“Right,” said Stavut, buying time to think. “Let’s be sure of what we are all doing. We are seeking my comrades, who may be in danger. If they are, we must rescue them. I want no one rushing in. We get close enough to see what the situation is, then I shall give orders. Is this understood?”
“Yes,” said Shakul. “Now leave?”
Stavut gazed around the pack. There were more than forty Jiamads now. Some still carried iron-studded clubs, others heavy swords. A few retained long staffs. Several of them still wore wide baldrics on their shoulders, from which hung empty scabbards. Stavut crossed to two of them and told them to remove their baldrics. The beasts did so without question, handing them to Stavut. Both had broad brass buckles. Undoing them, he buckled them together and walked back to Shakul. “Bend forward,” he said. Shakul obeyed instantly. Stavut slipped the double-sized baldric over his head. Shakul was larger than any of the other Jiamads, and the leather hung to just above his hips. “Stand still,” said Stavut, lifting his leg and placing it on the lowest part of the loop. Then he stood and took hold of the long fur on Shakul’s massive shoulders. “Now we go!” he said.
Shakul took off at a great pace, and Stavut was briefly thrown back. He clung on grimly, seeking to read the rhythm of the great beast’s running style. Within a very short space of time he began to feel sick. It was almost as bad as the first time he had gone to sea. With iron resolve he willed his belly to hold on to its contents and tried to think of other things as the run continued. This was hard, for with each heavy running step Shakul took Stavut’s belly heaved.
Just when he felt he could hold on no longer he saw a sight that took all thoughts of sickness from him.
Shakul ran into the campsite he had left yesterday. His wagon was still there, his beloved horses, Longshanks and Brightstar—or what was left of them—still tethered. “Stop!” shouted Stavut. Shakul came to a stop and Stavut leapt down. His legs almost gave way, and the ground seemed to be moving. Stavut gazed down at the dead beasts. He saw a movement in the trees nearby, and two gray wolves padded back from sight. The villagers had left his wagon behind, not thinking that, with the brake applied, the tethered horses would have no way to escape a wolf pack.
Shakul loomed alongside him. “I loved those horses,” Stavut told him. The great beast looked nonplussed. Stavut sighed. Two Jiamads approached the dead beasts. Shakul snarled at them, ordering them back.
“Time to move on,” said Stavut.
This time he felt no sickness. His heart was heavy, and all he wanted was to find the villagers safe. Then he would turn the pack over to Shakul, seek out new horses, and head north.
He realized Shakul was speaking to him, and leaned forward to catch what he was saying.
“Blood in air,” said Shakul. “Skin blood.”
T he trio rested up for most of that day, and the one following. Harad said little. He sat by Charis’s grave, his expression bleak, his eyes distant. Skilgannon did not intrude on his grief, and Askari left the two men, setting off to hunt for food. She returned at dusk on the second day with three hares, which she skinned. “The meat is better when left to hang for a while,” she said as they ate.
Skilgannon thanked her for the meal, then walked out into the moonlight. His mind flowed back to the dream meeting with Memnon. Now, there was a dangerous man. No anger, no hatred; a cold mind and eyes that glittered with intelligence. He was an enemy to fear.
He suddenly laughed aloud. All across this war-torn land there were enemies to fear, armies of Joinings, cavalry, foot soldiers, archers. Memnon was merely one more to add to the list, along with Jianna and Decado—and who knew who else.
He glanced back to where Harad sat by the fire and sighed. The young man had lost the woman he loved, and his world was in ruins. Skilgannon felt for him, recalling the cold day he had heard of Jianna’s death. Would Harad ever be the man he once was? Skilgannon wondered. He had not touched the ax all day. It lay against the cliff wall, forgotten. Askari strolled out. “You want to be alone?” she asked.
“No. We must set out tomorrow and find Kinyon. Or if not Kinyon, then someone who can offer directions to the Rostrias. I am sure that if I find the river, I can locate the temple.”
They heard a horse whinny in the darkness. Askari reached for her bow and nocked a shaft. A figure rode into sight.
It was Decado.
His clothing was travel stained, a layer of dust upon the black jerkin he wore. He seemed surprised to see them, and drew rein.
Askari drew back on the string, but Skilgannon reached out and touched her arm. “Do not kill him yet,” he said.
“Nice of you,” said Decado, lifting his leg over the saddle pommel and jumping lightly to the ground. His dark eyes stared hard at Skilgannon. “So, you are my ancestor. To be honest I see no resemblance.”
“I do,” Skilgannon told him. “It is in the haunted look, and the fear of the blades.”
“I fear nothing,” said Decado. “Not you, not the beauty with the bow, not the Shadows. Nothing.”
“A poor lie,” Skilgannon replied. “You fear losing those blades. You do not like them out of your sight. When you sit in the evenings you make sure they are beside you. You reach out and touch them endlessly. In the mornings the first action you take is to caress the hilts.”
Decado gave a cold smile. “True,” he said, reaching up and pressing an emerald stud on the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. With one smooth pull the Sword of Fire slid from its scabbard. Skilgannon stepped back and drew his own blades.
“You have come a long way just to die here, boy,” said Skilgannon.
Decado’s second blade appeared in his hand. “A man has to die somewhere. Keep the bow nocked,” he said to Askari, “and move back away from us. Stand as close to the cliff wall as you can.”
Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Decado loosen the muscles of his arms, sweeping the swords back and forth. “You see the clouds gathering?” said Decado.
Skilgannon glanced at the sky.
“Be ready when they cover the moon,” said Decado. “I don’t know how good you are, kinsman, but death is very close if you are less than superb.”
“You think you are that good?”
Decado smiled. “Oh, I know how good I am, but it is not me you need to concern yourself with at this moment. The Shadows are here.” Harad, ax in hand, had moved out into the open.
Darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon closed his eyes, slipping into the Illusion of Elsewhere. There came a sudden hissing sound, like a breeze blowing through a window crack. Skilgannon spun, the Sword of Night slicing through the air. The blade struck something metallic, which then fell against his shoulder. He heard Askari cry out. Then came a high-pitched screech of pain. The darkness was total. Skilgannon leapt to his right, then spun again, blades extended. He heard the slightest whisper of movement. Instantly he dropped to one knee and slashed out with the Sword of Day. The blade struck something soft, then cut through. The clouds began to clear the moon. Sight returned. Skilgannon blinked. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw a pale form some twenty feet away. Then it was gone—only to appear alongside him. A dark dagger plunged toward his chest. The Sword of Night swept up. The creature ducked and moved with incredible speed. The Sword of Day snaked out, the very tip of the blade slicing across the creature’s throat. It sped away, staggered, then fell.
Moonlight shone down, illuminating the open ground. Harad was down, as was Askari. Decado looked at Skilgannon and smiled. “Quick, aren’t they?”
There were three skeletal bodies lying on the earth. Snaga was embedded in one, a second lay close to Decado, and the third was the one slain by Skilgannon. “And now do we fight?” he asked Decado.
“If you really want to,” replied the swordsman. “For myself I would like to sit beside a fire and relax. Perhaps stroke my sword hilts for a while.”
“How many more of these creatures are there?”
“None clos
e, I think. They travel in threes. More will come, though.”
Skilgannon moved alongside Askari and knelt down. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes open. Reaching out, he touched her throat. There was a faint pulse. “She is not dead,” said Decado. “The venom in their darts and daggers merely paralyzes. Close her eyes for her, and let her sleep. She will awake in an hour or so, with a ghastly headache.”
Decado stepped to where Harad lay. “Now, that is a strange sight,” he said. “I would have wagered all I have that a huge clod with an ax would not have been able to kill a shadow.” Placing a booted foot under Harad, he flipped the axman to his back. Sheathing his swords, he dropped to one knee and closed Harad’s eyes. Then, ignoring the fallen man, he walked over to the dying fire and added a few sticks. Skilgannon joined him.
“Why did you aid us?” he asked.
“Actually, kinsman, it was the other way around. The Shadows were hunting me. So how does it feel to be alive again after all these centuries?”
“Why were they hunting you?”
“I fell out of favor with the Eternal. She ordered my death. Strange really. She only had to ask me and I would have killed myself for her.” Decado sighed. “According to legend you loved her, too, so you’ll know what I mean.”
“What do you intend to do now?” said Skilgannon, ignoring the comment.
“Well,” said Decado, “I could follow your historic example and join a monastery. I don’t think so, though. My namesake did that, too, you know. He was after your time. He became a warrior of the Thirty, in the days of Tenaka Khan. He was known as the Ice Killer—the greatest swordsman of his age. Of any age. I suppose he would have been your . . . what . . . great-great-grandson. Something like that. Nice to know blood can run true, don’t you think?”
“You have merely said what you are not going to do,” pointed out Skilgannon.
“I have not made up my mind.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“You’ll be the first, kinsman.”
Skilgannon cleaned his blades then sheathed them.
“Our swords are very similar,” said Decado. “Is that how you knew of my obsession?”
“Yes. It is the same for me. These blades are possessed, Decado. They make us more violent. They have the capacity to unhinge us, turn us into madmen. They call for blood and death. It is hard to resist them. Yours are more dangerous than mine. The Swords of Night and Day were created by a witch named Hewla. She was extraordinarily talented, but the blades she made were merely copies of a more ancient and deadly pair. You carry those. The Swords of Blood and Fire.”
“I was a killer before I carried them,” said Decado, sadly. “I cannot blame the swords for what I became.” He looked up at Skilgannon. “Jianna told me you killed the last man to carry these. She talked of you often. I found myself growing jealous of a man long dead. I used to hope that someone would bring you back—just so that I could kill you, and show the world you were not as great as they believed.”
“And now?”
“Pretty much the same,” said Decado with a smile.
A skari felt a tingling sensation in her fingers. Then feeling returned. Slowly she opened her right hand, pressing the tip of her index finger against the thumb. The tingling swept up along her right forearm. She lay quietly, her head throbbingas slowly her body came once more under her control. With a groan she sat up. Skilgannon moved to her side. “Welcome back,” he said.
“What were they?”
“Decado called them Shadows. A different form of Jiamad.”
“I have never seen anything move so fast. One moment it was yards away, the next—” She glanced down at her green shirt. There was a small hole in the shoulder, drying blood upon it. “—it bit me. As I fell I saw it spin and fly at Harad. Is he all right?”
“He killed it, but it stunned him also. He is still sleeping.”
“Oh, it is not sleep,” she said, with a sudden shiver. “I heard everything. Your conversation with Decado, the crackling of wood upon the fire. I just could not move.” By the fire Decado stirred. Rolling smoothly to his feet, he swung his black scabbard over his shoulders and moved alongside Skilgannon and Askari. She found the intensity of his gaze disturbing. “Stop staring at me,” she said.
Decado laughed. “Hard not to. The resemblance is . . . uncanny.”
“And that is all it is,” she snapped. “I am not like her.”
On the far side of the fire Harad sat up. Then he pushed himself to his feet, staggered, and walked out into the open. Skilgannon rose and followed him. Askari remained with Decado. “Now it is you staring at me,” he said.
“I have heard tales of you. None of them good. You must be a very sad and bitter man.”
“Nonsense. I am as happy as anyone else.”
“I cannot believe that.”
“It is true. My childhood was a time of great joy and laughter. I was the most popular child in my village. And now I am known for my wit and my charm. You have any food here?”
“No.”
“Ah well, no matter.”
“How did those creatures move so fast?” she asked him.
“It is mostly beyond my understanding. They are fashioned, I understand, from creatures with hollow bones, very light. Bats, birds, something like that. Terrifying, aren’t they?”
“No,” she said. “They do what they are bred to do. They are merely dangerous. You are terrifying.” She struggled to stand. Instantly Decado reached out a hand to support her. She brushed it away angrily. “Do not touch me!”
“Are you afraid you might be more like her than you think?”
“Meaning?”
“She enjoyed my touch.”
“Perhaps that is because you are so alike,” said Askari. “You are both monsters.”
“There is that,” he agreed amiably.
“And, if she enjoyed your touch so greatly why does she now want you dead?”
“A lovers’ spat,” he said. “You know how it is. Boy meets girl, girl wants boy dead. An everyday story, really.”
Despite the lightness of tone she saw the pain in his eyes. For a moment only she felt sympathy. The feeling was replaced by a burst of anger. “Well, for once I hope she gets what she wants. You are evil, and the world would be better off without you in it.”
“True enough,” he answered.
Walking away from her, he went to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Askari followed him out. Skilgannon and Harad were standing close by.
“I expect we shall meet again,” said Decado.
“As enemies or friends?” Skilgannon asked him.
“Who knows? If you are heading north, be aware that a large company of soldiers and Jems is ahead of you. Advance column for the main army. The last battle against Agrias is close now. Jianna wants to end the war this side of the ocean.”
With that he turned his mount and rode off.
“I don’t like him,” said Harad.
“He doesn’t like himself,” Askari told him. “Which shows he is capable of good judgment.”
Skilgannon smiled. “Even so I am glad he was here when the Shadows attacked. What did you talk about?”
“Jianna. I told him I was not like her.” She looked into his sapphire eyes. “I am not, am I?”
“I cannot give you the answer you want to hear,” he said. “When I first knew her she was just like you. Brave—indeed fearless—and loyal and beautiful. She was her own woman, with a strong, independent mind. We used to talk about how we would change the world. When she became queen of Naashan she would make the land like a garden, and every citizen would live in peace and prosperity. These were her dreams.”
“So why did she change?”
“She became queen of Naashan,” he said, simply.
“I don’t understand.”
“It took me a while,” he told her. “Mostly people obey the laws of their respective lands for one simple reason. If they break them they will suffer for i
t. The thought of suffering deters them from wrongdoing. It is an age-old principle. Kill someone, and you yourself will be killed. Rob someone and you will be punished. You might lose a hand, or be branded upon the brow, or indeed hanged. The question is, what happens when you are the law, when your actions are unchallenged, your decisions final and beyond appeal? When you are surrounded by people who agree with your every word and every deed? You become like a god, Askari. It is but a small step from that to tyranny.”
“I would not be like that. I know the difference between right and wrong.”
“I believe you. I also believe that if Jianna had been born in the high mountains and grown to womanhood here, she would have said the same. That is beside the point, though. You are not Jianna. You were not raised in a duplicitous court. You did not see your parents murdered by traitors. You did not have to fight huge battles in order to win back a kingdom. I do not defend what she became. I will not simplify it, either, by holding to the view that she was merely a devil in human flesh, or a monster.”
“That is because you love her!” she said, anger flaring again.
“Perhaps so. But I will do all in my power to end her reign, even if by doing so I condemn her to death. I can do no more than that.”
“No,” she said, her voice softening. “No one could ask more than that.”
S tavut sat alone, the horror of the day clinging to him like the blood-drenched shirt he wore. He had wandered away from the pack, needing to be alone. The sun was setting in a bloodred sky, and Stavut thought how apt it was that such a day should end with a crimson sky. The color of rage.