Tears formed, flowing down his bearded cheek. He brushed them away, and his hand came away stained red.
For however long he lived this would be the Day of the Beast in his memory. He would never forget it, not one dreadful part of it.
The pack had run for hours, eating up the miles in a steady fast lope. Then they had come to a line of wooded hills, and Shakul had paused. “What is it?” asked Stavut.
“Fight finished,” said Shakul. Stavut glanced at the other beasts. They all had their heads high, sniffing the air. “Much blood,” added Shakul.
“Show me,” Stavut ordered him.
Shakul ran on, up the slope and through the trees, the pack following. They came to a stretch of open ground. Bodies were everywhere. Stavut stepped down from Shakul’s back and walked among the corpses. He saw Kinyon first, his head crushed. Arin, the logger from Harad’s settlement, was pinned against a tree, a broken lance impaling him to the trunk. His wife, Kerena, was close by. Her throat had been cut, but not before she had been brutally raped by the soldiers. She was lying on her back, her skirt over her breasts, her legs splayed. Other women had been equally abused before being slain. There was no point checking for survivors. All of the men had been hacked to death, save Arin.
Shakul loomed alongside him. “Four Jems,” he said. “Stood by trees.”
“What?”
“We go now?”
“Go? Yes, we go. We find the soldiers responsible for this.” A cold anger began in the pit of Stavut’s belly, a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. “We find them. We kill them. Every one.”
“As Bloodshirt says,” muttered Shakul.
“How far away are they?”
“Not far. Catch soon.”
“Then let’s be going.” Stavut reached up and took hold of the baldric. Shakul crouched down, allowing Stavut to place his foot in the loop. Then the great beast reared up, Stavut on his back, and let out a howl. He began to run. As he did so his right arm swept out, and he called an order. Some fifteen of the pack veered off to the right. Shakul barked out a second order, and another group headed toward the left. The pack ran on silently.
Stavut ducked down as Shakul plowed through thick undergrowth and low-hanging branches. Then he slowed and pointed ahead. A column of men were marching over the brow of a hill, some quarter of a mile ahead. “How many?” asked Stavut.
Shakul lifted up his huge, taloned hands, opening and closing them three times. “Few more, few less,” he said.
Then they ran again, pounding up the hillside. As they crested the hill they saw the troop still marching ahead of them, oblivious to the danger. Then one of the soldiers swung around and shouted a warning. The troop drew their weapons and tried to form a defensive wall. There was no time. The Jiamads tore into them. Stavut was thrown clear of Shakul. He hit the ground hard and rolled. A swordsman loomed over him. Shakul’s talons tore the man’s face away. Blood bubbled from his ruined throat, and he fell. Stavut grabbed the man’s sword and ran into the fray, hacking and stabbing. An officer on a tall horse was leading the men. When he saw the carnage he tried to flee. Grava hurtled across the grass and leapt at the man’s mount, ripping its neck open. The horse reared, hurling the rider to the earth. Stavut ran across the killing ground, slashing his sword into the bodies of men trying to flee. Not one escaped. Their skulls were crushed or bitten through, or their backbones shattered by iron-shod clubs. Stavut paused and looked around. A few men were still moving, trying to crawl. The beasts leapt upon them, long fangs slicing into thin necks.
Then Stavut saw the officer, lying very still. Grava was close by, his long, curved fangs tearing chunks of flesh from the body of the dead horse. Stavut walked to the officer, a young man, slim and handsome, his chin beard carefully shaped and trimmed. “I have information,” said the man. “Agrias will find it very useful, if you take me to him.”
“I don’t serve Agrias,” said Stavut.
“I . . . don’t understand. Who do you serve?”
“A man named Kinyon, and a young girl called Kerena. And others whose names I don’t recall now. I don’t suppose you asked their names before you killed them and raped their women.” Stavut raised the bloody sword.
“No wait!” shrieked the officer, lifting his arm high. Stavut’s blade slashed down, smashing the man’s forearm and cutting deeply through muscle and sinew. The officer screamed. “Mercy! I beg you!”
“Mercy? You’ll get what you gave, you whoreson!” The sword slashed down again, clanging against the man’s breastplate, then ricocheting down to slice into his thigh. He began to scramble backward. Stavut followed him, the sword hammering again and again, sometimes striking the metal armor, but more often cutting into flesh and bone. A massive blow caught the young officer on the side of the face, shattering several teeth and opening up a long cut down to the chin. The man rolled to his side, curling his legs up in a fetal position, and began to sob and cry. Stavut hacked at him. Then Shakul grabbed his arm, pulling him back and pushing him to the ground. The huge beast crouched over the mewing man and slashed his throat swiftly. The officer sank to the ground. Then Shakul moved away. Stavut sat very still, suddenly weary.
He had avenged the villagers. Only it didn’t help. They were still dead, their dreams soaking into the earth with their blood. Kinyon, a big man who only wanted to cook for others, to have them visit his little kitchen and tell him his pies were delicious. Kerena, who wanted five children and a little house on the high hills overlooking Petar. Their deaths had been cruel and meaningless. Stavut sighed. As had the deaths of these soldiers.
Pushing himself to his feet, he saw Shakul standing with the four Jiamads that had marched with the troop. “Why are they still alive?” he asked, moving alongside Shakul.
“You want dead? I kill.”
“Why did you not kill them already?”
“Bigger pack, better hunt.”
“They killed my people.”
“No, Bloodshirt. Stood by trees.” Stavut recalled the scene of the horror, and realized there were no fang or talon marks on the dead. “I kill now?” asked Shakul. The four Jiamads backed away, raising their clubs.
“No,” said Stavut, wearily. Then he sighed. “Why do they want to join us?”
“Be free,” said Shakul. “Run. Hunt. Feast. Sleep. No Skins.”
“I am a Skin.”
Shakul gave a low, rumbling, broken series of grunts that Stavut had discovered was a version of laughter. “You Bloodshirt.”
Stavut realized it was a compliment. He was about to reply when he saw blood on Shakul’s side. “You are wounded,” he said.
“Not wound,” said Shakul. “Boot.” He pointed to Stavut’s feet. The fur had been ripped away by Stavut’s boot during the long run. Yet the beast had said nothing.
“I am sorry, my friend,” he said. Then he took a deep breath and walked to stand before the towering enemy Jiamads. “You wish to run with Bloodshirt’s pack? To be free in the mountains?”
They stared at him with cold, golden eyes. “Run free,” said one. “Yes.”
“Then join us. There will be no killing of Skins . . . unless I order it. There will be no fighting among us. You understand. We are all brothers. Family,” he said. He recognized the look of noncomprehension on their faces. “You will not stand alone. Your enemies are my enemies. They are Shakul’s enemies and Grava’s enemies. We are friends. We are . . .” He swung to Shakul. “How can I make this clear to them?”
“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 hi
s 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 donn
ed 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.