The Swords of Night and Day (15 page)

“Is he married?”

“No. He doesn’t like women.”

“Another lie!”

“They teach you witchcraft in the mountains?”

“I know you, Stavut. You think you are a good liar, but you are really not. You give it away with your expression.”

“There was no expression.”

“That’s what I mean. When you lie your face goes blank.”

“Nonsense.”

“And a little crease appears above the brow of your nose. Shall I prove it to you?”

“Yes.”

“How many women have you slept with since last you visited?”

“None.”

“Liar.”

He laughed nervously. “Very well. Three.”

“Liar!”

“Seven.”

Askari’s good humor faded. “You’ve only been gone two months! Kinyon was right about you!”

“Can we start again?” he said. “Let’s go for None!”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Go back down to the settlement. Leave me in peace.”

Stavut sighed, then rose to his feet. “You are in a strange mood today. You are right, though. I think I’ll go back.” Moving toward his pack, he stopped.

A dark plume of smoke was rising into the air. “There’s a fire in the settlement,” he said.

7

T
hroughout the morning Harad walked on, keeping a little distance between himself and the lean swordsman. In truth he did not want to talk for a while. He needed time to think through all that had been said. Harad was never comfortable with instant judgments—except in the case of brawling. When violence was in the air there was little time for reflective thought. Now, however, he needed to absorb all that Skilgannon had told him.

Like all the residents of the land he had heard of Reborns. He had never been interested enough to learn more about them. He was not even sure he wanted to learn more now. It did not concern him that the bully Borak was not his father. In some ways this was a relief. What concerned him was the question of souls. As a child he had attended the small school run by two Source priests. Here he had learned of the journey of souls, and the passage through the Void to the Golden Valley. Harad had always liked the idea of a journey beyond death. However, to make this journey one needed to have a soul. Since this body was not truly his, but created without the soul of Druss the Legend, where did this leave Harad?

He strode on, his mood darkening. Anger flickered to life, and he struggled to control it.

Toward dusk Skilgannon called out to him, and he turned. The swordsman was pointing to the north, where a plume of smoke was rising. “A forest fire?” he inquired.

Harad shook his head. “We’ve had too much rain for that.” He watched the smoke, then scanned the land, gauging distance. “It looks like it’s coming from the settlement. Maybe one of the houses caught fire.”

“It would have to be a big house,” muttered Skilgannon.

Harad stared hard at the smoke. It seemed to him that there were several plumes, all merging.

“How many people in the settlement?” asked Skilgannon.

“Fifty . . . perhaps a few more.”

“Should be enough to deal with a fire.”

“I think there is more than one blaze,” said Harad. “I can see at least three plumes at the base. Strange, for the houses are not close together, and only one of the roofs is thatched. There would be no reason for a fire to spread.”

“Do you have friends there?”

“I have friends nowhere,” snapped Harad. He sighed. “But I think I should go there and see if they need help. Can you find your way back to the caves?”

“Of course. However, I shall travel with you. I am in no hurry to see Landis Khan again. How long until we reach the settlement?”

“Close to four hours. It will be dark by the time we arrive.” Without another word the two men set off. Skilgannon moved ahead of Harad and began to scout the ground as they walked.

“What are you looking for?” asked Harad.

“Something I hope I don’t find,” was the cryptic answer.

They walked on for another hour, at first descending into a lightly wooded valley, then climbing again toward a thicker forest. Skilgannon halted at the tree line, doffed his pack, and asked Harad to wait for him. Then he set off along the tree line, searching the ground. Harad sat down and watched the man until he vanished over a ridge.

Harad lifted Snaga and stared at his reflection in the blades. “Who am I looking at?” he said, aloud. “Are you Harad? Are you Druss?” Flipping the blade, he plunged it into the ground.

The sun was almost set. Harad opened his pack and pulled clear his last loaf of black bread. Ripping it open, he began to eat. As he did so he remembered the times Landis Khan had come to his parents’ cabin, squatting down to talk to the child Harad. “Do you dream of ancient days?” he had asked.

His father, Borak, had always left as soon as Landis Khan arrived. And after the lord had gone Borak’s mood would turn sour. He would shout at Harad’s mother, and sometimes cuff Harad himself.

At least now Harad had some understanding of what Borak had gone through. The child had not been his. Did Borak know of the arcane ritual involving dead bones? Or had he thought his wife had been seduced by Landis Khan? Either way it would have been hard for Borak, who was a proud man. Also, Alanis had not been young when she gave birth to Harad. She had been wed for sixteen years, and had no other children. This meant that Borak was unable to sire sons of his own. Another blow to his pride. No wonder he was so often angry, thought Harad.

Skilgannon came loping back to where Harad waited. “A party of Jiamads—around twenty, maybe a few more—passed this way yesterday. There were two men with them. It may be coincidence, but it is a possibility that the fires in the settlement were not accidental. I do not know the ways of the people of this time. But if I were in my own time I would say this was a raiding party.”

“There is nothing of worth in the settlement,” said Harad. “Jiamads would have had to have marched from south of the old fortress. What purpose would such a raid serve?”

“As I said, I do not know the ways of the people now, Harad. We should, however, move with care. If it was a raid, then it has been carried out, and we must assume the beasts will be coming back this way.”

Harad rose to his feet. “If they have attacked my people then they will suffer for it,” he said, raising the ax.

“I applaud the sentiments,” said Skilgannon, wryly. “But let us take this one step at a time. I have been involved in wars and battles for most of my life, and I have fought Joinings. I tell you twenty is too many for us. Let’s make for the settlement and see what we find.”

“Would twenty have been too many for Druss?” asked the young logger.

Skilgannon looked into the man’s pale blue eyes. “At your age, with your lack of experience, yes. And even in his prime twenty would have overpowered him. Druss was a man of immense courage. He was also a cunning fighter. He knew how to pick his ground, and mostly he chose where to make his stands. His greatest advantage, though, lay in the nature of ax combat. Any swordsman who wanted to kill him had to come within range of that awesome weapon. And when the fight started Druss would never back away. He just surged forward, unstoppable.” Skilgannon patted the young man’s shoulder. “Give yourself time to learn, Harad. You will get there.”

“I don’t have his soul,” whispered Harad. “Maybe that is what made him great.”

Skilgannon sighed. “When I was in the Void I recall one awful fact. My skin there was scaled, like a lizard. It was because my soul had been corrupted by the deeds of my life. You have a good soul, Harad. And it is yours. Now let us move on, with care.”

T
he wind changed, blowing burning cinders across the gaunt infantry officer. Corvin cursed and moved away, brushing the embers from his new scarlet cloak. His irritation levels were already high, but now he felt the onset of rage. The buildings were burning fiercely—which, under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed. Not now. Everything had been going so well, despite the mundane nature of the mission. Move into the mountains and capture a young girl named Askari. Bring her to Captain Decado. What could have been simpler? No soldiers or Jiamads to fight, no opposition expected. It was merely another killing raid, and Corvin specialized in those.

More smoke billowed over him. He crossed the open ground toward a low wall and sat down, removing his white-plumed brass helm and laying it on the stone. There was a body close by, a large man with his throat torn out. His right arm had been torn off. Corvin gazed around to look for it. Another touch of annoyance pricked him. One of the Jiamads had obviously taken it away for a forbidden meal. Gods, what did it matter? Dead flesh was dead flesh.

He glanced across at another body, a dead Jiamad. The creature was lying on its back, a black-feathered shaft jutting from its brow.

Decado might have warned him that the girl was a huntress. Damn, but that was a fine shot. Corvin had just killed the big, sandy-haired peasant who had refused to reveal the girl’s whereabouts when she had appeared at the far end of the road. The Jiamads had picked up her scent first, and one of them called out to Corvin, pointing. He saw her, tall and slim, bearing a recurve bow of wood and horn. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and in one smooth motion drew and let fly. The shaft had buried itself in the head of the closest Jiamad—and he was more than two hundred feet from her. Then she had turned and sprinted away.

“Get after her!” yelled Corvin. Fifteen of his Jiamads had given chase. However, they were bred for power and not for speed. Still, they would find her by scent and bring her back before morning. Which meant he would have to spend the night in this squalid ruin.

The home of the big peasant was not ablaze, and Corvin crossed to it. It was an odd little place, the main room full of tables like a tiny inn. The officer rummaged around the untidy kitchen, finding a fresh-baked fruit pie. Breaking off a section, he tried it. Surprisingly good, he thought. The pastry was light, the filling sweet but not cloying. Some kind of berries had been used.

His young aide, Parnus, entered the room, saluting sharply. The boy was useless and would never make a soldier. He had rushed away to be sick almost as soon as the killing began. Even now his face was sallow, with a faint sheen to it.

“The pie is excellent, Parnus. I recommend it.”

“No, thank you, sir.” The young man’s tone, though deferential, was cooler than before.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Might I speak freely?”

“Why not? Who is there to hear you, save me?”

The young man’s eyes blazed, but he fought for control. “This was an act of evil,” he said. “We were to capture a girl. Nothing was said about killing villagers.”

“We
always
kill villagers in hostile territory. I think you are too weak for the role you have chosen. I shall recommend you be relieved of duty when we return. Then you can go back to your father’s estates and learn how to raise sheep.”

“Better to raise than to slaughter,” snapped the young man. “This was not the work of warriors. This was cowardice.”

“Are you calling me a coward, boy?”

“No, Corvin. What you did here today was heroism of the highest order. I think they will sing songs about you in future days. By the way, some of the Jiamads have gone off into the woods. They dragged off two of the bodies of the women. I expect they are feeding—which is contrary to the rules of engagement. Any officer who knowingly allows cannibalism is subject to death by strangulation. Rule One Hundred and Four, I think.”

Corvin laughed. “Quite right, Parnus. Then you had better find them and tell them to desist—especially since you are the officer on watch, and the responsibility is yours. It would pain me to have to report you for such a flagrant breach of the rules.”

The young officer grew more pale. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. “What a puppy!” muttered Corvin, taking up a long knife and carving himself another section of pie.

Corvin had spent the last ten years in the western army of the Eternal. The soldier’s life suited him far better than his days as a clerk in the Diranan treasury. What a waste that had been. Women he had wanted spurned him; men treated him with mild contempt. Not so now. As an officer of the Eternal he had merely to snap his fingers and women would obey his every whim. It was better this way. He liked the fear in their eyes, and enjoyed the fact that they loathed his touch. It merely increased his sense of power. Men no longer treated Corvin with disrespect. They bowed, they smiled, they paid him compliments. The richer of them offered him money, or goods. This was not merely because of his military status. As a soldier Corvin had discovered a skill he had not realized he possessed. His speed of hand was extraordinary, and he had a natural talent with the blade. As a swordsman men spoke of him in the same class as Decado, and Corvin had now fought eleven duels. He had enjoyed every one of them. There was something exquisite about watching the change of expression on the face of an opponent. When the swords were first touched the duelists always looked the same, full of arrogance and the belief that they were invulnerable. This look would remain for the first few exchanges. Then a tiny trace of doubt would insinuate itself. The eyes would grow more wary, and they would focus their concentration. Finally there would be fear, naked and obvious to all. Their movements would become more frenzied as the fear wormed its way deeper into their souls. At the last there would be a look of total surprise as Corvin’s blade plunged into their hearts. Corvin would step in then, his face close to the dying victim. He would stare into their eyes, holding them up as he watched life evaporate.

Corvin trembled with pleasure at the thought of it.

He felt truly blessed by the Source.

Belching loudly, he pushed himself to his feet, took up his helm, and walked back out into the night. From the east he heard a high-pitched howl. They were closing in on the girl. He swore suddenly. Had he told them that she must be taken alive? He swore again. No, he had not. Decado would not be pleased, and that was something Corvin needed to avoid. People who displeased Decado did not survive.

A low groan came from his left. Glancing down, he saw the big, sandy-haired man he had stabbed earlier roll over. Good humor returned briefly. Corvin strolled toward him.

“You make a fine pie,” he told the man. Drawing his saber, Corvin tapped the man on the shoulder. “You could have been rich in Diranan.”

The man groaned again, struggled to rise, then fell back. Blood was seeping through the apron he wore. “I could have sworn I pierced your heart. Lie still. I will end your misery.”

The man looked up at him. He said nothing, made no attempt to defend himself. “Let me think,” said Corvin. “If I cut your throat you will bleed to death more swiftly. It will be less painful. Or perhaps the large artery in the groin would be better. At least that way you will not choke to death. Which would you prefer? I am feeling generous toward you.”

Corvin heard footsteps and turned. His young aide was running toward him. Parnus stumbled and half fell. Corvin squinted against the smoke. The boy’s breastplate was smeared with blood.