The Swords of Night and Day (47 page)

Jianna smiled as she remembered that long-ago day. Sipping her wine, she thought of Skilgannon. He would have been proud of her. There would have been no look of contempt in his eyes. She sighed. That look was hard to bear. It did not matter that he was a romantic and could never understand the need for ruthlessness in a monarch. It did not matter . . .

Yet it did.

In all her long life Jianna had needed admiration from only one person.

The man now out to destroy her.

She shivered, drained her goblet, poured another, and sought refuge in a past untainted by soaring ambition.

Landis Khan had given her a regenerative potion that the priests used to fend off sickness. It was, he said, a life extender. Not as powerful as having a reborn body, but it strengthened the immune system and revitalized glands and muscles that had begun to wither with age.

She had walked into Abadai’s filthy tent and sat down on a rug at the center, her saber across her lap, her saddlebag by her side. Abadai sat cross-legged opposite her. “Your words need to be golden,” he said.

She smiled. Reaching into her saddlebag, she produced the potion. It was contained in a bottle of purple glass, stoppered with wax. “Drink this,” she said, offering it to him.

“What is it?”

“It might be poison. Or it might give you a hint of what youth was once like.” Abadai returned the smile, but it was more of a grimace. He called out to the riders who were waiting outside. Ducking under the tent flap, they entered.

“I am about to drink a potion,” he said. “If it kills me then I want the bitch cut into pieces. Her suffering should be long.”

The riders glanced at one another and looked nervous. Jianna leaned forward. “They don’t want to embarrass themselves, Abadai, but they would be happier if you called in more men. However, that will not be necessary,” she said, lifting her saber and tossing it to one of the warriors. Abadai shook his head and suddenly chuckled.

“I am beginning to like you very much,” he told her, his gaze resting on her long legs.

“I have that effect on men,” she said.

Abadai took the purple bottle, broke the seal, and drank the contents in a single swallow. Then he sat very still watching her. “I feel nothing,” he said.

“You will, warrior. Now here is the second part of my promise.” Delving once more into the bag, she produced a heavy pouch, tossing it to the leader. He tipped the contents into his palm. Gold coins tumbled from his fingers. The other two warriors scrambled forward to get a closer look at the treasure. Abadai waved them back. He looked at her now with different eyes.

“This is the kind of promise I can understand,” he said. “What is it for?”

“I need an army. Not too large. Perhaps two hundred good fighting men, a few archers.”

Abadai took a deep breath, then levered himself to his feet. Stretching out his arms, he clenched his fists. Jianna looked at him. The deep lines on his face were softening, the iron gray of his hair growing darker. “I feel . . . strong,” he said. Jianna, who had only heard from Landis about the power of the potion, was almost as surprised as the warlord. The effect was startling. Masking her surprise, she glanced at the two warriors. They were standing openmouthed.

Abadai waved them away. As they left the tent he sat down once more. “You have been true to your word, girl. Where do you come from?”

“The Temple of the Resurrection.”

His eyes widened, and he was about to reply when he stopped and laughed. “I was about to say it was a myth. But I am here, younger and stronger. How young do I look?” he asked, suddenly.

“You have lost at least ten years,” she said. “I will supply fifty more gold coins before the fight, and fifty after we win. How many men do you have?”

“Sixty or so. There were more . . .” He shrugged. “This has been a bad year. Two bands struck out on their own.”

“You know where they are?”

“Of course.”

“Then send for them. When they are gathered, show them the gold. I will supply you with one extra coin for every man. This needs to be accomplished with speed, Abadai. The force we are facing will be in the mountains within the week.”

“And they are?”

“Mercenaries—much as you yourself. They are led by a former priest of the Resurrection and will be traveling down from the city of Gassima.”

“How many men does this priest have?”

She shrugged and spread her hands. “I would think no more than a few hundred. Perhaps less. All plunder from the bodies will belong to you, and all horses taken.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he stared at her with undisguised longing. “You fire my blood, girl. Share my bed and we will spit hands on the agreement.”

Jianna laughed. “After we win, Abadai, I will come to you. You will need the extra youth and vitality I have given you. And perhaps more.” Rising from the rug, she gathered up her saddlebag, slinging it over her shoulder. “When you have the men assembled, ride west until you see the hanging rock. You know where I mean?”

“Of course I know. Close to the old oasis.”

“The very same. I will join you there.”

“You were right,” he said as she reached the tent flap. Jianna glanced back. “He was my idiot brother. I came close to killing him myself a couple of times.”

The battle with the priest’s force had been short, bloody, and decisive. Unfortunately the man had escaped with a handful of riders. But most of his three hundred mercenaries lay dead on the desert floor. Abadai and his warriors had rushed around the battlefield, butchering wounded survivors and stripping them of rings, trinkets, clothes, and boots.

That night, as she had promised, she spent with the bandit leader. His lovemaking was fierce and urgent, lacking finesse and subtlety. Yet it was sublime when compared to the fumbling adoration of Landis Khan.

And so had begun the journey that would culminate in empire. Fearing the priest would return with a larger force, the priests had authorized Jianna to gather an army. With this she had marched to Gassima and sacked the city. Once more the priest escaped, heading south. Jianna pursued him. The priest sought refuge with a bandit warlord in the Sathuli mountains. Jianna gathered more fighters and crushed his army also. As her fame grew, her force swelled. She had become a power in the land. By the time the priest was caught and killed, he had become incidental to the greater purpose. The day of the Eternal had dawned.

The wine jug was empty. Jianna called out to her Guard, ordering them to bring her another. Agrippon himself brought it. “Well,” she said, “where is Agrias?”

“He had strangled himself with the cord of his robe, Highness.”

“The idiot. He always had a poor sense of timing,” she said. “Send for Unwallis.”

Alone once more she allowed the memories of the years to slide before her mind’s eye. As the army grew larger it became more and more necessary to widen the scope of its activities. More and more towns and cities came under her sway. Until, at last, even the fading empire of the Drenai fell before her, their ambassadors bending the knee, pledging allegiance. She had transferred the seat of her power to Diranan, taking Landis Khan and Agrias, and many of the priests and their artifacts of power, with her.

There had been many insurrections, a score of small wars. Yet always her empire swelled. As she grew older, and even the restorative potions began to lose their magic, Landis Khan had suggested repeating the process by which they had brought her back: raising duplicates of her.

Was that when I became evil?
she wondered. Anger flared.
You are seeing yourself through Skilgannon’s eyes,
she chided herself.

Or perhaps through the eyes of the last abbot, she realized. She had returned to the temple with Landis, seeking more artifacts. Landis wanted to study in the great library. The abbot had come down, she thought, to greet them. Instead he stood in the great doorway and refused them leave to enter. Jianna had been shocked.

“You have corrupted this temple,” he said. “You have made a mockery of everything we have worked for over the centuries. You have built an empire of evil, and seduced once good men like Landis to follow in your footsteps. You will not enter here, Jianna.”

Before she could answer he had stepped back inside, and the doors had swung shut. Furious, Jianna had ridden, with her fifty Eternal Guardsmen, to the closest garrison. Gathering several hundred men, she had returned—only to find the temple gone. Two riders rode over the rim of the crater that remained. They died horribly, the metal of their armor twisting around them, tearing into their flesh.

The arrival of Unwallis brought her thoughts back to the present. The statesman was disheveled, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Is there a problem, Highness?” he asked.

“I felt in need of the company of a friend,” she said. “Be at ease, I do not intend to seduce you. Just sit with me.”

“What has happened?” he asked.

“I saw Skilgannon. And now I must kill him.” She laughed then. “It is curious, Unwallis, but a part of me wants to be at his side, fighting the good fight against the evil Eternal. How foolish is that?”

“A part of you is doing just that,” he said.

“An interesting riddle? Perhaps you would explain.”

“I might be wrong, Highness, but did you not send the Legend riders to him?”

She looked at him closely, then shook her head and smiled. “I always forget how clever you are, my dear. But this is your crowning moment. How could you possibly know that? Did Memnon tell you?”

“No, Highness. I knew that you and Kilvanen found the Armor of Bronze. It seemed rather too coincidental that a wandering Drenai rider should discover the site.”

“And what conclusions do you draw?” she asked him.

“The wars with Agrias here, and Pendashal in the east, are of your own making. You crave excitement, and, in reality, there is no one who can truly defeat you. Once I realized that, then I knew the discovery of the Armor was not happenstance.”

“Ah, Unwallis, if you had only been a soldier, or developed some strategic skills.”

“I am happy I did not, Highness, for perhaps then I would have been buried alive like poor Agrias. As it is I fear my candor will cost me my life.”

“Then why risk it?”

“Sometimes,” he said, “the truth just has to be spoken, no matter what the consequences. Landis Khan was a friend of mine. He knew of your manipulations. He also knew you were hoping he would join Agrias. The two of them might have really tested you.”

“His plans were rather more dangerous to me,” she said.

“I think he surprised you with those. Even so, you have sought to give Skilgannon a greater chance than he would have had.”

“He deserves it,” she said, refilling her goblet. “I never had a braver or more dedicated friend. Olek risked his life many times for me. Without him I would never have escaped the city. My father’s murderers would have caught me and killed me, as they did my mother. Skilgannon lost his friends and his youth to my cause. Through the darkest times—when we thought we were finished—he stayed loyal. He won battles no other general could have. Outnumbered, sometimes outmaneuvered, occasionally even—in those early days—outclassed, he won. He was unstoppable. His men revered him. They fought with utter belief in his ultimate victory. It was a sight to behold.”

“And this is the man you have given an army to? Do you want to be defeated, Highness?”

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice slurring. “Come to my bed, Unwallis. I don’t want sex. I just want to fall asleep next to a friend.”

“Then you are not going to have me killed?”

“Ask me in the morning,” she told him.

19

S
kilgannon headed his chestnut gelding up the steep, rocky slope, pausing below the crest and dismounting. Leaving the gelding’s reins trailing, he eased his way to the top and gazed out over the rugged, arid lands that stretched from the mountains to the sea. Unlike the deserts across the ocean there was no heat to speak of here. It was a desert simply because the ground lacked topsoil, consisting almost entirely of rock. Harsh winds blew across the plateau, and what plants could grow in this inhospitable place were thin and spiky. The few trees were dry, the wood snapping and crumbling under the faintest of pressure.

Skilgannon’s throat was dry, his hair gray with rock dust. His eyes felt gritty. Seeing that the land below was empty of movement, he waved the others forward. Decado and Alahir rode their horses up.

“No sign of them yet,” said Skilgannon.

“Why would she warn you?” asked Decado.

“I cannot answer that.”

“Maybe the bitch was lying,” said Alahir. Skilgannon glanced at him. The events of the morning lay heavy on the Drenai leader. After days of easy traveling they had disembarked on the banks of the Rostrias and headed north for the temple site. The riders had been glad to be free of the boats. As indeed had the Jiamads. The two-day march to the temple mountains had been without incident. Stavut and his pack had also caught and killed eight bighorn sheep, and everyone had tasted fresh meat.

This morning had seen the first tragedy.

They had arrived at the temple mountains, and Skilgannon had seen for himself the enormous crater where the temple had been. It was a disconcerting sight. Although Gamal had said it was gone, Skilgannon had nursed the hope that the man had been mistaken; that he and his companion had traveled to the wrong place.

The riders had reined in on the edge of the crater. Shakul had wandered over the rim, his great head swaying. Then he had stumbled, and almost fallen. Alahir’s young aide, Bagalan, had dismounted. When Shakul seemed in trouble, he had run forward. Then he had screamed. Shakul grabbed the rider and lurched back over the rim. Bagalan had writhed in his grasp, blood bursting from his mouth and throat. Shakul lowered him to the ground, and the riders had gathered around. Alahir was the first to the young man’s side. Blood was seeping through Bagalan’s armor. His body went through a series of violent spasms. Then he died.

Alahir stared down at the boy’s twisted armor. His chain-mail gorget was mangled and blood covered, his breastplate cracked. Lower down his chain-mail hauberk was embedded in the flesh of his right thigh. It was as if his armor had come alive, and had eaten its way into his body.

Skilgannon stood over the corpse. He did not remind them that he had warned the riders to stay clear of the crater. There was no need. Bagalan’s mutilated corpse was enough of a reminder.

“No way for a Drenai warrior to die,” said the veteran Gilden. “We cannot even take his armor.” Alahir tried to draw the boy’s sword from its scabbard, but even this had twisted and melded.

“What kind of magic does this?” asked Alahir, his face ghostly pale.

“I don’t know,” said Skilgannon.

One of the riders swore—and pointed at the crater. Bagalan’s helm was writhing on the dusty ground. It was changing shape—as if a giant, unseen hammer was pounding it. Then, as they watched, the helm rose from the ground, twisting and shimmering in the sunlight. It flew higher, then moved north, like a silver bird. The riders watched it until it disappeared. No one spoke.

“Move back from the rim,” said Skilgannon, at last. “Set up camp over there by the stand of rocks.”

Moving to his horse, he stepped into the saddle. “Alahir!” he called. “Ride with me. We need to scout for a defensive position.”

Alahir backed away from the corpse and mounted his horse. As Skilgannon headed away toward the east, Alahir and Decado joined him.

“I still think she might have been lying,” said Alahir.

“It is a possibility, but I don’t think so. Therefore, until we know differently, we will assume we are facing a thousand riders and two hundred Jiamads. We cannot take them on open ground. They will flank us.”

“I’ve seen the Eternal Guard in action,” said Decado. “They are rather splendid, you know.” He looked at Alahir. “No offense to you and your men, but I’d back the Guard to take any force. Would it not be better to stay mobile, rather than pick a battle site?”

“Look around you, Decado,” said Skilgannon. “Open land with no cover? A few water holes, and no trees. No hiding places. We cannot run. Our only hope is to locate the temple and end the magic.”

“You have not seen the Legend riders fight,” Alahir told Decado. “I would wager they will turn back this Guard of yours.”

“An interesting idea,” said Decado, with a wide smile. “However, if you lose how would you pay the wager?”

“We do not lose,” snapped Alahir.

“Let us move on,” said Skilgannon.

For two hours they rode over the arid land. Skilgannon stopped often to study the ground. He questioned Alahir about the route the Guard would take. Alahir, who had never been this far north, could offer little constructive advice. Decado offered his opinion. “They would have taken ships from Draspartha,” he said, “and followed the coast. Beyond the mountains ahead of us is the Pelucid Sea. There is only one port on the coast—well, more of a fishing settlement, really—but there is a jetty. I stopped there two years ago after returning from a campaign in Sherak. As I recall there is a mountain road leading to the old silver mines.”

“A pass would suit us,” said Skilgannon. “Somewhere narrow. That would level the odds.”

“You might be expecting too much,” said Decado. “In my experience there is rarely only one pass through any mountain range. If we form up in one, what is to stop the Guard from finding another and encircling us?”

“First let us find a pass. Then we’ll argue about how to hold it,” Skilgannon told him. Angling his horse, he set off toward a tower of red rock that rose like a spear above the surrounding high ground. Dismounting, he walked around the base of the tower, then levered himself up, seeking out hand- and footholds. Decado and Alahir watched him as he climbed ever higher.

Once on the face Skilgannon moved with care. The holds were good, but he was aware that the rock was soft stone, and he tested each hold before applying his full weight.

Several times as he gripped what seemed a solid hold the rock would crumble and fall away. Higher he went, until he was some two hundred feet above the rocks below. He glanced down. Decado and Alahir had dismounted and were watching him keenly.

At last he levered himself over the lip of the peak and sat staring down over the land below. From here he could see the sharp breaks in the mountains signifying passes. Decado had been right. There were several. He could not tell from this vantage point which of them might be blind canyons, but he could see the main pass, and just glimpse the sea in the far distance. He sat for a while, gathering his strength for the return climb, and continued to study the land ahead. When he had finally committed the scene to memory he eased himself back over the edge and climbed carefully down.

Despite his skills he was relieved when his feet touched solid ground.

He told the waiting men what he had seen and sent Alahir back to fetch the rest of the force, directing him to head due east toward the deep V-shaped cut in the mountains. “Decado and I will scout the various passes, and see which offers the best chance of success.”

As Alahir rode away, Decado shook his head. “You are the most optimistic man I have ever met, kinsman. Do you really believe these country boys can beat the Guard?”

“It hardly matters what I believe. We cannot run, and we cannot hide. Therefore we fight. And when I fight, Decado, I win. Be it an army or a single man.”

“Unlike most people I love arrogance,” said Decado, happily. “It is so refreshing. I feel the same way. There’s not a man born of woman who could live with me in a duel. And you know what that means, don’t you?”

“Tell me.”

“One of us is wrong.”

“Or both of us,” said Skilgannon. “How fortunate we are on the same side.”

Decado chuckled. “Fortune is a fickle beast at best,” he said.

Skilgannon walked to his horse and mounted. “Tell me all you can of the Guard, their training methods, their tactics, their weapons,” he said as Decado moved to his own mount.

Decado swung himself into the saddle. “Mounted or on foot they always attack,” he said. “And like you, kinsman, they never lose.”

U
nwallis had experienced many ambitions in his long life. Most had been fulfilled. One would never be fulfilled. For some reason that he would never understand, none of the many women in his life had ever conceived children by him. It had always been a mild regret. Until now.

He lay in the royal bed, Jianna curled up alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her thigh across his own. She was, at this moment, entirely childlike, and Unwallis felt a strong paternal affection for the sleeping queen. He lay there quietly, stroking her long, dark hair. Intellect told him this feeling was merely an illusion. The women lying in his arms was a ruthless tyrant, with the deaths of nations on her conscience. But in the dark of the tent his intellect faded back, allowing his emotions to roam free.

An hour passed. Unwallis began to doze.

Something caused him to wake suddenly. His eyes flared open.

He found himself looking into the gray face of a Shadow, looming over the bed. A knife blade pricked the skin of his shoulder, and he fell back. The paralysis came swiftly. Two other Shadows moved alongside. He saw Jianna jerk and try to swing her legs from the bed. With a swiftness the eye could not follow they were upon her.

Unwallis, paralyzed, could do nothing to help her. He could not even close his eyes when he saw a cold, gray dagger blade plunge into Jianna’s heart. Her body fell back to the bed, her dead eyes staring into Unwallis’s frozen orbs. Then the Shadows dragged the queen’s corpse from her bed.

Unwallis did not see them take her from the tent. He lay, his unclosed eyes becoming dry and painful, for several agonizing hours. Finally he was lifted up by Agrippon. A surgeon was beside the bed. Together they lifted Unwallis into a sitting position. Slowly the feeling came back to his arms, and with it a terrible pounding pain in his skull.

When at last he could speak he uttered a single word. “Jianna?”

“Shadows struck down the Guard,” said Agrippon. “We can find no trace of her.”

“She was killed,” said Unwallis. “Stabbed through the heart. They took her body away.”

A
lahir stretched out on the rocky ground at the water’s edge and removed his helm and hauberk. The sun was warm, but there was a breeze whispering through the rocks, cooled as it passed over the pool. All around him the Legend riders, save for the men scouting the eastern roads, were relaxing. Beyond them the horses, watered now, were tethered in the shade of the western rock face.

Gilden joined him. The veteran had doffed his armor and was dressed now only in a simple gray, knee-length tunic. He did not look like a soldier now; more a grim-faced teacher. “That tunic has seen better days,” observed Alahir.

Gilden glanced down. “It was once green, I think,” he said. Then he sat down, reached into the water, and splashed his face. Leaning over, he gazed into the depths. “I wonder how deep it is,” he said.

“Amazing that it is here at all,” said Alahir. “Is it just trapped rainfall, do you think?”

“Hard to say,” Gilden told him. “Desert tanks like these can be connected to artesian wells—even underground lakes. I think that’s why the ancients angled the road so close to the cliffs here. It would have made a fine resting place on the journey from the sea to the interior. Merchants could water their horses and rest before the long haul to Gulgothir or Gassima.” He glanced across to the other side of the pool, some thirty feet away, where Askari was sitting alongside the brooding Harad. “Beautiful girl. That Stavut is a lucky man.”

“I am not sure how lucky any of us are,” said Alahir. “We are about to face the Eternal Guard and a few hundred Jems.”

Gilden did not reply. He cast his eyes around the area. “Where is Stavut?”

“The pack went off with Skilgannon and Decado. They are scouting the other passes, trying to see whether the Guard can find a way around us.”

Gilden laughed. “A part of me hopes they miss us completely.”

“I know the feeling,” agreed Alahir. “But then what would we do, my friend? Ride home and die facing yet another regiment—or two, or ten?”

“There is that.”

Askari rose and walked over to sit with them. “The water is cool and yet no one is swimming,” she said. “Why is that?”

Gilden laughed aloud, and looked at Alahir. “We are not, er, great swimmers,” Alahir told her, his face reddening.

Askari glanced at Gilden. “Am I missing something here?”

“Indeed you are, lass.”

“Oh shut up, Gil!” snapped Alahir.

“Ours is a society of ancient values, some of which, to be frank, are startlingly stupid,” said Gilden, gleefully. “Women come in three groups: angelic maidens, wives, and whores. The first two groups are revered, the third enjoyed. Of course when I say
enjoyed,
it should be understood that this enjoyment comes with a sack of guilt.”

“And this has something to do with swimming?” asked Askari.

“At any time the enemy may come in sight. You don’t want to be fighting in wet clothes. Therefore we would swim naked. And the Drenai cannot do that while you are here, you angelic maiden you.” His laughter boomed out.

“But you do not share this . . . shyness?” she said, sweetly.

“I was part raised in the south, across the Delnoch mountains, so I have greater experience of other cultures.”

“Good, then doff that threadbare tunic and show your comrades how well you swim.”

Now it was Alahir whose laughter rang out. Gilden reddened. “Ah, well,” he temporized, “having said that, I never did quite throw off the shackles of my training.”