The Swords of Night and Day (12 page)

“I never thought you would ever betray me,” whispered a voice.

Landis spun. A shimmering light began in the darkest corner of the room, swelling and growing, forming a human shape. The image sharpened, and Landis gazed once more upon the features of the woman who had haunted his dreams for five hundred years. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a silver circlet upon her brow, her slender body clothed in white. Landis drank in the vision, his eyes drawn, as ever, to the tiny dark beauty spot just to the right of her mouth. Somehow this blemish only enhanced her.

“I love you,” he said. “I always have.”

“How sweet! How foolish. You fell in love with a statue, Landis. What does that tell you about yourself?”

“I gave you life,” he said. “I brought you back.”

The image shimmered closer to him, shifting and changing. The white gown disappeared, replaced by a shaped silver breastplate and leather leggings, reinforced by silver bands upon the thigh. At her side was a sword belt.

“You did not love me, Landis. You loved an image of me. You desired to possess that image, to have it for your own. That is not love. Now you have re-created that image. Without my permission. That is not love.”

“Have you come here to kill me?”

“I am not going to kill you, Landis. Tell me the truth. Are there any more bones of my past bodies?”

“Do not harm her, Jianna. I beg you.”

“Are there any more bones, Landis?”

“No. She is innocent. She knows nothing, and could never harm you.”

The Eternal laughed. “She will serve me well, Landis. She is the right age.”

Landis’s heart sank. “Were you always evil?” he heard himself ask.

“This is hardly the time for philosophical debate, my dear. However, I will say this: When I was a child my father was murdered, my mother killed. People I thought loyal sought my death. They all had their reasons. When I came to power I killed them. Self-preservation is a paramount desire in all of us. Good and evil are interchangeable. When the wolves pull down a fawn I don’t doubt the doe would consider it an evil act. For the wolves it is a necessity, and they would see the arrival of fresh meat as good. So let us not spend these moments in meaningless debate. I have one more question for you, Landis, and then we can say farewell. What did you find in Skilgannon’s tomb?”

“I never found his tomb,” he lied. “I found the ax and the bones of Druss the Legend.”

“I remember him,” said the Eternal. “I met him once. Describe the ax.” Landis did so. The Eternal listened intently. “And you sought to bring him back?”

“Yes. We could not find his soul. All we have is a powerful young man who works as a logger.”

“Druss would have been beyond you,” said the Eternal. “He did not wander the Void. Very well, Landis, I believe you.”

The door opened. Landis turned to see the young swordsman Decado enter the room. The dark-haired warrior smiled at him, then drew one of his swords. Fear engulfed Landis, and he backed away. He looked at the shimmering image of the Eternal. “You said you would not kill me,” he said.

“And I shall not. He will.” She floated toward Decado. “Not a trace of flesh or bone to be left,” she said. “Burn him to ash. I do not want him reborn.”

“As you order, so shall it be,” said Decado.

“Do not make him suffer, Decado. Kill him swiftly, for he was once dear to me. Then find the blind man and kill him, too.”

“The nephew, Beloved. He insulted me. I want him, too.”

“Kill him, my dear,” said the Eternal, “but no one else. Our troops will be here by morning. Try to remember that we will still need people to till the fields, and I would like servants to remain in the palace ready for my arrival. I do not want blind terror causing havoc here.”

The vision swirled, appearing once more before the terrified Landis Khan. “You once told me you would die happy if my face was the last thing you were allowed to see. Be happy, Landis Khan.”

6

H
arad was unnaturally silent as they began their return journey. He strode on ahead tirelessly, despite the weight of his pack and the double-bladed ax he carried. Skilgannon had no wish for conversation, either. The brief meeting with Druss had merely reinforced his feelings of loneliness in this new world. The two men made the long climb back into the mountains. At the top Skilgannon swung to gaze down once more on the old fortress. Then he turned away and followed Harad.

More memories came to him then. He remembered his journeys across the Desert of Namib, in search of the lost Temple of the Resurrection. Three years he had spent in that desolate land. In order to survive he had joined a band of mercenaries and fought in several actions near the old Gothir capital of Gulgothir. Roving bands of Nadir outlaws were harassing the farmlands. Skilgannon and thirty men had been hired to find them and kill them. In the end the situation had been reversed. The captain of mercenaries—an idiot whose name Skilgannon gratefully could not recall—had led them into a trap. The battle had been furious and short. Only three mercenaries escaped into the mountains. One had died of his wounds. The others had fled south. Skilgannon circled back and entered the Nadir camp at night, killing the leader and six of his men. The following day the rest of the outlaws had pulled out.

Lean times followed, working for a pittance as a soldier in New Gulgothir, scraping together enough coin to make more journeys in Namib. The dream had kept him going. His young wife, Dayan, a woman he had never truly loved, had died in his arms. He’d carried fragments of her bones and a lock of her hair in a locket around his neck. These bones, according to the legends, would be enough to see her live again.

And then one day he had discovered the temple. It was in an area he had traveled through many times. This time, however, he was in the company of a young priest he had rescued from bandits.
How strange are the ways of fate,
he thought. The priest had been chased by five Nadir riders. Skilgannon had watched from a nearby rise as they caught him. Then they had prepared a killing fire. It was a barbarous and ghastly ritual. The priest had been thrown to the ground, his full-length pale blue robes torn from him. Naked he had been staked out on the steppes while the Nadir piled kindling and firewood between his open legs. He would have died screaming in terrible pain as his genitals roasted.

The hideous pleasures of Nadir tribesmen were of no concern to Skilgannon. He was about to ride away when he thought of Druss the Legend, and his iron code. Old Druss would not have left this stranger to his fate.
Protect the weak against the evil strong.
Suddenly Skilgannon had chuckled. “Ah, Druss, I fear you have corrupted me with your simple philosophy,” he said as he heeled his horse down the slope.

The Nadir, seeing him coming, rose from the bound prisoner and waited. Skilgannon rode up, lifted his leg over the saddle pommel, and jumped lightly to the ground. The warriors looked at him. “What do you want?” asked one, in the western tongue. Then he turned to the others and said in Nadir: “The horse will bring much silver.”

“The horse will bring you nothing,” Skilgannon had told the surprised man. “All that awaits you here is death. There are two outcomes, Nadir. You will ride from here and sire more goat-faced children, or you will die here and the crows will eat your eyes.” They had spread out in a semicircle. The warrior on the far left suddenly drew a knife and rushed in. The Sword of Day flashed in the sunshine and the man fell, blood gushing from a terrible wound in his neck. Instantly the other Nadir charged. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Three died within moments, and the leader fell back, his right arm severed just below the elbow, blood gouting from the open arteries. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, staring stupidly at the bleeding limb. Desperately he grabbed the stump with his left hand, seeking to stem the flow. Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the young priest and cut him free. Hauling him to his feet, he said: “Are you hurt?” The man shook his head and moved to the fallen Nadir.

“Let me bind that,” he said. “Perhaps we can save your life.”

The Nadir struck at him weakly. “Leave me be,
gajin.
May your soul rot in the Seven Hells.”

“I just want to help you,” the priest had said. “Why do you curse me?”

The Nadir stared malevolently up at Skilgannon. “For this worm you have destroyed me? There is no sense to it. Kill me now. Set my spirit free.”

Ignoring the dying man, Skilgannon handed the priest his tattered robe and took him by the arm, leading him to his horse. Mounting, he drew the priest up behind him and rode away.

They had camped that night out in the open. Skilgannon lit no fire. The priest, dressed in his torn blue robe, sat shivering and staring up at the stars. “I do not want those men on my conscience,” he said, at last.

“Why would they be on your conscience, boy?”

“They died because of me. Had you not come they would be alive still.”

Skilgannon had laughed. “You are an irrelevance in this. All over this land people are dying, some because they are old and worn out, some because they are diseased, and some merely because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are not your concern. No more were those torturers. You are a Source priest, yes?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you must ask yourself why I was here at this time. It might be that the Source sent me, because He wanted you alive. It might be mere happenstance. But you
are
alive, priest, and the evil men are dead. Where were you heading?”

The young man had looked away. “I cannot tell you. It is forbidden.”

“As you wish.”

“What are you doing here, in this awful desert?” the priest asked.

“Trying to keep a promise.”

“That is a good thing to do. Promises are sacred.”

“I like to think so.” Skilgannon unrolled his blankets and threw one to the young man. The priest gratefully wrapped it around his thin shoulders.

“What is the promise?”

Skilgannon had considered telling the young man that it was none of his business. Instead he found himself talking of his time in Naashan, and the death of Dayan. Lastly, he tapped the locket and said: “So, I search. It is all that is left to me.”

The young man had said nothing then, and had stretched himself out on the ground and gone to sleep. But soon after dawn, as Skilgannon was saddling the gelding, the priest approached him.

“I have given much thought to your words about the Source,” he said. “And I think it is true that He sent you to me. Not just for my own safety. I am apprenticed to the Temple of the Resurrection. I am journeying there now. I will take you with me.”

Fate was a mysterious creature. It almost made one believe in the Source.

Almost.

The temple had been shielded by a powerful ward spell, and only when the young priest took Skilgannon to the hidden gateway did it fade. He’d looked up at what had been the blank rock of a massive mountain, and seen the many windows carved into the stone. More than that he’d seen a great shield of gold, gleaming on the high peak.

His heart had soared. Finally his dream would be realized, and Dayan would live again, to enjoy the life she should have known.

Thinking on it now, Skilgannon smiled ruefully.

The priests of the Resurrection had made him welcome. Yet he had languished inside the temple for almost a month before the chief abbot had summoned him. The man’s name was Vestava. Round shouldered and slender, he had kindly eyes.

“We cannot do what you wish,” he said. “We can take the bones you carry, and we can resurrect, if you will, a girl child, who, in time will look exactly like your wife. Indeed, she will be, in almost every way, identical to the woman you knew. But she will not be Dayan, Skilgannon. She cannot be.”

The shock had been great, the disappointment intense. “I will find another temple,” he said. “There will be someone who can do this.”

“There will not,” said Vestava. “We have searched the Void and her spirit has passed through the Golden Valley. She will be at peace there, having found joy. Believe me on this.”

“I will not accept it,” Skilgannon said, anger flaring.

“You need to question your motives here, my boy,” the older man had replied.

“What does that mean?”

“You are an intelligent man. You also have great courage. However, this quest was not to resurrect Dayan, but to salve your own consience. In short, it was not for her. It was for you. I know you, Skilgannon, and I know your deeds. You carry a terrible weight upon your soul. I cannot ease that. Let me ask you this: Did you love Dayan with all your heart?”

“This is none of your business, priest.”

“You did not love her. So what would you do if I brought her back? Chain yourself to her out of duty? You think a woman would not realize that your heart was not hers? You would have me draw her back from a place of perfection so that she could spend unhappy years with an unhappy man in an unhappy world?”

Skilgannon quelled his anger and sighed. “What do I do now?”

“You have helped one of our brothers, and for this we are grateful. We will, if you wish it, give life to the bones you carry. In this way Dayan’s flesh will once more walk the earth. She may grow to find love, and have children of her own. For most people this is the kind of immortality they understand. It is their gift to the future. They live on through their children.”

Skilgannon rose from his seat and wandered to a window, staring out over the bleak desert landscape. “I need time to think on this,” he said. “May I stay here for a while?”

“Of course, my son.”

For several days Skilgannon had dwelled in the temple, observing the priests, wandering the halls and passageways. It was a place of great serenity. There were beautiful halls, and libraries where men studied without urgency. Every piece of furniture, every painting had been chosen to enhance the harmonious atmosphere. All the harshness and violence of the world outside seemed far away. Men from all nations studied here, without rancor. The tranquility of the temple allowed Skilgannon to open his mind to truths he had hidden deep.

Vestava’s words haunted him. He could no longer deny the truth of them. Finally he returned to Vestava. “I have given over my life to this quest,” he said. “I told myself it was for Dayan. But you are right, priest. It was for me. A poultice for the wound on my soul.”

“What do you wish us to do?”

“Give life to the bones. She was pregnant when she died. At least this way a part of her will feel the sun once more upon her face.”

“A wise decision, my son. You are disappointed. I understand that. It will be as you wish. I will watch over the child, and see her grow strong, if that is the will of the Source. She will be like any other child, and subject to the whims of fate, disease, or war. I will, however, do my best to see her happy. Come back to us in a few years and watch her grow for a while. It will ease your heart.”

“I may do that,” he had said. That afternoon he had ridden from the temple, and had not looked back.

Up ahead Harad took off his pack and dropped it to the ground. Then he wandered down to a rippling stream and drank deeply. Skilgannon joined him. They sat in silence for a while. Harad looked intently at Skilgannon, then shivered.

“What is wrong, Harad?”

“I can’t get the dream from my mind,” said the young logger. “Gray skies, dead trees, no water, and no life. Demons everywhere. It was so real. I have never dreamed anything like it before.”

“You were in the Void,” said Skilgannon. “It is a dark and dangerous place.”

“How do you know of this?”

“I know many things, Harad. I know that you are a good, strong man, and that you will carry Druss’s ax with pride and do his memory honor. I know that you are short tempered, but that you have a fine heart and an honest soul. I know that you have courage beyond reason, and would be a true friend and a terrible enemy. Ah yes,” he said, with a smile, “I also know you prefer red wine to ale.”

“Aye, that is true. So, I ask again, how do you know all this? Speak truly.”

“You are a Reborn, Harad.”

“I have heard the word. But what does it mean?”

“A good question. I do not have the best of answers. The priests of the Resurrection have great magic. They can take the bones of dead heroes and somehow cause them to be born again. Don’t ask me how. I have no understanding of magic, nor do I wish to acquire any. What I do know is that you were created from a shard of bone.”

“Pah!” said Harad. “I was born to my mother. I know this.”

“A long time ago—” Skilgannon sighed. “—a very long time ago, my wife died of the plague. For years I sought the Temple of the Resurrection, hoping that by some miracle they could restore her to life through a piece of her bone and a lock of her hair. When at last I found it I was told by the abbot there that my quest was impossible. What they
could
do was to allow her to be reborn. By some magical process they could take the bones and a willing woman, and the result would be a birth—a rebirth, I suppose. But they said that my Dayan would not return as I knew her. Her soul had already passed beyond the Void. What there would be was a child in every way identical to the wife I had lost.”

“And she would be without a soul?” asked Harad.

“I understand souls less than I understand magic, Harad. All I know is that I agreed to let them use Dayan’s bones in this way. Some years later I returned, and saw a little girl with golden hair. She was a happy child, full of laughter. When I saw her the last time she was sixteen, and had fallen in love.”

Harad looked at him closely. “You are no older than me. Sixteen years? It is nonsense.”

“I am infinitely older than you, my friend. I died a thousand years ago. I, too, am a Reborn. Only with me they
did
find my soul. I had not passed the Void. I could not pass it. The evil of my life prevented me from finding paradise. What I am telling you is the truth. Do you not yet understand why Landis Khan gave
you
that ax?”