defend your right to the horse?”

The man’s arms swept up and back, and two gleaming swords flashed in the sunlight. One was gold, the other moonlight silver.

“The man with two swords,” said Alahir. “We are to follow where you lead.”

16

A
skari, nursing a thudding headache, sat with Harad as Skilgannon, Alahir, and many of the riders gathered round and talked. Much of the conversation was lost on the huntress, dealing as it did with Drenai history, old legends, and new prophecies. Her attention waned still further when Alahir produced a brilliantly burnished helm of bronze and showed it to Skilgannon. Armor was not one of her interests. Beside her Harad was becoming irritated by the number of men wishing to see the ax. Many of them reached out reverentially and touched the haft.

One young man squatted down before them and just stared at the weapon. Askari, her patience wearing as thin as Harad’s, said: “It is an ax—not a holy relic.”

“It is
the
ax,” he replied, not taking his eyes from the weapon.

“Well, you have seen it. Now leave us in peace,” snapped Harad.

The conversation among the leaders turned to more recent events, and Askari heard Stavut’s name mentioned. A grizzled veteran soldier was talking about the merchant now keeping company with a troop of Jiamads. Askari listened in amazement. Stavut, who was terrified of wolves and noises in the dark, was now leading a pack of monsters? It was ludicrous. There must have been a mistake. He was supposed to be leading her friends to a place of safety. Rising, she walked to where the men were talking and questioned the veteran. He told her what had transpired, including the story Stavut had outlined, of a battle to avenge the deaths of people he cared about.

“Which way was he heading?” she asked.

“Northeast.”

Askari moved back from the men, swept up her bow and quiver, and walked away through the trees. Harad followed her. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“To find Stavut.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No disrespect, Harad, but you can’t move as fast as I can.” With that she set off at a run, cutting through the trees and back toward the north. Once away from the group she felt her tensions ease. The headache she had suffered for the last few hours drifted away. There were perhaps three hours of good daylight left as she loped across the grassland toward a distant wood. If Stavut was with a pack of Jiamads, then their tracks should not be hard to find. As she ran, eyes scanning the ground, she thought of what she had heard. Stavut covered in blood. Something had obviously happened that had unhinged the young man. Though brave, he was not a warrior, as she had seen during the fight in the cave. No, Stavut was a sensitive fellow, with charm, wit, and a good heart. So why was he with the beasts? Perhaps they had taken him hostage or were keeping him for . . . for food? She shuddered at the thought.

Askari ran on, moving now toward the east, seeking to cut across the trail left by the beasts. The tracks would tell the story better than she could imagine it. The search took far longer than she had estimated, and there was less than an hour’s daylight remaining when she came upon the trail. She was tired now, having been on the move at speed for around two hours. Carefully she studied the spoor. It was difficult to estimate the numbers of beasts, for the tracks overlapped one another, but it seemed there must be more than thirty of them. Stavut’s boot prints were clear, here and there. One huge Jiamad was walking alongside him. Guarding the prisoner? Now with a clear trail Askari ran again, heading northeast. The ground rose steadily toward a high stand of pine. The wind was blowing from the west, so the Jems would not be able to pick up her scent. Even so she moved more warily. The last thing she needed was to run straight into their camp.

Askari ran on. As she neared the tree line she heard a horse whinny. Coming to a stop, she nocked an arrow to her bow. From the trees ahead she saw Decado ride into sight. He waved and smiled. “You are a long way from your friends, beauty,” he said.

“And you are a short way from death,” she said.

“Pish! We are all a short way from death.” Lifting his leg over the saddle horn, he jumped lightly to the ground. “So what brings you here?” he asked, walking to a jutting rock and sitting down.

“Does it not concern you that I might kill you?” she asked.

“You didn’t kill me that first night, beauty. You just let me go. Why was that?”

“Obviously a mistake,” she told him.

“Probably.”

“And stop calling me beauty. I am not her.”

“Confusing, though,” he said. He winced suddenly and rubbed at his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing of note. I get head pains sometimes. Mostly they are bearable. Sometimes—as when you found me—they are . . . not so bearable. This one is—happily—not so debilitating. So, why are you here?”

“I am looking for a friend.”

“Ah well, lucky you, for you have found one.”

“You are not my friend, Decado. I am speaking of a true friend, a man named Stavut.”

“The one walking with the Jiamads?”

“Yes. You have seen them?”

“Indeed I have. I came upon them earlier. Thought I would have to fight my way clear. Happily he has them well disciplined, so there was no trouble.”

“He is not a prisoner then?”

“It would be an unusual definition of the word
prisoner.
He commands them, and they obey. Strange man. A little deranged, I think.”

Askari laughed then. Decado smiled. “I have amused you?”

“That you, of all people, should accuse another of being deranged.”

“Yes, ironic isn’t it? Of course I could argue that it gives me a better insight.” He looked at her quizzically. “No offense, but I don’t suppose you’d consider getting naked with me. It would help relieve my headache.”

“I don’t believe you! I loathe you, Decado. What on earth would make you think I’d want to sleep with you?”

“I wasn’t talking about sleep. Just sex. However, a simple no would have been sufficient.” He glanced up at the sky. “Are you still thinking of finding your friend?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t do it before dark on foot. Climb up behind me and I’ll take you to them.” Rising from the rock, he walked to his horse, stepped into the saddle, then held out his hand to her.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I can’t think of a single good reason.”

“Nor I,” she said, with a smile.

Returning the arrow to its quiver, she took his hand. Decado slipped his foot from the stirrup, and Askari levered herself up to sit behind him.

T
he meeting with Gilden had depressed Stavut considerably. He liked the man and, more, respected him. Gilden was brave, honorable, and good-hearted. Yet the hatred in his face when he talked of the “vermin” had shocked Stavut. As he walked on, the ground rising higher and higher toward the northeast, he kept thinking of Gilden’s savage reaction. It wouldn’t have surprised Stavut a few weeks ago, he realized. In fact he, too, had felt the same about Jiamads. But then he had never known any. Now he knew there was no evil in them. They were savage in the same way as the wolf or the lion. They killed to eat. There was no hatred in them, no malice.

Last night he had witnessed a fight develop between Shakul and another huge beast. It had begun so swiftly Stavut had no chance to intervene. The two beasts had rushed at one another, snarling and biting. At first Shakul had been pushed back, but then he struck his opponent with a ferocious right hand. The beast staggered. Shakul leapt upon him, bearing him to the ground. He hit him twice more, open-handed, the sound sickening. The beast slumped. Then Shakul rose above him, standing very still. The dazed Jiamad slowly moved to all fours, then nuzzled the ground at Shakul’s feet. The other members of the pack gathered around. Then each began to stamp his feet on the ground.

Shakul walked back to where Stavut stood, mesmerized by the scene. “What was that about?” he asked.

“Place,” said Shakul. “Place in pack.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Shakul’s place.”

“He wanted to take your place as . . . what?”

Shakul’s huge hand touched Stavut’s shoulder. “Bloodshirt,” he said. Then he tapped his own chest. “Shakul.” He pointed to the beast he had fought. “Broga.” Then at Grava, who was sitting close by.

Stavut understood then. The pack order was decided by battle. This left him suddenly uneasy. “Does this mean you and I will fight one day?”

Shakul’s shoulders heaved as he made the staccato growl Stavut understood to be laughter. Then he walked away.

Throughout the morning the pack pushed on. Stavut had no idea how fast the army of the Eternal marched, nor indeed whether they had anything to fear from them. It was likely they would merely pass through the land. However, Stavut had no wish to depend on luck. His view was to put as much distance between the army and the pack as possible. Unfortunately this meant climbing higher into the mountains. The Jiamads were taking turns now hauling his wagon, but the trail was becoming more and more difficult. It was also narrowing. To Stavut’s right there was a fearsome drop. As he walked, he stayed close to the cliff wall on his left. Shakul came alongside him, staring at him.

“Bloodshirt sick?”

“No. Frightened. I hate heights,” he said, pointing to the edge.

Shakul walked to the lip of the precipice and stared over and down. “Long way,” he said.

Then he marched on, scouting the path ahead. Grava came alongside, his long tongue lolling from his mouth. He said something utterly unintelligible. Stavut nodded. “Good point,” he replied. Grava nodded and spoke again. Happily, he wandered off before Stavut was forced to admit he didn’t understand a word.

The pack moved on. Up ahead came the sound of falling rocks. Stavut raised his arm and halted the pack. Grava ran forward to check for danger. When he returned Stavut could see he was agitated. He ran to Stavut and began to speak. “Slow down,” said Stavut. “I can’t understand you.”

Grava did so, but Stavut could only make out one word.
Shakul.

He followed Grava back to where a rockslide had struck the trail. A section of the ledge had fallen away. Grava moved to the edge and pointed down. Stavut inched his way forward, then dropped to hands and knees. His stomach churning, he peered over. Some thirty feet down Shakul was clinging to an overhang, unable to lever himself up. Stavut swore—then remembered there was rope in the wagon. Easing back from the ledge, he ran to where three Jiamads were heroically pulling the wagon up the slope. Climbing to the driver’s seat, he applied the brake, then clambered over to the back, searching through the packages, pushing aside small barrels and bales of cloth. At last he came up with the rope. Looping it over his shoulder, he ran back to where Grava and some others were gathered. Calling one of the most powerful of the Jiamads to him, he looped one end of the rope over the beast’s shoulder. “I am going to throw the rope to Shakul,” he said. “When he grabs it you pull him up. Understand?”

“Pull up,” answered the beast. Unlooping the rope, he walked to the edge.

“I am throwing a rope down,” he shouted to Shakul.

Grava came alongside, shaking his head.

“What?” asked Stavut. Grava lifted his hands in a clawing motion and spoke, very slowly. Stavut made him repeat his words several times before he understood. Shakul could not let go. Stavut moved to the cliff edge once more, and understood what Grava was trying to say. Shakul’s arms were fully extended, his weight enormous. If he tried to let go and reach for the rope he would fall. “Can you climb down to him?” Stavut asked Grava. The beast stepped back, shaking his head.

Stavut swore again, then took hold of the end of the rope and made a large loop. Then he threw the rope over the edge. Glancing back at the beast holding the other end of the rope, he said: “When I shout, you pull up.”

“Pull up,” said the beast.

“Brilliant!” muttered Stavut.

Taking a deep breath, he took hold of the dangling rope and lowered himself over the edge. “Do not look down,” he told himself. “That’s what Askari says.” Carefully he lowered himself down the rock face. Footholds were plentiful, and he had little difficulty reaching Shakul. As he climbed down alongside the Jiamad, he saw fear in Shakul’s eyes.

“Long way!” he gasped.

“I am going to loop the rope around your waist. You hang on!”

This was the moment that Stavut realized he was going to have to look down. His stomach tightened. Slowly he moved his head, his eyes fastened to the black fur on Shakul’s massive legs and dangling feet. Carefully Stavut lowered himself farther, lifting the loop over the legs and up toward the hips. A cold wind blew across the cliff face. Small stones tumbled down. Shakul’s left hand slipped, then scrabbled to hold on. Stavut pulled the rope up over the beast’s hips, then shouted: “Pull up!”

Nothing happened.

Only then did he realize he had given the rope to Broga—the beast Shakul had fought the night before.
You idiot,
he told himself. The one creature in the pack who wanted Shakul displaced now had Shakul’s life in his hands. “Pull the rope!” Stavut shouted again.

Shakul fell from the ledge, dislodging Stavut.

The rope went tight. Shakul’s arm shot out, talons slicing through Stavut’s shirt and raking the skin beneath. Then they both hung over the dizzying drop. The shirt began to tear.

Grava’s head peered over the edge. “Pull us up!” yelled Stavut.

The rope tightened once more, and slowly, inch by inch, they were hauled up the cliff face. Once above the overhang Shakul managed to gain footholds. As they neared the top Grava reached over and grabbed Stavut, pulling him to safety. Stavut moved away from the cliff edge, then turned toward Broga. There was blood on his hands where the rope had burned him. Yet he had not let go.

“Good work,” said Stavut, patting the beast on the arm.

“Broga pull up,” he said, dropping the rope and licking his bloodied palms. Stavut wandered away. His legs were trembling now, and he felt sick. To take his mind off vomiting he gathered up the rope, looping it over his forearm. Only when he was almost done did he realize that one end was still tied around Shakul. Walking to the beast, he undid the knot.