The Swords of Night and Day (21 page)

Charis stood frozen to the spot. The she heard a gurgling scream come from Landis Khan. Fleeing the room, she raced along the corridor to the stairs leading to Gamal’s apartment. She did not wait to knock, but ran inside, finding the blind man sitting on a balcony. Swiftly she told him what had transpired, her words tumbling out, almost incoherently.

“I feared it would come to this,” the blind man had said with a sigh. “Fetch me my cloak, Charis, and a stout pair of shoes. Get yourself a cloak also. You shall lead me into the hills. There is someone I must find.”

Now, following a day of death and bloodshed, Charis was sitting in the darkness, a terrible beast close by. The shivering worsened. Gamal came alongside her, placing his arm around her shoulder.

“I am sorry, my dear, for all that you have suffered. But I could not have made it this far without you.”

Charis felt close to tears. Not this time through fear. The kindness and compassion in his voice created a shocking contrast to the horrors of the day. “Are we safe now?” she whispered.

She saw his head tilt toward the sleeping beast, and noted the concern that showed on his weary face. He took a deep breath. “No, my dear, we are not safe. Longbear was once a friend of mine, but little of that man is left in the creature. We must be careful around him. Try not to react fearfully, and do not look directly into his eyes. All animals see this as a challenge or a threat. If we can find a food source I believe there will be less cause for concern.”

“Where are we going, Lord? There is nothing out here, save an old fortress and a few settlements.”

“I need to find the young man who was at the palace recently.”

“The one with the paintings on his skin?”

“Yes.”

“He is with Harad.” Thoughts of Harad calmed her. She wished he were here now. The beast they traveled with would seem far less daunting if Harad was close by. “How will we find them?”

“Tomorrow I shall ask Longbear to seek his scent. They met a few days ago. Now forgive me, child, but I am bone weary and must rest. You should try to do the same. Longbear will sleep at least until dawn.”

Gamal lay down, his head resting on his arm. His breathing deepened.

Once he was asleep it occurred to Charis that she could simply stand up and walk quietly away into the night. The deadly woman who had ordered the lord’s death had made it clear that no one was to be needlessly killed. She had said something about ensuring palace servants continued their duties. Surely if Charis was to go back, all danger would be ended? It was an inviting thought. She gazed down at the sleeping man.
He is old and blind,
she told herself.
What could he do without help? How will he find Harad and the tattooed man? The beast will do it for him,
argued an insistent voice in her mind.
He said they were friends once. Leave him. Save yourself!

The thought was more than tempting. It was right!

Slowly she rose, so as not to disturb him. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, and a silver glow shone on the sleeping man. In its harsh light she saw his frailty. His eyes were sunken, his face seamed with wrinkles so deep they appeared as scars.

He will die out here without me,
she realized with cold certainty.

In the near distance she could hear the sounds of running water. Another thought came to her then, and she quietly slipped away from the campsite. The stream was close by, bubbling over rocks and tiny waterfalls. Slowly she followed its path until she came to a wider pool, some thirty feet across. She sat by it for a while, then stood and removed all her clothes. Shivering, she stepped into the water and carefully waded out toward a deeper section, surrounded by rocks. Then she stood, statue still, her hands beneath the surface. After a while she saw the sleek form of a fish swim by, then another. Charis did not move. For what seemed an age no fish swam close enough. But then a long, fat fish glided over her hands. In a flash Charis swept it up, hurling it out onto the bank, where it flopped and twisted. Then she froze once more, waiting patiently. She failed in several more attempts, then succeeded, landing a second large fish. After several hours, her teeth chattering with the cold, she waded back to the bank. Drying herself with her shirt, she climbed into her long, green skirt and threw her cloak around her shoulders. There were six fat fish on the bank. Charis smiled. Her father—who had taught her this technique as a child—would have been proud of her skills. Using her shirt as a makeshift pack, she carried the fish back to the campsite. Gamal and the beast were still sleeping, and Charis lay down alongside the old man and slept dreamlessly.

She awoke with the dawn. Gamal was still sleeping. She glanced at the beast, who began to stir. He rolled to his feet, sniffing the air. Charis took a calming breath and rose.

“I have food for you, Longbear,” she said, her voice firm. “Do you eat fish?”

“Fish good,” said the creature, his nostrils quivering.

Putting two fish aside, she carried the others to the beast, laying them on the ground. Longbear stared at her, but she avoided his eyes.

“How you catch fish?” he asked.

“With my hands. My father taught me.”

He said no more, but squatted down, lifted a fish, and tore a huge chunk from it.

“Be careful of the bones,” she said, then walked back to where Gamal lay. From her pack she took a small tinderbox, then began to set a fire.

10

S
kilgannon paused on the hilltop above the village and gazed down at the people working below. He could see Harad on a rooftop, stripping away burned timbers. All around the settlement there was bustle and activity, as the survivors sought to repair the damage caused by the raid. It was futile—and yet so human—to struggle against the inevitable. More raiders would come. Skilgannon had tried to explain this to the wounded Kinyon. The enemy would send more troops to capture Askari. More deaths would follow.

“What else can we do, but rebuild?” asked Kinyon. “These are our homes.”

Twenty-two of the villagers had survived the raid. They had buried the bodies of their neighbors and were now seeking to restore some semblance of normality to their community. Skilgannon admired them for it.

Leaving them to their work, he had scouted to the south, seeking signs of fresh invasion. He had found nothing. It would take time before whoever sent the raiders realized something had gone wrong. How long? A day? Two days? Then they would come again, with a larger force.

The efforts of the villagers were doomed. Their settlement would burn, their lives would be extinguished. It filled Skilgannon with both anger and sadness.

Landis Khan had told him the world had changed beyond anything Skilgannon could imagine. What nonsense that was. There was no change. True, there were more Joinings now, but the world of man was as it always had been. Violent and cruel. Greed and a lust for power dominated all endeavors. His thoughts swung to Askari. Cool and courageous, she had fought to protect young Stavut from the beasts. At her age Jianna would have done the same. How, Skilgannon wondered, could such natural heroism have become so perverted? Jianna had evolved into the Witch Queen, a terrible, cold, and malicious woman who casually ordered the deaths of thousands. Sitting on the hillside, he pondered the question. In order to regain her throne Jianna had been forced to fight, to gather armies and conquer enemies. At first she had been magnanimous in victory, offering the defeated a chance to join her. Skilgannon remembered a young prince who had accepted this offer, but then had betrayed her, pulling his men from the battlefield to join the forces of Boranius. Some months later he had been captured, with his family, trying to escape into Tantria.

Skilgannon had not been present at the execution. He was fighting in the east. But when he returned he heard what had happened. Jianna had gathered her army and addressed them. Then the traitor and his family had been brought out before them. She had his five children killed first, then his two wives. Lastly, she had approached the grief-stricken prince. “Such is the price of treachery,” she told him. “Now join your family.” With that she had cut his throat.

Once back with the main army Skilgannon had gone to her, unable to believe she had ordered children murdered.

“It weighs heavily on me, Olek,” she had said. “Yet it was necessary. Seven innocents died. Their deaths will ensure such treachery does not occur again. In this war men must be made to realize the consequences that will follow if they betray me.”

Yes,
he thought,
that was the beginning.
After that more such executions followed, until, by the end, the population of an entire city was annihilated. On that day he became the Damned, for it was his men, under his orders, who carried out the slaughter.

He remembered a conversation with the Seeress, Ustarte. “We all of us carry the seed of evil in our hearts and souls,” she told him. “Even the purest, even the most holy. It is part of the human condition, born into us. We cannot root it out. All we can do—at best—is prevent it from germinating.”

“And how do we do this?” he had asked her.

“We give it no sustenance. The seed will flower if it is fed on hatred, or malice. It sprouts like a cancer within the dark places of the soul.”

“And what if we have already fed it? Is it then too late for us?”

“It is never too late, Olek. You have already begun to prune it back, to starve it. Jianna never will, I fear.”

He had felt his heart grow heavy. “There is so much good in her, you know? She could be kind and loyal and courageous.”

“And monstrous, murderous, and chilling,” she added. “It is the curse of absolute power, Olek. There is no one to admonish you, no laws save those you make. We like to believe there is something special, even alien, about evil. We like to think that tyrants are different from the rest of us. That they are somehow inhuman. They are not. They are merely unchained, unfettered; free to do as they please. How often do ordinary people grow angry at neighbors, and, for a moment only, consider causing them harm? It happens all the time. What stops them from carrying out an attack? Usually it is fear of repercussion, punishment, or imprisonment. What repercussions does Jianna face for her evils? None. The more terrifying she becomes, the more powerful she appears. I pity her, Olek.”

“I love her,” he had said.

“And for that I pity you.”

Skilgannon left the hilltop and began the descent toward the village. He could see Stavut unloading his wagon, offering goods and blankets to people whose homes had been destroyed. Askari was with him. Harad was sitting by a well. There were two people with him, a slim young man with a bruised face, and a plump blond-haired woman. Seeing Skilgannon, Harad waved and called him over.

“This is Arin and his wife, Kerena,” said Harad. “They have come from Petar. Jiamads attacked the town.”

“What of Landis Khan?” Skilgannon asked the young man.

“I don’t know, Lord,” answered Arin. “I didn’t see him. I was in the woods with the loggers. We saw buildings ablaze and ran back toward the town. Then Kerena came running up the hillside. She said people were being killed by Jems. So we took off. Kerena has relatives here. We thought it would be safe.” He glanced at the ruined buildings nearby. “Don’t think it is, though,” he added.

“You are right,” Skilgannon told him. “Nowhere is safe now.”

“Well, I am going back,” said Harad, rising and hefting his ax.

“I’ll come with you,” said Skilgannon. “But first gather some food. I need to speak with Askari and Kinyon.”

With that he walked away to where the huntress was sitting with Stavut, Kinyon, and several other villagers. Beckoning to Askari, he walked some distance away from the group, just out of earshot. “Harad and I are heading back to Petar,” he said.

“Why? It has been overrun.”

“There is a woman there Harad loves.”

“That explains why
he
should go. Is there a woman you love also?”

“You need to leave, too,” he said, ignoring the question.

“This is my home.”

“I know that. It is also the reason it was attacked. They are looking for you. They will be back. If you are not here there is a chance—albeit remote—that they will not kill your friends. If you value their lives, then get away from here. Better still, convince Kinyon and the others to leave.”

“They have nowhere to go. In the south Petar is burning. In the north there are armies of rebel Resurrectionists. And renegade Jiamads. What would you have them do?”

“Stavut has talked of the Legend people. Perhaps if they make it to their lands they can rebuild. I don’t know. I have no answers. The reality is that if they stay here more Jiamads will come, with more bloodthirsty officers. They will torture and kill in order to find you.”

“I don’t understand this at all. Why do they seek me?”

He looked into the face he knew so well. “If Landis Khan is alive I will find out.”

Harad called out to him. Turning he saw that the axman was carrying two packs.

“We are leaving now,” he said. “I wish you well . . . Askari.”

“You said that like a farewell. I think we might meet again.”

Skilgannon strode away, took a pack from Harad, and swung it to his shoulders. He could not resist glancing back, for one last look at the tall huntress.

F
or most of the afternoon Skilgannon and Harad made swift progress toward the southwest, but by dusk the big axman was tired. He refused to stop and Skilgannon made no complaint. He held his counsel until darkness began to fall. Then he moved alongside Harad, and took hold of his arm. “Wait for a moment,” he said.

Harad shrugged off the arm and plodded on.

“So tell me,” said Skilgannon, softly, “how you will help Charis when you are too exhausted to lift that ax?”

Harad paused. “I will find the strength,” he muttered.

“Strength is finite, axman. Now either Charis is alive, or she is dead. If she is alive, we will find her. If she is dead, we will avenge her. But staggering into an army of Joinings without rest, food, or sleep is insane. You can only help her if you are strong.”

In the fading light he saw Harad’s shoulders sag.

“I will rest for an hour,” said Harad, reluctantly. The axman sank down with his back to a tree and sat, head bowed. Skilgannon doffed his pack, took out some food, and sat quietly eating. Harad, like Druss, was a man of direct action. There was no subtlety to him. A woman he loved was in danger, and he was not close enough to help her. All he could think of was closing the distance as swiftly as possible. But then what? He would walk into the occupied town seeking Charis. It would not matter to him whether there were twenty Joinings or a thousand. Skilgannon finished his food. He was also weary, but the rest was restoring his strength. Moving alongside Harad, he said: “Time to talk and to plan.”

“I’m listening,” muttered Harad.

“I don’t think you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“There is too much anger in you. It is clouding your judgment.” Skilgannon fell silent. A cold breeze began to blow down from the snow-covered mountains, and wispy clouds drifted across the bright moon.

“I do not know how to plan for this,” said Harad, at last. His voice was calmer, and he leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes briefly. “I fell trees. I prepare timber. I dig foundation trenches for new buildings. And I can fight. Until I met you I had never killed anything. Never needed to. Now everything has changed.”

“You will change, too, Harad. Give yourself time.”

“This is easy for you,” said Harad. “You have no friends here. These are not your people.”

“This is true,” agreed Skilgannon. “There is nothing in this new world for me. Everyone I ever loved is long dead. It would make no difference, though, if everyone in Petar were precious to me. I would still be sitting here gathering my strength, and considering the possibilities.”

“And all the while Charis might be in danger.”

“Yes. She might. But then Petar is a large settlement. It is unlikely to have been destroyed. Therefore people will have been encouraged to return to their work. The loggers are probably back lopping trees. The palace servants will be serving new masters. If this is true then Charis is probably doing what she always does, looking after the needs of the palace guests. In short, she will not be in need of rescue. Rushing into Petar and hacking down a few Joinings before being killed would then be an act of stupidity.”

“You think that is likely?” asked Harad, his voice full of renewed hope.

“I don’t know. There are two other possibilities. One, she ran like Arin and his wife. If she did this, then she is out here in the wilderness somewhere. Again it would be futile, therefore, to rush into Petar. The other possibility is that she was killed.” Skilgannon saw the shock register on Harad’s face. “If this proves true, then there is no need for sudden and violent action. Does she know that you love her?”

“Who said that I loved her?” snapped Harad, his face reddening.

“Do you not?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. You know what they call me? I am Harad the Bone Breaker. The Brute. I am strong, yes, but I am not handsome. I am not rich. I am not clever or witty. Charis deserves someone better.”

Skilgannon smiled. “In my experience
all
women deserve someone better. My own wife certainly did.”

Harad relaxed and let out a deep sigh. “I will find her,” he said.

“We
will find her, Harad. Now why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch for a few hours and then wake you.”

“Aye, I could do with shutting my eyes for a while.” Without another word Harad stretched out on the ground, his head on his pack. Within moments he was sleeping soundly. Skilgannon rose silently and moved away from the sleeping man. He needed to think. Something was nagging at him, tugging at the corners of his mind. It was annoying. Though many of the memories of his previous life had returned to him, so much else was jagged and unconnected. His concentration was not as focused, and he found himself constantly struggling to contain his emotions. Anger came far more swiftly than he recalled. On the other hand he was far stronger and fitter than he had been during those last years of his life. The ravages of war, wounds, fractures, and strains, had taken their toll on his fifty-year-old body. Perhaps that was the answer. As he had grown older nature made him more wary, more frugal with his strength. He had begun to lose . . . what? Passion? Desire? Recklessness? Yes, he realized, it was true. The passionate nature of youth had been replaced by the cool—apparent—wisdom of maturity. He had thought more about his actions, and planned every strategy carefully.

There is nothing wrong with your mind,
he told himself.
It is merely being bombarded by the reckless energy of youth.
In order to clear his thoughts he decided to expend some of that energy.

Finding a flat area of solid ground he began a taxing series of exercises, some motionless to establish balance, others involving leaps and twirls. Finally, his face glistening with sweat, he drew the Swords of Night and Day and flowed through a series of moves, cutting and thrusting as if fighting an invisible enemy. The swordmaster Malanek had taught him scores of fighting maneuvers, and through his long life he had acquired others. The blades flashed in the moonlight. Lastly, he flipped the swords into the air. As they spun above him he dived forward, rolled on his shoulder, and came up on his knees, hands held high, fingers outstretched. The ivory hilt of the Sword of Day dropped into his left hand. The hilt of the Sword of Night brushed the fingertips of his right, the blade lancing toward his throat. His hand snapped out, catching the hilt at the second attempt. Even so the sharp blade sliced through the collar of his long topcoat. “You still have a little way to go,” he told himself, aloud. Sheathing the blades, he wandered to the brow of a wooded hill. His mind was clearer, but the nagging doubt remained.