The Swords of Night and Day (23 page)

The meat did not last long. Stavut went to the villagers and advised them to rest. Then, heart pounding, he returned to the Jiamads, calling out to Shakul. The pack leader rose and followed Stavut, who walked to a fallen tree and sat. “Why did you not return to your regiment?” he asked.

“No officer. Dead officer we die. Kill us. Where Two Swords?”

“He will be back. Tell me how you tried to hunt the deer.”

Shakul hunkered down. “Scent, chase. Too fast. You catch deer?”

“We will tomorrow,” said Stavut.

A
skari moved through the thick forest, alert and focused. Bards sang of the silence of the woods, but this always made her laugh. There was never silence within the trees. Breeze caused the leaves to whisper; heat or cold made the trunks of trees expand or contract, bringing groans and cracks from the bark. Animals scuttled, birds flew, insects buzzed. She ran swiftly up an old deer trail. There were tracks here, but they were not new. Ants had crawled across the deer prints, and the once sharp edges had crumbled. Up ahead a group of sparrows suddenly took flight. Askari hunkered down. Their panic was likely to have been caused by a wild cat, or a snapping branch. On the other hand it could be a sign that men—or beasts—were close by. The tall huntress crouched down and closed her eyes, listening intently. She caught the sound of dry wood crunching under a boot, and faded back into the cover of the trees. The breeze was in her face, and coming from the direction of the sound. If there were Jiamads present they would not scent her swiftly. Even so she nocked an arrow to the recurve bow. If necessary she would kill one and head off toward the east, drawing them away from Skilgannon and Harad, who were following her trail. In her leggings and jerkin of faded leather and her dark green, hooded shirt, Askari was virtually invisible in the deep undergrowth. She waited patiently. A troop of twenty Jiamads moved out of the trees some thirty paces east of her. They were marching in double file. Each one wore a leather breastplate emblazoned with the head of a silver eagle. Several also wore leather helms. All carried clubs embedded with iron nails. There were two officers with them, both walking to the rear of the column. Askari waited until the troop had reentered the trees, heading northeast, then rose and ran swiftly to the far side of the trail. Here she scaled a tall tree, moving smoothly up through the branches. From this high vantage point she could see the valley to the south and the distant red rooftops of Petar, some twenty miles away. Horsemen were riding across the valley, and there were small groups of Jiamads scanning the ground. It was obvious that they were searching for something. A rider on a pale gray horse sat unmoving, his long, dark hair blowing in the afternoon breeze.

Movement came from below her. Someone was climbing the tree. Her bow was hooked over her shoulder, but Askari drew a double-edged skinning knife from the buckskin sheath at her side. Skilgannon eased aside a thick, leaf-laden branch and levered himself up alongside her. He gazed out over the valley. “It will not be possible to cross the valley in daylight,” she whispered. He was very close to her, and she could smell wood smoke and sweat on his shirt. The scent made her uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Far from it. She tried to ease back a little from him. She saw a small leaf had come loose and had attached itself to his dark hair, just above the ear. It was an effort not to reach out and brush it away.

“There are too many Jiamads searching,” she said. “It must be someone important. Maybe Landis himself.”

“They will find him. The breeze is now northerly. Wherever he is they will scent him. Indeed, if we stay here they will scent us before long.” Skilgannon returned his gaze to the valley below. Askari found herself staring at his profile, and noting the sheen on his hair and the curve of his cheekbone. Closing her eyes, she drew in the scent of his clothes. When she opened them she found his sapphire eyes staring at her.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why would you ask?”

“Your face is flushed.”

“This shirt is too warm. I am climbing down now.” She glanced at him. “There is a leaf in your hair.”

Easing her way down the tree, she jumped to the ground alongside Harad. “We need to take the long route into Petar,” she said. “There are Jiamads swarming over the valley.”

Harad nodded. “I thought I heard something from the north,” he said. “Sounded like a scream. Very faint, very distant.”

Askari had heard nothing. “There are some Jiamads behind us now. However, they are searching for someone, and it is unlikely to be us. We should be able to avoid them if we move east.”

Skilgannon leapt lightly to the ground beside them. “I heard a shout, or a scream,” he said. “I couldn’t place the direction.”

“North,” said Harad.

“I’m not sure it was human. It was cut off too soon. Did you hear it?” he asked Askari. She was annoyed that she had not. The scramble down the tree had been too hurried, and the swishing of the branches must have obscured the sound. She shook her head.

“Did you want to investigate it?” she asked. “Such a plan would seem foolish to me.”

“I agree,” said Skilgannon, “but we have a problem. Harad is looking for a friend. She may be back in the town—or she may be out here. If that scream was human then it suggests there are people in the high woods. Any one of them might know what happened to either Charis or Landis Khan. You lead off, Askari,” he said. “We’ll follow. Do not get too far ahead.” Askari pulled her bow clear and set off toward the north at a lope, ducking under low branches and zigzagging through the undergrowth. Skilgannon and Harad followed. They had run for almost half a mile before another scream sounded. It was a high, trembling cry, full of agony. Askari slowed in her run and angled toward the east and a stand of trees. Skilgannon and Harad moved up behind her as she scaled a small rise, then crouched down in the undergrowth at the top. Beyond it was a wide, rock-strewn hollow. There were three bodies splayed out on the ground, and five Jiamads and a human officer were kneeling beside a fourth man. His arm had been severed above the elbow, the limb lying some ten feet away, seeping blood to the grass. The officer had applied a clumsy tourniquet, but not to save the man’s life. Merely to keep him alive during questioning.

“Where did they go?” asked the officer. The dying man swore at him, and spat blood toward the officer’s face. A Jiamad plunged a knife into the man’s leg, twisting the blade. The man’s scream was high pitched and ended in a gurgling cry.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said Harad, heaving himself to his feet.

“I agree,” said Skilgannon, his voice cold. Together they walked out into the open. Skilgannon raised his right hand and drew the Sword of Day. With his left he took hold of the jutting lower hilt and drew the Sword of Night.

Two of the Jiamads swung around, hearing their approach. The beasts came to their feet with incredible speed and charged, iron-studded clubs raised. Skilgannon darted to the left, the Sword of Day slashing out and down, slicing through the fur of the first beast’s throat, slashing the skin and severing the jugular. In the same movement he spun on his heel, the Sword of Night plunging through the second beast’s leather breastplate and skewering the heart. Harad leapt at the remaining three. Snaga hammered into the skull of one Jiamad, the glittering blades splitting the bone and exiting at the dead beast’s mouth. Another Jiamad fell, a black-feathered shaft buried in its eye socket. The last of the Jiamads hurled itself at Harad. The giant logger leapt to meet it, ducking under the swinging club and plunging Snaga’s twin points into its belly. The Jiamad’s golden eyes bulged as the cold steel ripped through its breastplate. It let out a fearful howl and staggered back. Harad wrenched Snaga clear. The beast lurched forward. Harad, unable to bring the ax to bear, struck it in the snout with a straight left. Two fangs snapped off under the impact. Dazed now, the creature half turned. Snaga clove through its neck.

The officer of the Eternal was alone now. He was young and fair haired, his features handsome. But his hands were covered with the blood of a tortured man.

“Who are you looking for?” asked Skilgannon as the man drew his army saber.

“I’ll tell you nothing, you renegade!”

“I believe you. Which makes you useless to me.”

Skilgannon stepped in swiftly, blocked a clumsy lunge, and nearly decapitated the young man. Even before the body had hit the ground Skilgannon was kneeling beside the prisoner.

“I . . . enjoyed . . . that,” said the man, blood on his lips.

Harad moved to the other side of the wounded man. “Lie still, Lathar. We’ll try to stem the bleeding,” he said.

“Don’t! They’ve ruined my legs and . . . bitten off my . . . arm. Wouldn’t . . . want to live . . . even if I could. Killed my brothers, too.”

“Who were they looking for?” asked Skilgannon.

“The old blind lord and . . . the girl who . . . brings your food, Harad. Saw them yesterday. With a Jem. One of ours. Should have gone with them.” Lathar closed his eyes and went still. Askari, who had walked over to join the men, thought he had died. Then he opened his eyes again. “That’s some ax,” he said. “I’d like to say it was worth it, just . . . to see you cut the bastards down. Damned well wasn’t, though.”

Skilgannon untied the tourniquet over the stump of the logger’s left arm. Blood immediately began to flow. “Which way did they go?” he asked.

“North. Damned acorns and oaks trees,” said Lathar, his voice fading. “Can’t get it out . . . of my . . . head.”

“Nor me,” said Harad. Reaching out, he stroked the hair back from Lathar’s brow. The logger’s breath rattled in his throat. Then there was silence.

“A friend of yours?” asked Askari.

“No. Could have been, though,” Harad told her, ruefully.

“We need to go,” said Skilgannon. “The scent of the blood will carry far. There will be beasts swarming over this hollow in no time.”

Even as he spoke there came the sound of howls to the south and east.

S
tavut did not sleep through the long night. He sat quietly away from the villagers, seeking to summon to the surface all that he knew of hunting. This did not take long. At no time in his life had Stavut ever hunted, and he knew nothing of the movements of deer, elk, or any other wild meat-bearing creature. Yet with the dawn, he would be leading a party of carnivorous Jiamads out into the wilderness. His stomach tightened, and he spent some time berating himself.

He tried to avoid staring at the sleeping beasts. Even in repose they were massive and terrifying. If they couldn’t hunt, how in the Seven Hells could he help them?

“You know, Tinker,” Alahir had once said, “if I were to put my shield in your mouth it would still rattle.”

In the darkness of this frightening night Stavut had to accept the truth of the remark. He had a fast mind, and all too often he would speak his thoughts without due consideration of the consequences. The brilliance of the instant plan to stop the Jiamads from killing his horses could not be denied. In the short term it had saved the day. In the longer term it was likely to cost him dearly. He could imagine only too well the consequences of being out in the wild lands with a group of hungry Jiamads, and no meat.

Stavut wished that Askari was close by. She knew how to hunt. She could have advised him. The huntress had talked of deer, but, truth to tell, he had not really listened. He had sat staring at her exquisite face and body, doing his utmost to picture her without any clothes.

Which he began to do now.

“Are you a complete idiot?” he asked himself. “Now is not the time.”

All he could remember was that Askari would find a hide and wait. She talked of bringing down a deer with a single killing shot, so that panic would not affect the tenderness of the meat. Stavut couldn’t remember why a panicked deer would taste any less tender.

He recalled far more of what she had told him about wolves. Everyone knew they hunted in packs, but Stavut had never realized how complex was the planning. Since wolves did not possess the stamina and speed of a stag they would split into groups, forming a large circle miles wide. Then the first group would rush at the stag. It would run, and they would chase, driving it toward the second group. Just as the first attackers were tiring, the second would pick up the chase, herding the stag inexorably toward a third group. Meanwhile the first hunters would lope off to a prearranged position, resting and regrouping their strength. Eventually this teamwork would see the exhausted stag seeking out a spot on high ground in which to make its last stand. By the time it arrived there all the wolves would have gathered for the kill.

Stavut had found it all fascinating.

Of course it wasn’t helpful now. There were only seven Jiamads. He could hardly separate them into packs, forming circles in the hills.

At any other time Stavut would have found the problem facing the Jiamads to be an interesting one. Here they were, huge and powerful, and yet with no hunting skills. Most were at least part wolf. One would have thought they would have retained enough memory to know how to hunt. Hell, they had hunted Stavut and Askari with a fair degree of skill. That, he realized, had not been too difficult. Their prey was slow moving and had gone to ground in a series of caves. Out in the open the speed of the deer would give it a great advantage.

Several hours passed. In the end Stavut moved over to where the villagers slept and nudged Kinyon awake. The big man sat up and ran his thick fingers through his sandy hair. “I was having a good dream,” he complained.

“Lucky you. What can you tell me about hunting?”

“I never was any good at it,” said Kinyon, reaching for a water canteen and drinking deeply. “Too impatient. That’s why I took up cooking.”

“Good. Perhaps we can teach the Jiamads to cook pies.”

Kinyon rolled from his blankets. “Let us dwell on the positives, Stavi. The Jiamads are strong and fast, and they can scent the deer.”