“It wasn’t him. I dug there and found some old bones, but the artifacts in the grave were of the wrong age.”
“One of your diggers reported that you found two swords in a single scabbard.”
“Not so. We found a massive ax, double headed, which had not rusted, and a few pots containing gold coins. The coins were of the late Drenai period, stamped with the image of King Skanda. I still have some of them, should you wish to see them.”
“Why do you have ward spells over your domain, Landis?” The question was asked softly, and Unwallis watched his old friend closely. Landis did not look him in the eye.
“I do not like being watched. I am a private man and it irked me to have Memnon spying on me. I never liked the man. I live in the hope that the Eternal will realize he is a snake and place his head upon a spike.”
“Yes, yes,” said Unwallis. “No one likes Memnon. But let us run over the facts. Like Agrias you are creating Jiamads. You refuse the Eternal the right to cross your lands. You have cast ward spells to prevent the Eternal from seeing what you are doing here. Does this accurately cover what we have discussed?”
“It does not sound good, does it?” said Landis, forcing a smile.
“No, Landis. It does not sound good at all. I am your friend. I would like to help you. If I leave here, however, with no agreement, I fear for you.”
“She knows I would never . . . harm her.” Landis was frightened now. Unwallis could hear it in his voice.
“I cannot say what the Eternal knows, Landis. I only know what she does to those she believes are a threat. You think your long relationship with her will keep you alive? You are deluding yourself. Memnon has sent Shadows to the southern pass you spoke of. It could be they are heading north to eliminate some rebel general. Equally they could be coming over the mountains to find you.”
“She would not kill me, my friend. I gave her life. You wondered how long I served her. I was here before the Eternal, Unwallis. She was the first Reborn. I brought her back. She will not kill me. Go back and tell her that I am not her enemy. Tell her you are convinced of this. She will believe you. Tell her I need a little more time to consider her offer.”
Unwallis felt his heart sink. “Do you not know her at all, Landis? Have you not seen how many men she has killed? Many of those loved her in their own way. I am telling you that your life is in danger.”
“A little more time, Unwallis. Just ask that from me. You will see. She will grant it. Now, would you like to see those Skandian coins? They are remarkable.”
I t was late but Skilgannon was not sleeping. Standing on the balcony, he breathed in the sweet night air and gazed at the distant mountains, bathed in moonlight. Garianne had been pregnant, and he had never known. This was hard to bear. He had never loved the tormented warrior woman, but he had come to care for her. Why had she not told him? Why had Ustarte not told him? Did a man not have the right to know that he had a son?
My son died a thousand years ago.
The thought was painful.
Decado’s face flickered into his mind. Did my son look like you? he wondered. He had hoped to like Decado, to find something in the man that reminded him of himself. There was nothing, and within moments he had found himself detesting the arrogant young swordsman. In turn the man had obviously detested him. Ah well, he thought with a smile, perhaps we are not so different then.
He heard the apartment door open and turned. The elderly head servant, Ensinar, entered the room. Seeing Skilgannon, he bowed. The swept-over hair on his bald head flapped as he did so. “The lord asked me to see if you were awake, sir,” said Ensinar. “He hopes you will join him in the library.”
Skilgannon nodded and followed the man through the night-deserted palace down to Landis Khan’s study. In the lantern light Landis Khan seemed drawn and pale. As Ensinar departed, Landis bade Skilgannon to sit down. “It did not go well,” he said with a sigh.
“I am sorry that I baited your guest,” said Skilgannon. “It was discourteous.”
Landis Khan waved his hand. “That is not what I meant. I have been very foolish. Unwallis is a sharp and intelligent man. In my arrogance I thought to deceive him, and the Eternal. I have not succeeded. I think there is still time. Yes, yes I am sure there is.”
“You wanted to see me,” pressed Skilgannon.
“Yes. Forgive me. Too many thoughts buzzing in my brain like hungry bees.” Landis rose and moved to the far wall, easing back a panel there. From within it he hauled out a black-handled, double-headed ax. It was heavy, and he struggled to lift it. “You know this weapon?”
“Yes,” said Skilgannon, rising and taking it from Landis’s hands. “It is Snaga, the ax of Druss the Legend.”
“The Blades of No Return,” said Landis. “That is what the runes say, that are engraved upon the handle. It would take a mighty man to wield this in battle.”
“He was a mighty man. I take it this was in my tomb.”
“Yes. How did you come by it?”
“It was a gift from a great warlord. His men had slain Druss at the Battle of Dros Delnoch. I went to him and asked for the ax.”
“And some bones, which you placed in the locket around your neck.”
“Indeed so. Does Harad know he is a Reborn?”
“No. But now that we know who he was I could ask Gamal to seek his soul in the Void.”
“As I have already told you, he would not find him,” said Skilgannon. “Druss was a fine man. A hero. He would not be wandering that accursed place. He would have passed beyond it. You have meddled enough, Landis. Let it be.”
Landis slumped back to his chair. “There is more truth in that than you know. When you go to Harad tomorrow, will you take him the ax as a gift from me?”
Skilgannon smiled. “Since it was in my tomb I would say it should be a gift from me. But yes, I will give it to Harad. I think Druss would like that. I will walk the mountains with Harad, Landis. Then I will leave this land. I have no interest in your struggles with the Eternal.”
“I understand. Truly, I do. For all my age and wisdom I have been such a fool, Skilgannon. Ustarte was not a goddess, nor even blessed by the Source. She was a talented Jiamad, created by someone probably just like me.” He gave a grim laugh and shook his head. “I thought bringing you back would balance the scales in my favor. I thought that if I fulfilled Ustarte’s prophecy the Source would forgive me.”
“What is there to forgive?” asked Skilgannon.
“The world’s torment, my boy.” Landis Khan sighed. “I brought the Eternal to life. I discovered how to manipulate the machines that create the Jiamads. All the unnatural horror on the face of this blessed earth is down to me.”
“There were Joinings on this world before you were born, Landis. Nadir shamans could create them. You take too much upon yourself.”
“A few, perhaps. Enough to give rise to legends of monsters. Not armies of them, Skilgannon. Gamal told me of Perapolis, and the few thousand whose souls weigh heavily upon your own. I have hundreds of thousands upon mine. For your sins you walked the Void for a millennium. What of me? I will never pass the gateway you spoke of. And I will not be able to fight the demons there.”
“Probably not,” agreed the warrior. “What will you do now?”
Landis sighed once more. “I shall run. I shall seek a place to live out my days. Will you grant me one last request?”
“I don’t know. Ask and you will find out.”
“Take the Swords of Night and Day with you. Bury them if you like. Cast them into the sea. I care not. I would not want them to fall into the wrong hands if . . . if matters go awry. Will you do this one deed for me?”
Skilgannon sat silently for a moment. “Wrap them in cloth, and have them brought to my rooms tomorrow before I leave.”
T hey had walked for more than four hours. There was little conversation, which pleased Harad. The man, Callan, was strong and uncomplaining. By midafternoon it had begun to rain. At first Harad ignored i
t, but it grew steadily worse, the ground underfoot becoming slick and treacherous. He glanced up. Thunderclouds were gathering, and a bolt of lightning flared to the west. Harad angled their path toward a cliff face close by. It was pitted with shallow caves, and the powerful logger chose one and moved inside, dumping his pack to the ground. Callan also shrugged off his pack and removed his ankle-length, dark leather topcoat. He stood for a moment, lifting his arms and easing the muscles of his shoulders. Below it he wore a sleeveless doeskin jerkin. Though he was slim, his arms and shoulders were powerful. Harad saw the dark tattoo of a spider upon one forearm. Harad glanced at the man’s pack. Strapped to it were two items wrapped in dark cloth. One was around five feet long and slightly curved. The other piqued his interest more. Wide at one end and narrow at the other, its shape reminded Harad of the stringed instruments musicians played on feast days. Yet it was too flat.
They sat in silence for a while, then Callan donned his topcoat and walked out once more into the rain, returning with a bundle of deadwood. He repeated this maneuver several times until there was at least enough fuel to last the night. Then, removing his coat and draping it over a rock, he quietly prepared a fire. With the wood damp it took some time to get a blaze going, but Callan showed no irritation. Finally, with the flames catching, he leaned back against the cave wall. Harad opened his own pack and produced some dried meat, which he offered to Callan. Still nothing was said.
Lightning flashed, immediately followed by a rolling burst of thunder. The rain outside became torrential, lashing down against the cliff face. Harad, who had been hoping the man was not a chatterer, now found himself uncomfortable with the continued silence. “Might as well wait out the storm,” he said. He felt like slapping himself in the head. Of course they would wait out the storm. Why else were they inside the cave with a fire lit?
“It is a good idea,” said Callan. “I am more tired than I expected.”
“Aye, it is a long climb for those unused to it,” agreed Harad. Callan rolled smoothly to his feet and untied the thongs holding the oddly shaped item. Squatting down again, he removed the cloth. Harad watched with undisguised interest. As the cloth fell clear, the firelight gleamed on a double-bladed ax with a black, silver-engraved haft. Harad had never seen a more beautiful weapon. The blades were shaped like the wings of a butterfly. He shivered suddenly, and felt gooseflesh on his arms.
Callan hefted the weapon and passed it to Harad. It was heavy, and yet the balance was perfect. Harad let out a long breath as he grasped the ax.
“It is a gift from Landis Khan,” said Callan.
“He must value you highly to give you such a gift.”
Callan smiled. “The gift is for you, Harad.”
The Outsider returned to the fire, adding two thick chunks of wood.
“Why would he give me such a gift?”
Callan shrugged. “Ask him when we get back. The ax has a name. It is called Snaga. The runes upon it say: The Blades of No Return. It is an ancient weapon. Once it was carried by a great hero.”
Harad stood and moved back into the cave. Hefting the ax, he swung it lightly a few times. “He must have been a powerful man to wield this in battle,” said Harad. “It is not light.”
Callan did not reply. He sat quietly in the firelight eating the dried meat.
Outside, the rain pounded on. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed. A shape loomed at the cave entrance. It was a black bear. It stood for a few moments, then caught a whiff of the smoke and padded away.
“Lots of bears up here,” said Harad. “A few big cats, too. Where are you from?” he asked. “I have not heard that accent before.” Returning to the fire and sitting down, he laid the ax beside him but could not resist continuing to touch it.
“A long way from here,” said Callan. Harad thought he detected a note of bitterness in the answer, and did not press him. After a while it became obvious that the storm was locked in for the night. Both men unrolled their blankets. Callan fell asleep almost instantly, but Harad sat up, holding the ax and staring at his reflection in the butterfly blades. Just for a moment he felt as if he were looking at someone else, and he shivered and put the ax down. A feeling of disquiet touched him. He looked over at the sleeping Outsider. He had to admit the man was easy company. Callan did not question Harad or seek to impress him. Perhaps these few days in the mountain would not be so arduous.
Harad stood and, ax in hand, wandered to the mouth of the cave.
Snaga.
It was a good name. The Blades of No Return. He found himself wondering about the hero who had carried it. Where was he from? Where had he fought?
In that moment the bear returned, ambling through the rain. Harad stood very still. The bear came closer, staring at the powerful figure in the cave mouth. Suddenly he reared up on his hind legs, towering above the man.
“Let’s not do this,” said Harad softly. “We are not enemies, you and I.”
For a moment more the bear continued to loom above him. Then he dropped back to all fours and moved off into the trees.
“You have a way with bears,” said Callan. Harad glanced around. The tall, blue-eyed Outsider was standing behind him, a hunting knife in his hand. Harad had not heard him approach.
“I have seen him before. He once got into my cabin and ate three months’ of supplies. My own fault for leaving the door open.” Harad glanced down at the knife and grinned. “Good blade, but you’d need a lot of luck to kill him with that.”
“I am a lucky man,” answered Callan, sheathing the knife and walking back to his blankets.
The storm lasted for most of the night, but the dawn was bright and clear, the sky cloudless.
They walked without conversation for most of the morning, though this time Harad found the silence companionable and pleasant. In the distance Harad caught sight of several gray wolves and a small herd of deer. They were grazing near some ruins in an area of flatland. “Who used to live here?” asked Callan. “In the old days.”
Harad shrugged. “I don’t know much history. They were called Sathular—or something like it. They were wiped out way, way back.”
“Sathuli,” said Callan. “I have heard of them. Fierce tribal warriors. They were constantly at war with the Drenai.”
“Whatever,” muttered Harad, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. “Good land. Few people. There’s a small settlement to the north. No others. A man can walk here for weeks and never see anyone. I like that.”
They moved on, crossing a small valley before climbing again. “Still tired?” asked Harad as dusk approached.
Callan smiled. “Less so since I gave you that ax. A heavy piece.”
Harad hefted it. “It is a beauty. I feel as if I have carried it all my life.”
They camped that night in a small hollow. The wind had picked up. It was cold with snow from the mountain peaks. Callan lit a fire against a boulder, seeking to gain some added warmth from reflected heat. But the wind whipped through the hollow, scattering sparks. Eventually the fire went out, and both men sat wrapped in their cloaks.
“Do you know anything about the hero who carried Snaga?” asked Harad.
“Yes. His name was Druss. He was known as Druss the Legend. A Drenai hero.”
“What was he like?”
Callan’s bright blue eyes suddenly met his own pale gaze. Harad sensed a moment of tension. Then it passed. “He was mighty. He lived by a code of honor.”
“What does that mean?”
Callan shrugged. “A set of standards, rules, if you like. You want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
Callan took a deep breath. “Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat, or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil. That was the iron code of Druss the Legend.”
“I like that,” said Harad. “Say it again.” Callan did so. Harad sat silently, thinking it through. Then
he spoke the code himself. “Did I get it right?” he asked.
“Aye, you did. You mean to follow it?”
Harad nodded. “If I carry his ax, I think I should carry also the code that went with it.”
“He would have liked that,” said Callan. “Where are we heading tomorrow?”
“The ruins. I go there sometimes. I thought perhaps you would like to see them.”
5
T hey left the cave soon after dawn and climbed a series of steep, rock-strewn rises for more than two hours. Topping a crest, Harad paused. Skilgannon moved alongside him. His breath caught in his throat. From this high point he could see the land stretching out over the steppes to the north, and the wide plains to the south. Far below was a huge and derelict fortress, with six walls and a once mighty keep, now shattered and partly collapsed. The walls stretched across the pass, blocking the way north. Skilgannon shivered. For the first time since he had awoken in this new body he knew exactly where he was. The weight of a thousand years bore down on him. When he had last seen this fortress it had been mighty, and impregnable, towering and majestic. Yet now it was broken, ruined by time and the power of nature. It was a vivid reminder of how greatly the world had changed, and made him even more like a man out of his time.
He glanced at Harad. This man was the image of a younger Druss, and yet he knew nothing of the struggle for survival that once took place on these now shattered ramparts.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Harad. “It’s called the Ghost Fortress.”
“Once it had another name,” said Skilgannon softly. Shrugging off his pack, he sat down and stared at the ruin. Sometime in the last hundred years there had been an earthquake here. The first wall was fractured and half covered by an avalanche. The keep had split and crumbled.
“What name?” asked Harad, sitting alongside him.
“Dros Delnoch. It was said it would never fall while men with courage stood upon its walls.”
“It did fall, though,” said Harad. “I don’t know much history, but I do know it was conquered by a warrior chief named Tenaka Khan. The Nadir swarmed over it. Conquered the old lands.”