“Oh, yes, Landis. I am angry.” Landis took an involuntary backward step, his face showing his fear. Skilgannon gave a cold smile. “But I will not harm you.”
“That is a relief,” said Landis. “What can you tell me of Harad’s . . . ancestor?”
Skilgannon shook his head. “I see why you wanted me to meet him, but I will tell you nothing. I need to think on this. Alone.” With that he stepped smoothly into the saddle and rode away.
H arad was uneasy as he returned to work—not that anyone would have noticed. He still swung his ax with unfailing power, his strength seemingly limitless. He worked throughout the morning, silently as always, his face grim, his expression set. At one point he saw Balish staring at him, but ignored him. Lathar and his brothers were close by, and twice he found himself working alongside them. They did not speak, but during one short break Lathar offered Harad a drink from a water canteen. Harad accepted it.
Lathar sighed. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So where did the first oak tree come from?”
Harad relaxed and suddenly chuckled. “I don’t know. A woman said it to me. Now I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Me, too,” said Lathar. “Women, eh?”
Harad nodded. No more was said, but the enmity between them melted away.
The day was warm, the work exhausting. By the midday break Harad had been toiling for six hours. He found himself looking forward to seeing Charis, to sitting quietly on a log with her beside him. When the women came he walked away to sit alone, and waited for her. She was wearing a cream-colored smock and a green skirt, and her feet were bare. Her long, golden hair was tied back with a green ribbon. Harad felt his heartbeat quicken. Charis was carrying a basket of food. She moved among the men, offering them bread. Harad waited, his impatience growing. Finally she turned toward him and smiled. He reddened.
“Good day to you, Harad,” she said.
“And you,” he replied, struggling for something intelligent to say. Charis handed him a small loaf and a block of firm cheese. Then she swung away. Harad was astonished. Always she stopped and spoke to him. It was bizarre. On all the occasions when he wished to be alone she would hover close by. Now that he actually wanted to talk to her she was moving away.
“Wait!” he called, before he could stop himself. Charis looked around, obviously surprised. “I . . . I wanted to speak with you.”
Charis wandered back to where he sat. “What about?” she asked, though she did not sit.
“I am going away for a few days.”
“Why would you need to share that with me?”
“No, not that. I wanted to ask about the lord’s nephew. I am to take him into the high country.”
“The painted man?”
“Painted?”
“He has tattoos on his chest and his back. A great cat, and a hawk or eagle. A hunting bird anyway. Oh yes, and a spider on his forearm.”
“You have seen these things?”
“No. One of the other girls told me. He stands naked in his room.”
“Naked? In front of women?”
“He is from Outside. They act differently there, I suppose,” said Charis. “He is very good looking, don’t you think?”
Harad felt anger swelling inside him. “You think so?”
“Of course. I spoke to him. He is very polite. He complimented me. Why does he want to go to the high country?”
“I didn’t ask him,” growled Harad, wondering what the compliment might have been.
“Well, you can ask him while you travel.” With that she walked away. Harad’s mood darkened, and his appetite disappeared. He pictured the tall, dark-haired young man. His eyes were very blue. Maybe that was what she meant. In a heartbeat I could lift him and snap him in two, he thought. Then he recalled those eyes. As a fighter Harad had an instinct about the strengths and weaknesses of other men. He did not doubt he could crush the man—but it would not be done in a heartbeat.
Leaving the food untouched, he strode back to work ahead of the others, easing out his frustration with every swing of the long-handled ax.
Toward dusk Balish approached him. Harad did not like the man. There was something sly and mean about him. Yet it was Balish who controlled the work gangs and distributed the wages. Harad sighed and tried to avoid showing his contempt.
“What did the lord want?” asked Balish.
Harad told him about the trip to the high country with the nephew, the foreigner. “Hard country up there,” offered Balish. “It is said there are renegade Jiamads roaming the upper passes.”
“I have seen one or two,” Harad told him. “They are like the bears and the big cats. They mostly avoid men.”
“What is it that he wants to see?”
“Maybe the ruins,” said Harad.
“I have never heard of this nephew before,” said Balish. “Why is he here, do you think?”
Harad shrugged. How would he know? Balish stood around for a few more moments, making increasingly idle conversation. Then he wandered away. Harad sat down, annoyed now that he had not eaten his meal. Hungry, he walked back to where he had left his loaf and cheese. It was gone. It would be a long wait to breakfast.
He thought about the ruins. Every autumn Harad would travel to them, clambering over the old stones. There was something about the place that eased his spirit. He felt at peace there, in a way he could find peace nowhere else. Perhaps it was the solitude. Harad did not know. What he did know was that he did not relish the thought of taking a stranger there.
4
T hirty miles to the south a small group of cavalry and infantry made their way up the steep slopes toward the pass of Cithesis. Two scouts rode ahead of the main party. One of them carried a long lance, from which fluttered an unadorned flag of simple yellow. The rider glanced nervously about him. Too many of his comrades had been killed while carrying a flag of truce for him to feel at ease.
Some distance behind him rode the herald, Unwallis. Alongside him was the swordsman, Decado, and fifteen riders of the Eternal Guard, in their armor of black and silver. Bringing up the rear were twenty Jiamads.
Unwallis was not a young man, and he loathed these missions to outlying lands and settlements. Of late he had grown ever more fond of his palace back in Diranan. There was a time when he had reveled in intrigue and politics, but he had been younger then. This latest war had sapped both his ambition and his energy. He glanced at the dark-haired young man riding beside him on a white gelding. He was everything Unwallis had once been: ambitious, ruthless, and driven by a desire to excel. Unwallis hated him for his youth and his strength. He kept that hatred well masked. Decado was not a man to endure enemies, and, more, he was the latest favorite of the Eternal. Mostly, however, Decado was at least an interesting companion. He had wit, and a sharp, dry sense of humor. Unless of course, as now, he was suffering. Unwallis glanced at the young man. His face was unnaturally pale, his dark eyes narrowed in pain. Unwallis himself had suffered severe headaches in his long life—but nothing compared to what the young swordsman went through. Last month he had collapsed in the palace, and his ears had bled. Unwallis shivered. Memnon had administered a heavy narcotic, but even this had not quelled the pain, and Decado had spent three days in a darkened room, crying out in agony.
“How much farther?” asked the young swordsman.
“We should make contact with their scouts within an hour,” answered Unwallis. “Landis Khan will make us welcome.”
“I do not see why we did not merely bring a regiment and take the damned place,” said Decado.
“Landis Khan served the Eternal well for many lifetimes. She wishes to give him the opportunity to declare his loyalty anew.”
“He is creating Jiamads. That makes him a traitor.”
Unwallis sighed. “His role was to create Jiamads. His expertise is in creating Jiamads. The Eternal knows this. It was unlikely he would retire here and spend his days growing vegetables.”
“So you are to ask hi
m to renew his vow of loyalty?”
“That is one of our missions.”
“Ah yes, the hunt for the long-dead hero,” said Decado, with a laugh. “The One. It is a nonsense.”
Unwallis gazed at the young killer. How curious, he thought. You are jealous of a man who has been dead for a thousand years. “He was an interesting figure,” said Unwallis, innocently, knowing that talk of Skilgannon would irritate the swordsman. “It is said that no one could stand against him, blade to blade. Even in middle age he was deadly.”
“All legends say that about heroes,” snapped Decado, rubbing at his eyes.
“True. However, the Eternal herself says there was no man like him.”
“As far as I can tell he killed a few primitive Jiamads and won a few battles. It doesn’t make him a god, Unwallis. I don’t doubt he was a good swordsman. But I could have taken him. Have you ever seen anyone as skilled as me?”
“No,” admitted Unwallis. “You are exceptional, Decado. As indeed are the blades you carry,” he added, glancing at the single scabbard hanging on the man’s back, twin swords sheathed in it. “I would imagine there is no one in the world today who could stand against you.”
“There never will be anyone to stand against me.”
“Indeed, let us hope you are correct,” said Unwallis. The young, he thought, have such arrogance. They assume they will never suffer the ravages of age. He glanced at Decado. Will you still have such a belief in twenty years’ time? he wondered. Or thirty, when your muscles are stretched and your joints rheumatic? But then again, he thought, the Eternal might not tire of you, and might offer you longer life. She had done this with Unwallis for a few decades. Extended youth had been a wondrous gift. Sadly, it had mostly been enjoyed in retrospect. Only when that youth began to fade had he truly appreciated its wonder.
By then the Eternal had tired of him as a lover, and he became . . . what had he become? A friend? No. The Eternal had no friends. What then? Sadly he had to accept he had become merely another follower, a servant, a slave to her whims. In truth, however, there was no cause for complaint. In a world savaged by war, pestilence, and disease Unwallis had a palace and servants, and riches enough to last any man for several lifetimes. Not that he had several lifetimes. He was a ninety-year-old man in a fifty-year-old body. He looked again at Decado. What will you do when she abandons you? he wondered.
They rode on for some time. Then there came a shout from the lead rider.
Two Jiamads stepped from the shadows of the trees and stood waiting. Unwallis rode up to them. Both were quite primitive melds, obviously wolves. Landis Khan had clearly not acquired enough artifacts to hone the process. “I am Unwallis,” he told the pair. “The Lord Landis Khan is expecting me.”
“No soldiers,” said the first Jiamad, the words slurring in his misshapen mouth. “You ride on. They stay.”
Unwallis had expected this, but the young Decado was furious. Edging his horse forward, he reached up to one of the swords that hung between his shoulder blades. In that moment other Jiamads appeared from behind the trees. They outnumbered Unwallis’s force by more than two to one. The situation was tense. Unwallis heeled his horse forward. “The soldiers will await us here,” he said. “Myself and my companion will ride up to meet the Lord Landis Khan.”
“This is intolerable,” said Decado.
“No, my friend, it is merely inconvenient,” said Unwallis. Swinging in the saddle, he called back to the captain of the Eternal Guard: “We will return tomorrow. I shall have food sent down to you.”
With that he heeled his horse past the Jiamads. Decado rode silently beside him. He knew what the young man was thinking. Their own force, though outnumbered, could have defeated these primitive melds. The Jiamads of the Eternal were bigger, stronger, and more delicately honed than those of Landis Khan. Decado was a warrior. He had fought in a score of battles. He had, Unwallis believed, the simplistic nature of the fighting man. Enemies were to be slain wherever they were found. There was little understanding of intrigue, or the necessity to nurture one’s enemies, either making them friends or lulling them into complacence for later annihilation. As far as Decado was concerned Landis Khan represented a small threat, and one easily crushed. This, of course, was to miss the point. The war was finely balanced. The Eternal had the advantage on this side of the ocean and, barring unforeseen disasters, would gain the final victory sometime this year. This would allow a seaborne invasion of the east next year, and a final victory perhaps the year after. An eastern invasion now, however, would leave forces on this side of the ocean thinly spread. Which was why Landis Khan had become an important factor. If the Eternal needed to use her regiments to destroy Landis and his Jiamads, it would strengthen her chances of a swift victory on this side of the ocean, but delay her invasion of the east. Such a delay might allow the enemy to regroup. The balance of power could then shift.
Landis Khan needed to be neutralized without the need of a costly invasion.
Unwallis rode on, coming at last to a stretch of open ground between two high crags. A new wall had been built here, some twelve feet high, a bronze-reinforced gate set at the center.
As the riders approached, the gate was drawn open and a horseman rode out to meet them.
“Unwallis, my dear old friend,” said Landis Khan. “You are most welcome.”
S kilgannon watched from his balcony window as Landis Khan rode from the palace, heading south to meet the messengers. Then, his expression grim, he left his rooms and walked down to the long library. He did not pause by the bookshelves, nor seek out any tomes. Moving through the archway into the rear of the library, he approached the locked door to Landis Khan’s private study. The door was solid oak. Skilgannon paused before it, closing his eyes and gathering his strength and concentration. Leaning to his left, he hammered his right foot against the lock. Three times more he repeated the maneuver. Then he waited, drawing in deep, calming breaths. His boot crashed against the frame twice more—and the door sprang open.
Striding inside, he began to search the room. There were papers scattered upon the desk. Skilgannon scanned them, seeing references to his own history. He searched the drawer of the desk, but found nothing of importance. At the rear of the room was another door. This, too, was locked, but the timber was thinner and Skilgannon splintered the wood around the lock with a single kick.
It was dark inside, the small window shuttered. Skilgannon opened it and turned. The first thing he saw chilled his blood. It was a large picture frame, though there was no picture inside. Instead a section of human skin had been stretched over the inner frame. The skin bore a tattoo of an eagle with outspread wings. Beside it was another frame, this one facedown. Skilgannon turned it over. As he expected this also contained tattooed human skin. The identical snarling panther that even now adorned his chest. On a small desk he saw a sheaf of papers, bound with ribbon. Sitting down, he untied the ribbon and spread out the papers it held. Then he began to read, his mood darkening with each sentence.
Landis Khan was a meticulous note taker. Much of what he had written was lost on Skilgannon, but even more was easily digestible. As the light began to fade he gathered up the papers and rose from the desk. He had promised Gamal he would stay for a while. He would keep that promise. Then he would leave and make the long journey to what had once been his home. Skilgannon had no interest in silver eagles, or the Eternal, or the war that was being fought here.
He had once been a general, issuing orders, preparing strategies. He had fought for an empire. Now he was being used like the lowliest foot soldier. It galled him.
The blond-haired servant girl, Charis, brought him some food as he sat on the balcony reading Landis Khan’s notes. She hovered close by even after he had thanked her. He glanced up, his expression stern. “You want something, child?” he asked.
“You are going into the mountains tomorrow,” she said.
He sighed and shook his head. “Is that a question or a statement?” r />
“A statement.”
“Why would you make it? I know where I am going tomorrow.”
“Are you always so argumentative?” she asked.
He laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension leave him. “What kind of training have you received as a servant?” he countered.
She smiled and walked past him to stand in the sunshine bathing the balcony. “How much training does one need to bring a tray to a guest’s room? It is a pretty view. I can see my father’s bakery from here.”
“Shall we return to your interest in my journeyings?”
“Oh, I am not interested in where you go. It is just that you will be traveling with Harad. He is not as fierce as he appears. Best to remember that. He is, in fact, quite shy.”
“Not the first adjective that would spring to mind,” he said. “Surly, perhaps. Discourteous. Cool. But, yes, shy would account for them. Why does it concern you?”
“Harad is my . . . friend. I wouldn’t want him to get into trouble with the lord. Is it true you are his nephew?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“No,” she said, moving back past him. “There are many rumors about you. Some say you are a new form of Jiamad.”
“And what animal do they say I am melded with?”
“Perhaps it is a panther,” she suggested. “You have a certain catlike grace.”
“You should go now,” he said. “I have much to do, and, fascinating as this conversation is, it does not seem to be going anywhere.”
“Be a little gentle with Harad,” she said. “He is a fine man.”
“I shall bear it in mind. However, I know Harad better than you think. Be at ease, Charis. We will walk the mountains and then return.”
When she had gone Skilgannon picked up the papers and began reading once more. Toward dusk Landis Khan entered the room. He did not knock, and his face was flushed and angry.
“Is this how you repay me?” he thundered. “Breaking open my study and stealing my papers?”