The Swords of Night and Day (36 page)

“We are pack!” said Shakul. “Bloodshirt’s pack.”

The Jiamads nodded vigorously. “We are pack!” they echoed. Then all of the beasts began to howl and stamp their feet. The sound went on for some time, then faded away. Shakul approached Stavut. “Where now, Bloodshirt?”

“Back to where we camped. We’ll rest up for a day or two.”

The journey back was slower for Stavut. Shakul sent some of the others on ahead, but he and Grava walked alongside the human. Stavut felt wearier than at any point in his life, but he refused the offer of being carried.

Back at the campsite the Jiamads retrieved the meat they had hung in the high tree branches, and began to eat. Stavut had no appetite.

He sat alone, the events of the day going around and around in his head.

I am an educated man,
he thought.
Civilized.
And yet it was not the Jiamads who tortured and killed the villagers, and not the Jiamads who hacked and cut at a defenseless man on the ground. In fact it was a Jiamad who stopped him, and put an end to the officer’s misery.

This would always be the Day of the Beast to Stavut. And shame burned in him that he had been the beast.

15

G
ilden was growing worried as he led the riders down a treacherous slope toward the east. Alahir had been gone too long, and he feared some disaster had befallen him. The veteran soldier had every faith in Alahir’s skills with bow or blade, but in the mountains a horse could stumble, pitching its rider over the edge of a precipice, or fall, trapping the rider. One man had been killed last year when his horse fell and rolled, the saddle pommel crushing his breastbone. No matter how skilled the rider, or how brave, accidents could kill.

The young aide, Bagalan, rode alongside Gilden as the trail widened. By rights he should be leading the troop, for he was the only officer present. But the lad was canny, and knew Gilden had the experience. So he stayed silent and followed Gilden’s lead. The elder man drew rein, scanning the ground ahead. Bagalan leaned over to him. “Why did you never accept a commission?” he asked, suddenly. “I know Alahir has twice tried to make you an officer.”

“Family tradition,” answered Gilden, straight faced. “Peasant stock. We hate officers. If I took a commission my father would never speak to me again.”

“Gods!” said the boy. “Is he still alive? He must be a hundred and twenty.”

“Sixty-eight,” snapped Gilden. “And if that skittish horse of yours has killed Alahir you won’t forget what I’ll do to you if
you
live a hundred and twenty years.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said the young man. “It was stupid—but I wasn’t expecting earthquakes.”

A burly rider eased his way alongside Gilden. “That slope looks treacherous,” he said, indicating the scree-covered ground ahead.

“It does,” agreed Gilden. “So you’d better scout it.”

“Why me?”

“You know how it goes, Barik. The least useful gets the most dangerous assignments.”

Barik gave a broad grin, showing a broken front tooth. “I see. Not because you owe me a month’s wages then?”

“That did have a small part to play in my decision.”

“Nothing worse than a bad loser,” replied Barik, touching heels to his mount and carefully picking out a path through the scree. Twice the horse slithered, but Barik was probably the best rider in the troop, and Gilden had little doubt he would find a way down.

“You follow him,” he told Bagalan. “I was lying when I said he was the least useful. I’m not lying when I say it to you.”

“No way to speak to an officer, grandfather,” said Bagalan. The boy chuckled and set off after Barik.

I should be a grandfather,
thought Gilden.
I should be sitting on the two acres of land my service has paid for. I should be watching my crops grow, and my horses feed. There should be children at my feet.

And a wife?

The thought sprang unbidden.

Gilden had been wed twice, outliving the first. The second had been a mistake. Loneliness had clouded his judgment. She had begun an affair with a neighbor, and Gilden had challenged him and killed him in a saber duel. He still regretted that. He had liked the man. After that he had gone to the public square and snapped the Marriage Wand, giving the pieces to the Source priest there. His wife had married a merchant and now lived on his ship.

So no grandchildren, and the farmland he had been awarded for his twenty years was being managed by tenants, and he sat in his saddle, waiting to negotiate a dangerous slope.

Gilden sighed, raised his arm, and led his troops out onto the slope. Barik and Bagalan had made it to firmer ground. Gilden followed the trail they had set, and soon joined them. Both men looked tense and said nothing. Gilden glanced down the trail and saw Alahir’s horse standing, reins trailing.

“Well,” said the sergeant, “let’s find out the worst.”

The earthquake had felled several trees ahead, but Gilden rode at them with speed, leaping his mount over the obstructions until he drew level with the waiting horse. He glanced up at the rockslide ahead and saw Alahir sitting there.

“Nice afternoon for a nap,” said Gilden, trying to keep the relief from his voice. Alahir did not respond. One by one the other riders gathered at the foot of the slide. “Are you all right?” called Gilden.

“Something you need to see,” Alahir told him. “Come up. Bring Barik and Bagalan with you. The others can take turns later.”

Gilden dismounted and scrambled up the slope. “What’s wrong with you, lad?” he asked.

“Nothing and everything. You’ll understand. Follow me.”

Alahir led the three Drenai soldiers through the half-covered entrance and along the corridor beyond. Once into the inner chamber all three men stopped and stared at the Armor of Bronze.

“That cannot be what I think it is.” said Gilden, at last.

“It is,” Alahir told him.

“No, it is a hoax of some kind,” said Barik. “You don’t stumble on the answer to your dreams in a rockslide.”

“I have always wanted to know what it really looked like,” said Alahir, his tone reverential. “I never dreamed it would be so beautiful.”

“What good is it, though?” asked Bagalan. “Locked in crystal.”

“It is not crystal,” Alahir told him. “It is some sort of illusion. Go to it. I have already done so.”

Bagalan strolled over to the huge, shimmering crystal and thrust out his hand toward the winged helm. He cried out as his fingers cracked against the cold, hard block. He stared accusingly at Alahir. “I could have broken my hand.” Gilden walked to the block, and reached out. The surface was cool and firm and seamless. Carefully he ran his hand over the entire front of the block. There was no opening. Alahir stepped forward, and Gilden could see the reluctance in his every movement. Slowly the captain reached out his hand. It passed through the crystal, his fingers curling round the winged hilt. The sword slid free of the scabbard.

“How in the name of the Source did you do that?” asked Bagalan, still rubbing at his bruised fingers.

Alahir sighed and passed the blade to Gilden. Then he moved across the chamber and sat down on a shelf of rock. “It is all wrong,” he said.

Gilden sat beside him. “Tell it all, lad. What is going on here?”

He listened as Alahir talked of the voice that led him to the Armor, and how she had said he should don it. Then he stopped. “There is more,” prompted Gilden.

“She said I was the earl of Bronze, by blood and by right.”

“And that has dispirited you?”

“Of course it has,” said Alahir. “I’m not a Druss the Legend, Gil. I’m just a soldier. I was third from last in my class at the academy. You’re a better swordsman, and Barik a finer archer. The voice was wrong. I’d follow the earl of Bronze into fire. I’d willingly give my life for the Drenai. But I am not good enough for this.”

“You are probably right,” Gilden told him. “We are none of us worthy of our ancestors. They were giants. You said it yourself, lad, only yesterday. They had Druss, we have you and me. You say you’d ride through fire for the earl of Bronze. There’s not one of us who wouldn’t ride into hell itself if you gave the order.” Clapping Alahir on the shoulder, he rose. “Now come on, do as she bid—whoever she was. Don the Armor. I’ll help you.”

Alahir returned to the block and removed the scaled breastplate with the flaring eagle motif, then the mail shirt and leggings, and the winged helm. Removing his own chain mail, he donned the shirt. Gilden lifted the breastplate. Alahir opened his arms, allowing Gilden to buckle it into place. Then he added the wrist guards and the gauntlets. Gilden settled the scabbard belt around his waist, thrusting the sword back into its bronze sheath. Lastly, Alahir lifted the winged helm. He was about to place it on his head when he stopped. “I feel like I am desecrating something holy,” he said.

“You are not, lad. You are honoring it. Put on the helm.”

Alahir settled it into place. As the voice had promised, it all fit perfectly.

A rumble began in the stone beneath their feet. Dust fell from the ceiling, and a huge chunk of rock fell—and bounced from the now empty crystal block.

“Another earthquake!” shouted Barik.

“Everyone out!” ordered Alahir.

They ran back through the tunnel. Gilden fell. Alahir hoisted him to his feet. Just before they reached the entrance there came what sounded like a clap of thunder from behind them. The entire roof collapsed.

Then the side wall of the tunnel split open, a massive slab of rock sliding away.

Gilden, Barik, and Bagalan all scrambled out onto the open slope. The tremor faded away and Gilden saw the rest of the troop standing below them, looking up in awe. He turned. Standing in the new cave mouth, dust billowing around him, was a golden figure. Gilden knew it was Alahir. He had helped him don the armor. Yet now, in the bright sunlight, it seemed that a hero of legend had emerged from the bowels of the earth, his arrival heralded by an earthquake. He was Alahir no longer.

This golden man on the mountainside was the earl of Bronze.

M
emnon stood quietly in Landis Khan’s upper apartments as the Eternal and Unwallis spoke. It always fascinated the slender minister to see how men reacted around the Eternal. Whenever he did so he found himself grateful for his own lack of sexual desire. Men became such fools as they moved into the orbit of her beauty. Memnon had always rather admired Unwallis. The man had a fine intellect, but it was so obvious that the Eternal had taken him once more to her bed. He fawned around her like an aging puppy. It had, though, Memnon conceded, improved his dress sense. Clothes were Memnon’s second obsession, delicate silks, rich satins, fine wools; brilliant and beautiful dyes. He adored designing new tunics and gowns, employing the finest embroiderers and artists. Since becoming the Eternal’s lover for the second time Unwallis had put aside the gray, lackluster clothes that were his trademark and was now wearing a quite delightful shirt tunic of blue silk over cream leggings and gray boots. It seemed to Memnon that the boots were an inspired choice, complementing the silver-gray of Unwallis’s hair.

The Eternal had taken less care with her appearance, but then when someone had such natural beauty it would not matter were she to dress in sackcloth. Her knee-length tunic was simple white wool, the only adornment being a filigree gold belt with small ornaments hanging from it. Several of them were quite exquisitely fashioned, but, Memnon decided, would look better on the backdrop of a darker dress, or gown.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stood quietly, arms folded, his fingers stroking the soft sleeves of his own ankle-length gown of rich blue silk.

Unwallis was concerned about the prophecy. He had studied more of Landis Khan’s notes and had become convinced—as had Landis—that Skilgannon could threaten the reign of the Eternal. Jianna did not share his conviction. “He is one man. No army, no magic. Even with the Swords of Night and Day he could not overcome a regiment of Jiamads, nor even a troop of lancers.”

“The prophecy says—” began Unwallis.

“A pox on prophecies,” she snapped. “This one is merely wish fulfillment. Can you not see it? An ancient crone talks of Skilgannon’s return, so Landis Khan brings him back. Even Landis had no idea how the prophecy could be fulfilled. You think Skilgannon will know?”

“What I do know, Highness, is that the Blessed Priestess was a genuine seer.”

Jianna laughed. “Would you really like to know what she was? I met her once. She was a Joining—a Jiamad—created by men. She wore gloves to disguise her talons, and long-sleeved gowns to hide the fur. And yes, she was gifted—but not gifted enough to read a future a thousand years after her death.” She swung to Memnon. “And what of Decado? I take if from your expression that he is not dead?”

“No, Highness. He met with Skilgannon, and together they killed three of my Shadows.”

She turned her dark gaze on him. “Your invincible Shadows? Three of them?”

He thought she was going to become angry. Instead she smiled. As always the shock of her smile caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was exquisite, stunning. Even without the vile drawback of sexual arousal Memnon felt the extraordinary power of her beauty. “It is amusing, Highness?” he managed to ask.

“Only to me. The man I knew would not be killed by such creatures.”

“Decado warned him. They were ready. The next time it will be different.”

“There will be no next time. I do not want Olek killed. You understand me, Memnon? That man was—is—the love of my life. If I can speak to him he will return to me.”

“Of course, Highness. The Shadows were following Decado. It was mere happenstance that he was with Skilgannon and the others.”

“Is he still with them?”

“No, Highness, he rode north.”

“And Olek?”

“A woman with them was killed in the earthquake. They buried her and also headed north.”

“Not my Reborn?”

“No, Highness. A peasant from Petar.”

“Good. What is their destination?”

“Skilgannon seeks the lost temple,” Memnon told her.

“Of course he does. Haven’t we all? He will find the twisted crater that remains. Then he will seek to come after me. He will not succeed. Even if he reaches me he will be unable to kill me. I know him. I know his love for me.”

“Then you also know how resourceful he is,” put in Unwallis.

Memnon watched the Eternal closely, seeing her smile fade and her dark eyes narrowing. “Yes, I do, Unwallis. And you are right to remind me of it. Skilgannon is unlike any other man I ever knew. He failed at nothing. Even at the tender age of sixteen he evaded the skills of trackers and assassins. By twenty-one he had won every battle he fought. Once, with only a handful of men, he assaulted a citadel and killed a man I believed to be the finest swordsman alive. He should not be underestimated—especially by me. Send a regiment of Eternal Guardsman and their Jiamads to the temple site. They can take ship from Draspartha.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Now to more immediate matters. The army should cross the mountains within the next three days. I will ride with them. We will crush Agrias once and for all.” She turned to Unwallis. “Now leave me. I wish to talk to Memnon.”