The Swords of Night and Day (41 page)

Memnon floated closer and stared down at the seeds, recognizing them. Sadness disappeared.

His spirit fled back to the flesh, and he surged upright. Rising too fast, he staggered and almost fell. Usually he lay still for a while, until his body and spirit came into balance. He made it to the door of his room and stood for a moment, holding to the frame and drawing in deep breaths. Then he opened the door and walked down to Landis Khan’s laboratory. A heavy weariness lay upon him. The last few days had been tiring, especially the long ride into the high country, where he had summoned several of his Shadows to meet him. Memnon did not like to be far from the comforts of a good palace.

In the laboratory his two assistants were still working. Patiacus looked up from the notes he was studying, then rose and bowed. Redheaded Oranin scrambled to his feet, dropping his notes. He, too, bowed deeply.

“Have you discovered anything?” asked Memnon, his voice soft and friendly.

“Much of general interest, Lord,” replied Patiacus, “but nothing as yet of a nature specific to your request.”

“In time it will become clear.” He turned to Oranin. “It is getting late, young man. Go and have some food. Get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lord.” The young apprentice bowed again, then backed away to the door.

After he had gone Memnon walked to Patiacus and patted him on the shoulder. “Sit down, my friend. Let us talk.”

“Yes, Lord. What did you wish to talk about?”

“The child died tonight. It was very touching. Tears and wailing.”

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“Yes. As am I.” Memnon moved behind him, his hands resting on the man’s shoulders. “How is your knowledge of herbs these days? Do you maintain your previous interest?”

“I have little time for such matters now, Lord.”

“Was it interesting as an apothecary?”

“It was interesting enough, Lord. Not as fascinating as the work I do now.”

“I would imagine not.” Removing one hand from Patiacus’s shoulder, he drew a small needle dagger from a sheath hidden beneath his shirt. Reaching around, he held the blade in front of Patiacus’s face. The man jerked back. “If this blade has been smeared with the resin obtained from Abalsin stem, Swaggerroot, and Corin seed, what would the effect be, were I to cut you with it?”

“Death, my lord.”

“Instant death?”

“Convulsions, swelling of the glands in the throat and the groin. Excruciating pain. Then death.”

“Very good,” said Memnon, patting the man’s shoulder. “Excellent. You have a fine mind, Patiacus. I have always respected that. Good memory, and excellent attention to detail.”

“You are frightening me, my lord.”

Memnon glanced down. Sweat was glistening on the man’s bald head. “Oh, do not fear, Patiacus. The blade does not carry the poisons I described. Though it is very sharp.” Lifting the knife, he made a tiny cut in the skin of the cranium. Patiacus cried out and struggled to rise. Memnon’s hand came down firmly on his shoulder, pushing him back in his chair. “We do need to talk, you and I.” Sheathing the blade, he moved past Patiacus and pulled up a chair.

The assistant was sweating freely now. “About what, Lord?”

“About service, Patiacus. Loyalty, if you will. Whom do you serve?”

“You, my lord.”

“True, but not accurate. Do you not also serve the Eternal?”

“Yes, of course. But you are my master.”

“I am indeed. I am also infinitely more clever than you. I say that not with any undue pride, merely stating a fact. Yet despite my greater intelligence I have been most foolish. The child who died, where did he live?”

“On the coast. Lentria, I believe you said.”

“Yes, I did. With whom did he live?”

“A merchant, you said. Cotton.”

“Exactly. Did you mention this fact to anyone else?”

“Of course not, Lord.”

“Ah, a lie, Patiacus. Your eyes flickered as you spoke it. So, whom did you tell?”

“I did not lie,” answered Patiacus, straining to hold to Memnon’s gaze.

“This time your eyes widened, showing the effort you were making to keep them still. My dear Patiacus, you are not doing very well. How are you feeling?”

“I am . . . feeling very warm, Lord. And still frightened.”

“Can you move your legs?”

Patiacus glanced down and jerked once more. “You have poisoned me!”

“Yes, but it is not deadly. It is Shadow venom. Not in its pure form. It is diluted. The paralysis will be that much slower. Also—and more importantly—you will be able to talk. You will not be able to move, but you will feel. There should be a tingling in your fingers now. It is the sign that your arms and upper body are becoming immobile.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“There is a mixture of seed and leaf that you used for me in the past, to kill those who sought me harm. You recall. The Slow Killer. The mixture could be boiled and administered within a stew, or even placed in a sweetened tisane, you said. It was almost tasteless, save for the trace of tannin. Death could take weeks, sometimes months, depending on the amount administered.”

Patiacus’s arm flopped out as he struggled to rise. His body spasmed, and he slid from the chair. Memnon grabbed the collar of his tunic and hauled him out from beneath the table. “Imagine my surprise, Patiacus, when I saw that the boy’s parents had been administering the same seed and leaf to their son, thinking it to be medicine.”

“Not I, Lord. Please!” begged Patiacus, his words slurring.

“Not you? Let me think. Someone wanted to kill a merchant’s son in a small town on the coast. In order to do this they decided to prepare the Slow Killer and convince the parents it was a potion for good health. Does that not seem to you to be overly complicated, Patiacus? If someone wanted the boy dead, they could just as easily have stabbed him. The question then becomes, why did they not? The answer is fairly obvious. They wanted the death to appear natural. The lumps under his skin would be thought to be cancerous. Is the merchant so feared that his vengeance might be the reason for the complexity? I think not. And then, my dear friend, there are the others. All my Reborns have died in the same way. Can you account for that?”

“I am your loyal servant. I swear it!”

“You are beginning to irritate me. Let us move to the specifics of your predicament. I am going to kill you, Patiacus. There is no question of a change of heart. I am going to spend the entire night causing you the most dreadful pain. I shall use flame, a metal file, a hammer, and any other item that comes to mind. I shall rend your flesh and smash your bones. Is that clear?”

“Oh please, Lord. I beg you!”

“Begging is not going to change anything. Tell me why you have been killing my children, and I might kill you swiftly.”

“You are making a mistake!”

Memnon smiled. “I am glad you said that. For an awful moment I thought you were going to tell me right away. You just lie there, Patiacus, while I fetch what I need.”

17

G
ilden eased his mount up a steep slope, halting just below the crest of the hill. He had no wish to be skylined and seen, so he dismounted and removed his helm before creeping up to the crest. When he looked over, his breath caught in his throat. Stavut had been right.

On the plain below were thousands of marching men and columns of horses. Bringing up the rear were two regiments of Jiamads. The army stretched all the way back to a distant line of hills. Gilden hunkered down and tried to gauge the numbers of the enemy. He estimated there to be at least twenty thousand fighting men, plus the two thousand Jiamads. In the vanguard he saw the riders of the Eternal Guard, in their armor of black and silver. Like the Legend riders they wore elaborate chain-mail hauberks, coifs, and gorgets. They also carried sabers and lances, and round bucklers on their left forearms. The thousand men of the Eternal Guard were the elite of the Eternal’s army, handpicked for their valor in other regiments.

Then he saw the Eternal herself, dressed in armor of bright silver, riding a white horse. Narrowing his eyes, he sought to focus more sharply. It seemed the horse had protruding horns on its brow. Gilden eased himself back from the slope and mounted his own chestnut. Swinging the beast, he set off slowly toward the north. He would have preferred to ride at speed, but was wary of his horse throwing up dust on the dry hillside. When he reached lower ground, he eased the beast into a run.

There was no doubt now that the last battle was approaching. Agrias would be hard pressed to hold off such a force. Especially without the Legend riders. Alahir had sent Bagalan back to gather the other two hundred fighting men, ordering him to rendezvous in three days at the small town of Corisle, eighty miles north. The town’s income derived from its situation close to the merging of three rivers. Due north, along the ancient canal, lay the Rostrias; west was a narrow, silt-heavy waterway that once flowed freely down to Siccus on the coast. East was another ancient canal that had been created in the far past to ferry supplies to the copper mines in the old Sathuli territories. From Corisle the plan was to hire barges that would carry the riders to the Rostrias, and along the river, before disembarking toward the site of the mysterious temple Skilgannon spoke of. The journey—if all went smoothly—would take many days.

Gilden was unhappy with the plan. More so now that he had seen the Eternal’s army. The battles would rage into Drenai land, and, as far as Gilden was concerned,
that
was where the Legend riders should meet the foe. Others agreed with him, and the conversation became heated.

Then Skilgannon spoke: “I understand your concerns,” he told them. “I also understand the desire to protect the homeland. It does you credit. We could ride for Siccus, and fight, seeking to hold off the Eternal. We might even succeed in turning back one of her armies. One of her
ten
armies. However, we would ultimately fail, because her resources are so much greater than those of your people. She can summon thousands of Jiamads, scores of regiments. If Ustarte’s prophecy is true, then we can win the war
only
by destroying the source of all her power. It is my belief the answer lies at the temple.”

“A temple you say is no longer there,” put in Gilden.

“That is so,” accepted Skilgannon. “However, since the artifacts of the elders still generate magic, the power source must still be operating. The first time I visited the temple it could not be seen. I had already ridden past it many times in my search. A ward spell had been placed over it, which fooled the eye. I cannot say to you, Gilden, that we will succeed. This may be a fool’s errand. But I trust Ustarte. I believe it was she who spoke to Alahir, leading him to the Armor. It was she who urged him to follow me.”

“A pox on prophecies,” said Gilden. “Why could she not just have told us what to do?”

“Not an easy question to answer,” said Skilgannon. “When I spoke with her she talked of there being many futures. Each decision we make changes those futures. We could go to the temple. We could travel to Siccus. We could stay here and do nothing. Some could go, some could stay. Each decision would result in scores of possible outcomes. Nothing is certain. My guess is that Ustarte saw a great number of possibilities for us. She dared not push us in any one direction, for fear of inadvertently sending us on the wrong path. The decisions are ours to make, for that is our destiny.”

“Well,
that
just shot over my head like an arrow,” said Gilden. “Perhaps there is a future where the Eternal vanishes in a puff of dust.” The comment eased the tension, and the men chuckled.

“The key,” said Skilgannon as the laughter died down, “has to be in the source of the magic. Destroy that and there will be no more Jiamads, no more Reborns, and—ultimately—no more Eternal. This will become once more a world of men. Think of it this way. If a bear is savaging your cattle, you do not wait in the pastures for its next attack. You seek out its lair and you kill it. The temple is the lair. That is where the war will be won.”

“As much as I appreciate discussion,” said Alahir, “I know of only one certain fact. The voice told me to follow where Skilgannon led. She said the hope of the Drenai rested on us. I will ride to the temple. Alone if need be.”

“Damn it, man, you won’t be alone!” said Gilden. “It hurts me you would say such a thing. We’re all with you. I’d ride into a lake of hellfire if you ordered it.”

Bagalan laughed. “You didn’t follow him into the pleasure den last week. Left him alone, I recall, with a goat-faced whore.”

“Ah well,” replied Gilden, smiling broadly, “he wasn’t the earl of Bronze then.”

The conversation had moved on to more prosaic matters, like provisions for the journey, and how they would pay for passage on the long barges that ferried supplies and men along the coast. The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a scout, followed by a dark-haired swordsman on a tall chestnut.

“This man claims to know Skilgannon,” said the scout.

Skilgannon rose. “What do you want here, Decado?”

At the mention of the name a sudden silence fell over the warriors. Every rider had heard of the famous killer.

“I came to join you, kinsman, and to tell you that Askari is currently in the camp of the Beastmaster. She called him Stavi, I recall.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Skilgannon.

“Her friend. A merchant, I think she said.”

“Stavut is with beasts?”

Gilden stepped in and explained what had passed between him and Stavut the previous day.

“How many Jiamads does he have?” asked Skilgannon.

“I’d say around fifty,” Decado told him.

“They could be useful.”

“We don’t need animals,” said Gilden. “We are warriors. We fight as men.”

Skilgannon shook his head. “We don’t yet know what we need. Successful war involves using all the weapons at one’s disposal. That is how we came to train horses, Gilden. We saw they would make us faster and more mobile. The Eternal will have sent a force to stop us. You think they will all be men? These are strange days. The Armor of Bronze has returned, and the ax of Druss the Legend. I am here—and I died a thousand years ago. Now a gentle merchant has somehow gathered an army of beasts, who could aid us in any battle. If I can use them, I will.”

Skilgannon had walked to the white stallion and saddled it. Then he mounted and rode back to Decado. “Where are they?” he asked.

“About ten miles due east and a little north. You’ll see a ridge, and just beyond it a line of trees. They are camped there.”

Skilgannon swung to Alahir. “Head toward the town you spoke of. I will catch up with you. The Eternal’s army is marching through the mountains, so make sure you keep scouts ahead.”

Without another word he rode from the campsite. Decado dismounted. “A little food would not go amiss,” he said. No one spoke to him, though at the orders of Alahir a warrior fetched him a bowl of broth and some dried beef. Decado took it a little way from the others and sat down to eat.

“They say he is a maniac,” Gilden told Alahir, keeping his voice low.

“A maniac with excellent hearing,” called out Decado. “Move farther away if you wish to discuss my merits. Better still, wait for a few moments, for I shall be asleep by then.” Finishing his meal, the swordsman stretched out on the ground.

Gilden and Alahir walked to the far side of the campsite. “I have heard the tales of him,” said Alahir. “Cold and deadly, and utterly without mercy. However, he is a swordsman and a warrior. He could be useful.”

“Beasts and madmen. Not very glorious, Alahir, my friend.”

“I am not interested in glory,” said Alahir, with a sigh. “I just want the Drenai to survive.”

Gilden recalled the conversation as he rode. There had been a weight of sadness in Alahir’s voice, and more than a little fear. As a Legend rider Alahir was expected to fight for his homeland.

As the earl of Bronze he would be expected to perform miracles.

A
s he rode away into the night Skilgannon’s mood was somber. The young Legend riders were fine men; brave. Bright eyed and eager to fight for their homeland. Such was always the way with the young. They had looked at him and seen someone of their own age, believing him to be filled with the same aspirations and ambitions. For the first time Skilgannon felt like a fraud. He wondered then about what was lost and what—if anything—was gained by the passage of the years. He was an old man in a young man’s body, and his thoughts of the world were sullied by his deeds in a previous lifetime. He had promised the Legend riders that if they won, it would once more become a world of men. He had made it sound as if this were something to be desired; some noble cause worth dying for.

He rode now under stars a thousand years older than when first he had seen them. And what had changed in this wondrous world of men? The strong still sought to dominate the weak. Armies still raged across the lands, killing and burning.
What will truly change if we win?
he wondered. The wheel of good and evil would spin on. Sometimes good would triumph for a while, but then the wheel would spin again.

The cold reality was that, even if he destroyed the source of magic, one day another source would be found.

By that token, he told himself, a man would never seek to counter the evils in his day. He would shrug and talk of spinning wheels. Perhaps, he thought, the wisdom of the old inevitably leads to a philosophy of despair and acquiescence.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he rode on, enjoying the power and the grace of the stallion. Moonlight gleamed on its bright flanks. Not the best horse on which to pass unnoticed, he thought, with a grin. His spirits lifted. In life a man could do no more than fight for what he believed to be right, without thought to future generations or the ultimate folly of man’s dreams.

His thoughts swung to Decado. The man was a disturbing presence, and Skilgannon was unsure about trusting him. His story about being hunted by the Eternal might have been false. He could have been sent as a spy, or as an assassin. Skilgannon did not want to have to fight him. With two swordsmen of such skill it was unlikely that even the victor would escape unscathed.

Ahead he saw the ridge Decado had mentioned, and headed the stallion toward the trees.

As he rode up the hill a huge Jiamad came into sight. It stood and watched him. Controlling the urge to draw his swords, he guided the stallion closer. The horse was nervous, and began to stamp its foot and edge sideways. “Steady now, Greatheart,” said Skilgannon.

As he came closer he recognized the Jiamad as the leader of the attack in the cave.

“Well met, Shakul,” he said. “How are you faring?”

“Run free. It is good.”

“I have come to see my friend, Stavut.”

“Bloodshirt with woman.”

Skilgannon dismounted. It was hard to tell from the growling delivery whether Shakul was happy or irritated by Askari’s arrival.

“Am I welcome in your camp?”

Shakul did not respond. Instead he turned and lumbered back into the trees. Holding firm to the reins of his mount, Skilgannon walked after him. Some fifty paces beyond the tree line he came to the camp. Many of the Jiamads were asleep. Others were sitting close to one another, speaking in low grunts.

Stavut was sitting by a campfire, Askari beside him. Skilgannon tethered his horse and walked across to them. He noted that Stavut was holding Askari’s hand, and surmised that their meeting had been a joyful one. A touch of jealousy stung him. Moving to the fire, he sat down. “Good to see you, Stavut.”

The young merchant looked at him without warmth. “I’ll not take my lads into your battles,” he said. “Know
that
straight from the outset.”

“What he meant,” said Askari dryly, “was that it is good to see you, too.”

Stavut blushed. “It
is
good to see you,” he said. “I’m sorry if I sounded brusque, but Askari has been telling me of your plan to find the temple. I don’t want my lads put in any danger.”

Skilgannon nodded. “Can we take this one step at a time? When last I saw you it was in the company of Kinyon and the villagers. Now you are being called the Beastmaster. I would be fascinated to know how all this occurred.”

Stavut sighed and launched into his tale. It was told starkly and simply. Skilgannon listened, then leaned back. “I am sorry about the villagers,” he said. “But it was their choice to return home. You have nothing to blame yourself for.”

“Nice of you to say so, but I
do
blame myself. I should have realized they were fearful of the lads—and of me. I should have taken steps to put them at their ease.”

“I cannot fault you for that,” said Skilgannon. “We all carry our guilts. So what will you do now?”

“I . . . we . . . haven’t made any plans.”

“Is that true?” Skilgannon asked Askari. “No plans?”

“I shall go with you to the temple, as I said,” she told him.

“What?” burst out Stavut. “You can’t!”