“The power source is someone with a jug?”
“No, it is the water, stupid. The water makes the cup useful. Inside the temple there is something that fills the artifacts. We will destroy it. The artifacts will become useless. No more Reborns. No more Jiamads. No more Eternal. She will age and die like the rest of us.”
“All right,” said the man in the red shirt. “Suppose all you say is true. You still have to find a temple that is no longer there.”
“It must be there, Stavi. It is the source of the power. And the power still operates. If it were truly gone the artifacts would already have become useless.”
“This is all very well,” he said, taking her hand. “But I would think more clearly if you were to take a little walk in the woods with me.”
“You would not think more clearly,” she said. “You would fall asleep with a smile on your face.”
“So would you,” he countered.
“That is true.”
Hand in hand they crept through the sleeping Jiamads and away into the woods.
Memnon did not follow. He had seen people rut before.
Instead he flew back to the palace. There was so much to think on, and so many plans to initiate.
T here were times in Jianna’s long life when she considered boredom to be almost terminal. Intrigue had long since lost the fascination she had felt for it when young, and the new queen of Naashan. Manipulation, coercion, seduction had been exciting then, and each small victory had been something to celebrate. This last hundred years particularly had seen those skills honed to a perfection she felt she should have been proud of. Instead the practice of them had become a chore. There was a time when she had found men fascinating and intricate. Now they were—at best—merely diverting. Their needs and their values were always the same, their strengths and their weaknesses easy to manipulate.
It was one reason her heart yearned for Skilgannon; why she had sought his body for so many centuries. The prophecy meant nothing to her. She had lost count of the number of prophecies concerning her that had come to nothing over the centuries. It was not that some of the seers did not possess genuine talent. It was merely that a level of wish fulfillment entered their heads, coloring the visions they had. No, Skilgannon was unique among the men she had known. He had loved her fully and completely—loved her enough, indeed, to walk away from her. Even after all these years the shock of his departure remained a jagged wound in her heart.
He would have enjoyed this victory.
Agrias, apparently outnumbered and outmatched, had pulled back his army toward the ruins of an ancient city. Jianna’s forces had swept forward through a valley between a line of wooded hills, pursuing the fleeing enemy. It had been a trap, and beautifully worked. Agrias had sent out three regiments, two of men, one of Jiamads. The beasts had attacked from the high woods to the west, the enemy infantry sweeping down from the east. The third regiment of lancers had emerged at the rear of Jianna’s forces, completing the circle. It was a splendid ploy, which she had much enjoyed. Sadly for Agrias she had also anticipated the maneuver and held back the regiments of Eternal Guard, the finest fighting men on the planet. Highly trained and superbly disciplined, they had fallen on the enemy rear, scattering the lancers. Jianna’s own Jiamads had torn into the enemy ranks. The encircling maneuver had been the only potent weapon in Agrias’s arsenal. When it failed the spirit of his troops was broken. They had fought well for a little while, but then panic set in, and they fled the field. In the rout that followed, thousands were slain.
Agrias himself was taken, and the War in the North was over in just under twelve days. There were still pockets of resistance to overcome, mainly in the Drenai lands to the west. This, however, was a relatively simple matter. The Legend riders had a few thousand doughty fighters, but no Jiamads, and no reserves to call upon.
Jianna opened the flaps of her tent and stepped out into the moonlight. The two Guardsmen saluted. Several of her generals were waiting outside, and she saw Unwallis walking across the campsite toward her tent. He had been hurt by her rejection of him. It amazed her that he could have considered becoming a regular lover again. The man was old and lacked the stamina she had once enjoyed in his company. It was not a mistake she would make again.
Agrippon, the senior general of her Eternals, bowed as her gaze fell upon him. Jianna liked him. She had tried to seduce him several years ago, but he was a married man and ferociously loyal to his wife. She felt that with a little extra effort she could have broken down this resistance, for he was obviously besotted by her, but she rather liked his stolid honesty and his attempt to be true. So she had drawn back, and now treated him with sisterly affection. Summoning him to her tent, she told the Guard to admit no one else until she ordered it.
“Sit down, Agrippon,” she bade him. “What are the figures?”
“Just over a thousand dead. Eleven thousand enemy corpses—not counting their beasts.”
“And my Guard?”
“We lost only sixty-seven men, with another three hundred bearing light wounds.”
“Excellent.”
“As indeed was your battle plan, Highness.” The compliment was clumsily made, but she sensed his sincerity. Agrippon was not a man given to compliments.
She gazed at the black-bearded soldier and wondered if she should reconsider her sisterly demeanor. The battle had been exciting, and Jianna felt the need to have the tension relieved. He grew uncomfortable under her direct gaze and rose from his seat.
“Will that be all, Highness?”
“Yes, thank you, Agrippon. Convey my congratulations to your officers. Will you have Unwallis attend me?”
“Of course, Highness,” he said, bowing.
After the general had left, the statesman ducked under the tent flap. He, too, bowed.
“How did you enjoy your first battle?” she asked him. He had ridden alongside her at the center of the army, looking faintly ludicrous in a gilded breastplate and overlarge helm.
“It was terrifying, Highness, but having survived it, I wouldn’t have missed it for all the wine in Lentria. I thought we were trapped.”
She laughed. “It would take someone with more skill than Agrias to trap me.”
“Yes, Highness. Might I ask what your plans are for him? I thought—”
“You thought I would have had him killed immediately.”
“Indeed, Highness. He has been a thorn in our sides for many years now.”
“I expect he is contemplating his situation even as we speak. We will allow that contemplation to continue.”
“Exquisitely cruel, Highness,” he said, with a sigh. “He is an imaginative man, and will be considering all the horrors that could come his way.”
“Indeed so. You wanted to see me. Do you have news?”
“We have been questioning some of the captured officers. It seems that the Legend riders attached to Agrias—some three hundred of them—left his service two weeks ago. One of the riders is fond of a local whore. She was, in turn, fond of the particular officer we questioned.”
“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 fro
m 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.