He sat very still, the cold of winter settling on his soul. What was it Gamal had said?
She is, like you and I, Skilgannon, a Reborn. I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded . . . Landis found the greatest of the artifacts, and he and I discovered how to reactivate it. Through its power we gave her immortality. We created the Eternal.
And then he knew. Landis Khan had discovered the bones of Jianna, the Witch Queen. He had brought her back. She, too, had been wandering the Void. Jianna, the love of his life, was the dread Eternal. The shock to his system was immense. He started to shiver, then felt the rise of nausea in the pit of his stomach.
I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded.
Somehow her immortality was maintained by taking control of new versions of herself, just as Druss had briefly taken over Harad that night in the ruins of Dros Delnoch. Druss, being the man he was, would not steal Harad’s life. The Witch Queen would not hesitate for a heartbeat. And that was why they were hunting Askari. A new, young body for the Eternal.
Skilgannon felt torn, his emotions shredded. Jianna was alive! He could find her, be with her, change the fate that had driven them apart.
“Are you insane?” he said aloud. The woman he had loved was fierce and courageous, and filled with idealism. The Eternal was a vampire who had plunged the world into chaos and horror.
He glanced at the night sky. “Why do you torment me still?” he raged. “Cethelin said you were a god of forgiveness and love. But you delight in malice and revenge.”
Anger coursed through him, blind and unreasoning. Had he not tried to atone for his sins? Had he not joined a monastery and sought to learn the way of the Source? So who had sent those killers to bay at the gates and threaten death to the gentle souls inside? None other but the Source? “All my life you have haunted me, sending violence and death to those I loved.” The gentle actor Greavas, the gardener Sperian, and his loving wife, Molaire, had been tortured to death by Boranius. Killers had come after Jianna. His entire past life had been plagued by violence and war. Now he had been dragged back into another conflict, where innocents would suffer.
His first life had seen him battling to save a princess from a dark power that sought to destroy her. Now that same princess was the dark power, and the victim was the physical embodiment of the princess he had loved.
The savage irony of the situation was sickening. Staring malevolently up at the stars, he shouted: “I curse you with every fiber of my being!”
Then the anger passed. He felt drained and terribly weary.
He was about to make his way back to where Harad was sleeping when he heard a sound from within the woods to his right. Instantly the Swords of Night and Day were in his hands. Skilgannon stood waiting. The undergrowth parted and the huntress, Askari, stepped from the shadows. She was carrying her recurve bow and wearing leggings of soft leather, and a hooded green shirt under a fringed doeskin jerkin. Her dark hair was held back from her face by a thin silver headband.
“Are you calmer now,” she asked him, “or do you intend to behead me?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Going with you to seek Landis Khan. Or going without you. I don’t much care which.”
“Is Stavut with you?”
“No. He is taking his wagon back to the north. The villagers are going with him. I hope it will prove safer for them there.”
“Nowhere is safe,” he said.
“Kinyon often says, The journey of life has only one destination,” she replied with a shrug. “Everything dies.”
“Not everything,” he said sadly.
S tavut had offered to travel with Askari, and had been both disappointed and delighted when she had refused him. It was an odd feeling. A part of him felt a sense of loss, but he consoled himself with the thought that his own chances of survival had been increased dramatically. Oh, Stavut, he told himself, you are a shallow man!
The sun was shining as he and some twenty-two villagers set off over the mountain pass. Stavut had been amazed and relieved to discover that the Jiamads had not killed his horses, nor ripped apart the contents of his wagon. The chestnut, Longshanks, and the gray, Brightstar, had been in a paddock behind Kinyon’s kitchen. Stavut had climbed the fence and called them to him. Longshanks came trotting over. The gray had pretended not to notice him. Until he began to stroke Longshanks’s neck and rub his knuckles across the chestnut’s long nose. Then Brightstar had moved across, dropping his head and nudging Stavut in the chest. “Yes, yes, I am pleased to see both of you,” he said. “But let’s not make a fuss. It is unseemly.”
As he sat upon his wagon in the morning sunlight it seemed that all was better with the world. The goods he carried for trade in Petar would be worth less in Siccus, the city in which he had purchased them, but he could—just—afford the drop in profits. The most important fact was that he had escaped death and dismemberment and was still able to breathe the fresh mountain air. He felt like singing, and would have, had there not been a column of villagers strolling behind his wagon. The only audience ever to appreciate Stavut’s voice were Longshanks and Brightstar—although appreciation might be too strong a word. Brightstar had a habit of breaking wind loudly whenever Stavut sang, but this might have been an attempt to harmonize. Stavut chuckled at the thought.
“You are in a good mood,” said Kinyon from his seat in the back of the wagon. The big man was recovering well, but was still too weak to walk the grueling high road.
“Indeed I am. Try not to move around too much. There are some breakables back there.”
The party stopped several times on the road to rest. Many of the villagers were carrying their most prized possessions in sacks upon their shoulders. Others were hauling handcarts. The horses were also weary. The wagon had been extra laden with food supplies for the ten-day journey. At one point Kinyon had been forced to climb down, and Stavut had unloaded some of the heavier crates, sacks, and barrels. Even then Longshanks and Brightstar had struggled to make the last rise. Stavut and the villagers reloaded the wagon and, after another halt for rest, continued on their way.
By dusk on the first day they had reached the highest point of the mountain road and began the descent into a wooded valley. Stavut had camped here several times in the past. There was water and good grass, and a rocky hollow in which a campfire could be set without being seen from any distance.
Three cook fires were set, and the villagers gratefully settled down to rest for the night. As the moon rose, the air was rich with the smell of frying bacon, and cook pans sizzled with eggs and toasting bread. Young Arin approached Stavut. He was a tall, handsome young man, sporting a swollen black eye and a cut to his lip. Crouching down where Stavut sat, he asked: “How much longer do we travel?”
“I’d say another ten days, perhaps a little more. There are many high mountain roads. It will be tiring.”
“Will it be safe?”
Stavut shrugged. “Safer than it was back in the settlement. But there are said to be roving bands of runaway Jiamads. I met a few on the way in. However, once we drop down onto the coast road we should come across Legend riders. With luck they will escort us into Siccus.”
“We have never been Outside,” said Arin, a worried look on his face.
“It is not so different. People still grow crops, and trade. Siccus is the city of the Legend people, so there are no Jiamads there, and no war, thank the Source.”
“And they will allow us to stay?”
“I’m sure they will,” said Stavut. Even as he spoke a doubt loomed in his mind. Alahir’s people did not like strangers.
Kinyon approached and, with a grunt, sat down by Stavut. “The wound is sore,” he said. “Healing, though.”
“Good,” said Stavut, still concerned about his promise to Arin.
“What are your plans for gathering food?” asked Kinyon.
“My plans?”
“Well, you are leading us,” the big man pointed out.
“No, no, no,” said Stavut, swiftly. “I am merely showing you the way to Siccus. I am not leading anyone.”
Kinyon leaned in close. “Listen to me, lad. These people have been terrified. Some are injured, others have lost loved ones. Now they are leaving their homes to travel Outside—to a place of war and fear. They need to be able to put their trust in something solid. They know you, Stavut. They like you. And right now, they need a source of some comfort. The only person here who knows the ways of Outside is you. They believe you will lead them somewhere safe.”
“I don’t know anywhere safe,” responded Stavut, keeping his voice down as he gazed at the faces of the villagers around the campfires.
“Even so, they have put their faith in you. I have put my faith in you.”
Stavut thought about it. He had always avoided responsibility for others. As a sailor he had twice turned down promotion, and, as a watch officer in Siccus, he had avoided applying for more senior posts. But this was different, he reasoned. This was merely a ten-day journey to the city. Once there he could prevail upon Alahir’s friendship to see the villagers settled. Then he would be free. What could be so hard about accepting a nominal role as leader?
Even as he thought it a tiny worm of doubt entered his mind. If there was one fact that life had taught Stavut, it was that Fate had a twisted sense of humor. He saw Kinyon looking at him expectantly. Stavut sighed. “Very well, Kinyon. I shall be leader.”
“Good lad,” said the wounded man, wincing as he pushed himself to his feet. “You won’t regret it.”
The words hovered over Stavut like an invisible rain cloud. I do already, he thought to himself.
There were many times in Stavut’s young life when decisions had turned bad, but at no time had the consequences been quite as swift. After Kinyon had wandered back to reassure the villagers that Stavut was in charge, the new leader walked across the campsite to tend to his horses. As he approached them he saw they were nervous. Longshanks’s ears were flat back against his skull, and he was pawing at the ground, wide eyed. The gray, Brightstar, was also jittery. They were still in their traces, the wagon brake locked in place.
“Hey, hey,” said Stavut, keeping his voice calm. “Do not fret, lads. I have some grain for you.”
At that moment one of the village women screamed. Longshanks tried to rear. The wagon lurched. Stavut swung around. Three Jiamads entered the campsite from the north. Others advanced from the south. The villagers gathered together. No one was armed.
In the moonlight Stavut thought he recognized the lead Jiamad, a hulking brute, obviously part bear. He was the one Skilgannon had spoken to back in the cave. What in the Seven Hells was his name?
The beast lumbered into the campsite and stood towering above the brightest of the campfires. “Leader!” he growled. “Where?”
For a moment there was no movement. Then several villagers pointed at Stavut. The young man glanced at the night sky. “You really don’t like me, do you?” he said. Then, with a deep breath, he walked toward the huge Jiamad. All his life Stavut had enjoyed a gift for mimicry. He had only to hear a voice to be able to duplicate the tone and the rhythms of speech. It had caused much amusement to his shipmates when he mimicked certain officers. Now he decided to emulate Skilgannon, and—despite his growing fear—his voice rang with authority. “What are you doing here, Shakul?” he asked.
“Food,” answered the great beast, his golden eyes fixing Stavut with a hard stare.
“Why do you not hunt? There are many deer in the forest.”
“Too fast. They run. Eat horses.”
“Not good,” said Stavut.
“Not good?” echoed the beast, confused. “I smell meat. Meat good.”
“What then? When the horses are eaten? How will you feed?”
“Hungry now!” roared Shakul, his bestial face pushing close to Stavut’s own.
Stavut did not back away. “You will wait,” said Stavut. “I will give you food for tonight. Tomorrow I will show you how to hunt deer. Then there will be food whenever you need it.”
Shakul’s great head began to sway back and forth. His taloned hands clenched and unclenched. He stared at the cowering villagers. Then his head swung back to loom over Stavut. “Hunt deer?”
“Yes. Good meat. Plentiful.”
“No deer, eat horses?”
“There will be deer,” said Stavut, with an assurance he did not believe. “Tell your . . . troop . . . to move away to the far side of the camp. I will bring food.” Shakul stood for a moment, then turned away, gesturing to the other six Jiamads. They lumbered away to squat down to the east of the clearing. On trembling legs Stavut walked to the wagon.
Kinyon joined him. “What is happening?” asked Kinyon.
Stavut lifted the canvas cover on the wagon and pulled out several rounds of ham, passing two to Kinyon. There was also a hank of beef. “That’s all the meat we have,” said Kinyon.
“No, it isn’t. There’s you, me, and the villagers.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Teach them to hunt.”
“You are a hunter?”
“Let’s not go into that. My confidence is frail enough as it is.”
Hauling the meat to his shoulder, Stavut walked across to where the Jiamads sat, then heaved it to the ground. Kinyon dropped the rounds of ham and backed swiftly away. Stavut moved back to the horses, petting them. Brightstar, still nervous, tried to bite him. Stavut leapt back. “One more trick like that and I’ll let them eat you,” he told the trembling gray. He glanced back to see the Jiamads tearing at the beef, splintering the bones and gnawing at the flesh.
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 throu
gh 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.”