The Swords of Night and Day (44 page)

“For the sake of my sanity,” said Jianna, sharply, “can we cease talking of
fondness.
I am not a Temple Maiden. The whore was humping both men, and probably a score of others. What did she say?”

“That the leader of the Legend riders had found some mysterious armor, important to them. In bronze. And that a mystic voice had compelled him to leave Agrias’s service and follow a man with two swords.”

“The Armor of Bronze,” said Jianna. “It was a legend even in my own time.” She shivered suddenly. “I do not like this, Unwallis. Too many damned portents. A reborn Druss the Legend carrying his ax, Skilgannon rediscovered, and now the Armor of Bronze. Perhaps that cursed prophecy is not so far-fetched.”

“The regiment of Eternal Guard you sent should be close to the temple site by now. And there are two hundred Jiamads with them. Some of the latest and most powerful. Even with a few hundred Legend riders Skilgannon will lose.”

“That would be a first,” said Jianna. “Leave me now, Unwallis. I need to think.”

“Yes, Highness,” he said, with a deep bow. He looked at her and suddenly smiled. “May I say something?”

She sighed. “Make it brief.”

“My thoughts are clearer now, and I apologize that my behavior has been . . . foolish. Your gift to me at the palace was exquisite, and I am very grateful. I feel, though, that my attitude since has caused a breach between us. I would like that breach to be sealed. I am, once more, merely Unwallis. And your friend, Highness.”

Jianna was touched, and felt herself relax. “You are a good friend.” Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek.

He reddened, bowed once more, and departed. Jianna walked to the rear of her tent and opened a small, ornate box of carved ebony. From it she took an ancient bronze amulet, covered now in green verdigris. Holding tightly to it, she whispered Memnon’s name.

At first there was no response; then it was as if a breeze whispered into the tent, though none of the lanterns flickered. Jianna felt cold and shivered once more. By the far wall an image formed, at first like a shadow against the white, silk-covered canvas. Then it shimmered and Memnon’s image appeared, pale and translucent.

“There is a problem, Highness?” he asked.

“Skilgannon is close to the temple site. He has a small force with him.”

“I know this, Highness. Legend riders, and a troop of Jiamads. Be not concerned.”

“Can we not bring the plan forward?”

“No, Highness. Timing is essential. Vital, in fact. All will be as you wish it to be. When my messenger comes to you, leave the camp and follow him. I will appear to you then, and ensure that all is well.”

“The Eternal Guard will not attack until the time is right.”

“I am with the general. He understands fully what we intend. Be at ease, Highness. Enjoy your victory. There will be another for you to savor very shortly.”

18

F
or Harad the long, slow trip on the barges was a time for quiet grief. He sat on the narrow deck, surrounded by Jiamads, and watched the land drift slowly by. Harad had chosen to travel with the beasts because they didn’t talk much, and he found the lightness and banter of the Legend riders hard to bear. Almost everything had been hard to bear since Charis’s death. Harad even felt surprise when he heard birdsong coming from the rushes on the eastern bank. It seemed somehow inconceivable that birds should still be singing, or that the sun still shone from a clear blue sky. The weight of his grief was colossal. But he did not share it, even with Askari, who would occasionally join him, and sit in merciful silence.

They had hired five barges, each pulled by oxen for the first forty miles of the journey. After that, so Skilgannon had been told by the merchant, they would leave the oxen behind and navigate the wider waterways through the mountains until they met the River Rostrias. The soldiers had surrendered all their coin, and Stavut had sold his wagon and contents. Even so they had been far short of the hiring charge, and the provisions necessary for the trip.

Stavut had haggled with the master merchant for some hours while Decado steadily lost patience. He was all for commandeering the vessels. Skilgannon urged him to stay calm. The master merchant was also the local commander of the Corisle militia, and though it would not have been difficult to overcome them Skilgannon wanted to avoid unnecessary deaths. Harad had looked closely at Decado. He seemed paler than usual, and kept rubbing his eyes.

Stavut left the merchant and walked back to where Skilgannon was waiting with Decado, Alahir, and the others at the flimsy dock. “He says he would be prepared to take your stallion to conclude payment for the trip and the provisions,” Stavut told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon stood silently for a moment, then approached the merchant. The man was tall and slim, his eyes deep set. He wore a shirt of embroidered blue satin, and his long, gray hair was held back from his face by an ornate headband of filigree silver. “You are a man who knows horses,” said Skilgannon.

“I breed them for the Eternal Guard,” said the merchant. “They are fastidious about the quality of the horses they ride. Do we have an agreement?”

“We do not,” said Skilgannon. “The horse is worth more than your barges.”

“Then, sadly, I do not see how we can accommodate you.”

Skilgannon chuckled. “The Eternal’s army is marching on Agrias. Soon there will be a major battle to the west. Knowing the Eternal as I do, she will not lose this battle. You are a servant of Agrias. Your position here will soon become perilous. And yet you quibble over a few coins?”

“It is a merchant’s nature to quibble over coins. It is how we become rich and buy satin shirts. The problem of who governs this area is one for another day. For today I have five barges, ready to carry you to the Rostrias. I have already offered my best price.”

Decado, who had been listening, stepped forward. “Let me cut his miserable throat, then we can take the damned barges.” Even as he spoke he drew one of his swords and moved toward the merchant. The Sword of Night swept into Skilgannon’s hand, the blade flashing out to bar Decado’s path.

“Let us not be hasty, kinsman,” said Skilgannon softly. For a moment Harad thought Decado was going to attack Skilgannon. Instead he stepped back, his eyes wide and glittering strangely.

“Why do you want him to live?” asked Decado. “I don’t understand.”

“I like him.”

Decado shook his head in disbelief and stalked away.

“Reassuring to be liked, I am sure,” said the merchant. “But the price remains the same.”

“I will rent you the stallion,” said Skilgannon. “You will loan me one of your own mounts. I would prefer a gelding. You can use the stallion as a stud until my return. Then I shall claim it.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Some weeks at the least.”

“A dangerous mission?”

Skilgannon laughed aloud. “Indeed it is, master merchant. I might not survive.”

“Oh perish the thought,” said the man, rising and holding out his hand. “It will be as you say. I shall have a gelding brought over immediately. The barges will leave at first light. If your beasts cause any damage to my vessels I shall seek redress upon your return.”

On the evening of the second day of travel, with the sun sinking, Harad went to his usual spot at the rear of the barge to find Decado sitting there. Askari was behind him, gently rubbing his temples. Stavut was close by. Harad eased himself past them without a word and found a place to sit, his back against a sack of grain. Decado was deathly pale.

“What is wrong with him?” he asked Askari.

“I don’t know. It was the same when first I found him.”

Decado sighed. “The two of you do know I am here, don’t you?”

Askari laughed. “You are feeling a little better.”

“Yes, the pain is fading a little.”

“You should eat something,” said Stavut.

“A waste of time and energy. I might just as well get the food and throw it over the side. No, my stomach will hold nothing until the pain passes. I will be all right. I know the rhythms of these attacks. This was not so bad. It will soon be gone.”

“You get them often?” asked Stavut.

“They come and go.” He looked up at Askari, and there was adoration in his gaze. It made Harad uncomfortable, and he glanced at Stavut. The red-garbed merchant looked away, then rose.

“We should go and get some food,” he said, reaching out and taking Askari’s hand.

After they had gone, Harad leaned his head back on the grain sack and closed his eyes.

“I hear your woman died,” said Decado.

Harad’s eyes snapped open. The last person he wanted to talk to about Charis was this demented swordsman.

“Nice-looking girl. Beautiful eyes,” said Decado. “I remember thinking how lucky you were. Brave, too. Had she not rescued Gamal from the palace I would have killed him that first night. Took nerve.” He glanced at Snaga. “I am surprised you still want to handle that weapon.”

“Why would I not?”

Decado did not reply for a moment. “You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?” he said, at last.

“No.”

“Askari told me that when the tree struck you the ax flew from your hand. It was the ax that killed Charis. Now that is what you call bad luck.” Decado stretched himself out on the deck and drew his cloak over his shoulders.

Harad sat very still, his grief now returned redoubled. If he had kept hold of the weapon Charis would still be alive.

It was as if he had killed her himself.

S
kilgannon stood at the prow of the lead barge, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face. It had been a long time since he had led an army, and the weight of responsibility sat heavily on him. Most of the problems he faced were familiar to him. Most men with no military experience believed that an army needed only courage and discipline to win a battle. Those with a little more insight might add that the quality of training, weapons, and armor would be important. Both views were correct in part. Without these assets no army would survive for long. Yet in his long life Skilgannon had seen armies with fine weapons, good training, and strong leadership fall apart on a battlefield when faced by troops less well armed. Morale was the real key to success. Low morale would strip away the confidence of the best fighter, and, more often than not, good morale resulted from good provisions. Hunger caused discontent. The food he had purchased from the merchant would feed the force for some ten days. After that it would be down to foraging. Not a simple exercise in the desert environment they were heading for. The horses would need good water, the men full bellies. This problem was even more pressing for the Jiamads. Their appetites were prodigious.

A secondary morale problem was also worrying him. The Legend riders loathed the Jiamads, and the beasts, in turn, sensing the hatred, were nervous and ill at ease. At the moment the problem was not serious, for the beasts traveled in separate barges. At night, when the Legend riders took their mounts ashore for exercise and grazing, the Jiamads stayed well clear of them. Skilgannon had tried to talk to Alahir about the hostility, but he, too, was locked into age-old prejudices. Jiamads were demon spawn. Jiamads were evil. Jiamads frightened the horses. It was equally difficult with Stavut, who seemed to consider his “lads” as merely large puppies. And then there was Harad. Skilgannon had not known Druss as a young man; nor had he spoken to him at any length about the death of his wife. He had no idea how the tragedy had affected the Drenai hero. Had he, too, become unhinged when the tragedy struck? Harad spoke little to anyone now, save perhaps Askari.

Skilgannon wandered along the now empty deck and down the wide gangplank to the shore. The Legend riders had gathered some hundred or so paces east and were sitting around campfires, laughing and talking. The Jiamads had wandered off with Stavut. The countryside was still lush, and Skilgannon had seen game in the hills. Askari was sitting with Decado on the riverbank. The swordsman was yet another concern for Skilgannon. Back at the merchant’s office Skilgannon had seen a look in the young man’s eyes that was disturbing. There had been a need in Decado to kill. For a brief moment Skilgannon had believed he would have to fight him. Then the moment had passed.

It might come again.

Skilgannon strolled toward the campfires. As he did so, Stavut and a group of Joinings emerged from the woods some little way to the west. The grazing horses picked up the scent of the Jiamads and immediately began to run. Legend riders surged up and rushed out into the meadow, seeking to calm them.

In the confusion that followed, three Legend riders approached Stavut and a heated argument broke out. Skilgannon moved swiftly toward them as other riders gathered. “Are you a complete idiot?” shouted one of the riders. “Your vermin scare horses. How could you be so stupid?” He leaned in toward Stavut, his manner threatening. A huge beast snarled and rushed at him, hurling the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the Jiamads. Legend riders grabbed their bows. Others drew swords and rushed forward.

Skilgannon raced in. “Stand fast!” he yelled.

The moment was tense. Many of the riders now had their bows bent. Skilgannon walked out to stand between the riders and the beasts. “This has gone far enough,” he said, his voice ringing out. “And I am becoming sick of the stupidity around me. Yes, Stavut should have known better than to bring his pack so close to the horses. But you”—he pointed to the man hurled to the ground—“showed even greater stupidity. Worse, it was a complete lack of judgment. How dare you use the word
vermin
? Stavut’s pack
chose
to come on this quest. You understand the meaning of the word?
Choice.
He told them to stay behind, because this was not their fight. They chose to support
you,
to fight alongside
you.
To die in
your
war. And this is how you repay them? Calling them vermin. You should be ashamed of yourself.” One by one the bows were put down, the arrows returned to their quivers. “I’ll tell you something else. I lived during the time you are all so desperate to bring back. I walked with Druss the Legend. I fought alongside him. At a citadel, full of Nadir warriors and renegade Naashanites. There were not many of us. There were two brothers, a Drenai warrior named Diagoras, and a woman with a crossbow. There was Druss. There was me. And there was a Jiamad. We all fought together. Druss the Legend did not call the Jiamad
vermin.
He did not shy away from him. He did not look at him with disgust. Druss judged all creatures by their deeds. If he was here when the word
vermin
was used it would have been Druss who downed the idiot who spoke the word.” He paused for a moment and looked at the still-angry men. “I don’t want to hear how many of your friends have been killed by Jiamads, or how your grandfathers made blood oaths to keep Jiamads from the sacred lands of the Drenai. This world is ancient. It has always had its share of evil. Evil, I think, was born in the heart of the first man. You don’t find evil in a leopard, or a bear, or a sparrow, or a hawk. We carry it. Men carry it. Out there,” he said, gesturing toward the north, “is a place of magic. If we can find it, and locate the source of it, we can prevent the Eternal—or anyone else—from ever creating another man-beast.
That
is what we need to focus upon.” He could see from their faces that his words had failed to sway them. And there was nothing more to say.

Skilgannon fell silent, and Alahir walked out from his riders and approached the towering Shakul. “I am Alahir, of the Legend riders,” he said. Shakul’s head swayed from side to side.

“This is my friend Shakul,” said Stavut. The beasts milled around, uncertain and nervous. Stavut took Alahir to one side and spoke to him in a low whisper. Alahir suddenly laughed and turned to his men.

“Follow our lead,” he said. Then he and Stavut began to rhythmically stamp their feet on the ground. With looks of bemusement, the Legend riders copied the movement. Then Alahir called out: “We are Pack! All of you say it! Together now!”

The response was at first weak and sporadic. “Louder, you whoresons!” shouted Alahir, laughing as he gave the order.

“We are Pack! We are Pack!” The chant boomed out over the meadows.

“Shakul!” yelled Stavut. “What are we?”

Shakul began to stamp his foot. One by one the beasts copied him. “We are Pack!” roared Shakul, then let out a ferocious howl. The Jiamads raised their heads and howled with him.

“Let’s hear some Drenai howls!” shouted Alahir. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he let out a piercing wolf call. Laughing now, the Legend riders began to whoop and howl. The horses scattered once more, but no one seemed to care.

Skilgannon looked around and smiled. For the first time in days he felt the tension ease from his body.

A
s Skilgannon walked back to where the barges were moored, Alahir joined him. “What you said back there, was it true?” he asked.