The Swords of Night and Day (20 page)

The captain smiled. “Two of my men have already fired up the palace ovens. Give us an hour or two and I’ll arrange a hot bath for you.”

“You are a prince among men, Captain,” said Unwallis. “I shall be in the library area downstairs. When the bath is ready, send someone to find me.”

The thought of relaxing in a hot bath eased his mind, and he felt calmer as he made his way downstairs to Landis Khan’s study.

He did not remain at ease for long. In the rear area, resting against a back wall, he found three picture frames containing stretched, dried, tattooed skin. The first was small, showing a black spider. The second had an eagle with flaring wings. The third was of a snarling leopard. Holding to the last Unwallis sank into a chair, his mind reeling. He gazed at the long-dead skin and shuddered. So it was true then. Landis
had
discovered the Tomb of the Damned.

“What were you thinking, Landis?” he said aloud.

Leaning back in his chair, Unwallis thought through the implications of Landis Khan’s treachery. A Reborn created from the bones of Skilgannon was not, in itself, a major problem. Unless, of course, one was stupid enough to believe in ancient prophecies. Surely Landis Khan was too intelligent for such nonsense? Unwallis stared at the tattooed skin in the frame.

Bad enough that Landis Khan had hidden away a child born of the bones of the Eternal. The reasons were not hard to discern. The poor man had been hopelessly in love with her, and had been discarded, like all of her lovers and favorites. He had sought to re-create a woman who
could
love him. That treachery was understandable. But the Skilgannon question nagged at him. It was possible to be both an intelligent man and a fool, so perhaps Landis
had
believed in the old prophecy. Unwallis remembered it from childhood. A hero reborn would raid the nest of a silver eagle. He would do this after defeating a mountain giant bearing a great shield of gold.

Fascinating nonsense. Mountain giants and eagles of silver did not exist in the known world. So why did Landis Khan believe it to be true?

Unwallis gathered all the papers he could find and began to study them.

An hour passed. Then another. Darkness began to fall, and Unwallis lit a lantern. A young soldier came to him and told him a hot bath had been prepared. Unwallis rose and stretched, then took a sheaf of papers and followed the man to an empty apartment on the ground floor. Here there was a sunken bath of marble. It had taken the soldiers some time to fill it, and the water was now only lukewarm. Unwallis thanked the men, discarded his clothing, and climbed gratefully into the bath. Two more soldiers arrived, carrying buckets of steaming water, which raised the temperature briefly. Unwallis sat back and reached for the next sheet of paper.

Gamal is very weary today. His spirit-journeys into the Void have taxed his strength. It is also undeniable that entering a trance state, while his hands rest on the sword hilts, is causing him some distress. Gamal says there is evil in the blades; an old evil, some dark enchantment that grates upon his soul. However, this gives me hope, for the legends maintain that Skilgannon’s swords were cursed. They are quite simply beautiful weapons to observe. Both have hilts of intricately worked ivory, set with precious gems, but the metal blades defy analysis. The Swords of Night and Day are well named. One is pale gold in color, and yet harder than the strongest steel; the other is moonlight silver. There is not a blemish or a nick on either blade. They could have come straight from a master swordsmith. Hard to believe these swords saw any action at all.

Unwallis read on, skimming through several sheets.

We are both filled with excitement today. Through the swords Gamal has reached Skilgannon. He has been trapped in the Void for all this time. At first Gamal did not recognize him, for in the Void his skin is scaled like a lizard. He fights constantly, for he is hunted by other demonic forms. Gamal says a shining figure was with him, but disappeared when Gamal approached. I think Gamal recognized the figure, but would tell me nothing. What is, however, of greater importance is that Gamal has convinced Skilgannon to return to the world. It is not possible to convey the joy this has brought me.

Dropping the paper, Unwallis scrambled from the bath, threw a towel around his waist, and strode from the room. As he emerged into the corridor he saw two more soldiers carrying buckets of hot water.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Where is the Lord Decado?”

“He rode out, sir, with a hunting party. Looking for some blind man, I think. You should sit down. Your face is gray.”

L
ongbear was confused. Hunger gnawed at him, the scent of blood in the air making his stomach churn. The desire to kill and eat was growing, making his mouth salivate and his taloned fingers twitch. The woman was bleeding from several small puncture wounds to her side, caused when Longbear carried her, and the old blind Skin, from the fight. As he had run up through the wooded hills his talons had pierced her clothing, pricking the flesh beneath. She was sitting now alongside Gamal, staring back down the track, her eyes fearful. Longbear could scent the salt in the blood, and knew the flesh would be savory and filling. His empty belly rumbled.

Gamal swung his head, his blind eyes flickering toward Longbear. “How are you faring, my friend?” he asked. “Do you carry wounds?”

Longbear grunted. The voice continued to strike a chord somewhere deep in his mind. He could not place it. “No wounds,” he said. “Female bleeds.”

“You are hurt, Charis?”

“I am fine, sir. Why are they doing this?”

Longbear heard the terror in her voice. His golden eyes looked past her, seeing the distant smoke rise from the houses in which the Skins dwelled. The enemy had come in fast, scores of Jiamads, some on all fours, others carrying clubs or sharp blades. Longbear’s troop of twenty had charged them, ripping and killing, and dying. Longbear himself slew three enemy.

The surviving six of his troop had been beaten back, fleeing through the alleyways of the town and out into the countryside. On the hillside Longbear had seen the old blind man, Gamal, and the young, golden-haired woman with him. She was leading him by the hand. In the transient safety of the trees Longbear and his survivors gathered around the pair. The woman was terrified. Not so the blind man.

“Who leads?” he had asked, his voice firm and strangely familiar. For a moment only Longbear experienced an old memory. Strange, for he was lying on a raised platform, blankets upon his body, and the old blind man was sitting beside him. Longbear had never been inside a house, let alone covered in blankets. Then the image faded.

“I am Longbear.”

“That is good. Lead us away from here, Longbear.”

“Where?”

“High into the hills. North.”

“North?”

“Where the bears live,” said the old man.

Another bizarre image flickered briefly to life. Longbear remembered walking the high hills. He was carrying a young Skin upon his shoulders. The child was laughing. A feeling came with the memory, of great contentment and joy. Longbear shivered. Such feelings usually came when the bright stone in his skull grew warm.

So they had set off toward the land of the bears. The female Skin held to the old man’s hand, and the pace was terribly slow. Happily they were not followed immediately, and, as the sun fell on the first day, they had made it into the high country.

Here came the first quarrel. Usually at sunset the stone in Longbear’s skull would begin to vibrate. He would fall into a deep, refreshing sleep. It was close to dusk, and there was no warmth from the stone. The other six of his comrades also grew uneasy. They gathered together, away from the Skins.

“Dark soon. Who brings food?” asked Balla, whose appetite was always prodigious.

“Skin Place burns,” said another, pointing back to a red glow in the southern sky.

A growing sense of unease followed. Longbear squatted down on his haunches. He had no answers. The whole world seemed to have changed. No food was coming. The stones were cold. And the sound of the old man’s voice was stirring fragmented memories that left him uncomfortable.

The breeze shifted. All the Jiamads tensed. The scent of the enemy came to them. Balla, who had the keenest eyes, ran to the edge of the trees.

“Only three,” he said. “We kill! Now!”

The Jiamads rose and rushed out onto the hillside.

“No!” shouted the old man, his voice cutting through the blood mist that had begun to descend on Longbear. “Longbear! To me!”

The others were charging down the slope. Longbear hesitated. The old man shouted again. There were only three enemy. His strength would not be needed. Padding back through the trees he waited by the blind man. “What is happening?” asked Gamal.

Longbear glanced back. His troop was tearing into the Jiamads. Two enemy were down, the third fleeing. Then a volley of arrows soared out from the trees close by. Three of his troop went down. A rider galloped from the trees and leapt from the saddle, a slim, dark-haired Skin, dressed all in black and wielding two bright swords. The remaining three of Longbear’s Jiamads rushed the small man. Balla was the first to reach him. The swordsman ducked under Balla’s flailing arms and sent a disemboweling cut across Balla’s belly. Then, even before the Jiamad had fallen, he leapt toward the others. Longbear saw the dazzling swords flicker and rise and fall. Then the swordsman was standing alone. One Skin had killed three of his brethren in a matter of heartbeats.

“Speak to me!” whispered Gamal.

At first Longbear could find no words. The shock was immense. “A Skin. Two swords. All dead,” he said.

“Decado! We must get away from here. Fast! Can you carry us?”

Longbear dropped his quarter staff and swept the old man up under one arm. Then he grabbed the girl and started to run. His legs were powerful, his stamina prodigious. Up through the wooded hills he ran, cutting left and right through the trees. On open ground for a while he sprinted on, over rocky outcrops, until at last even his great strength began to fade.

Releasing the old man and the girl, he looked back for the first time. Darkness had fallen and he could see little. Closing his eyes, he sniffed the wind. His nostrils quivered, separating the many scents of the forest. Some deer a little way to the west, a bighorn sheep, out of sight in a stand of rock. But he could scent no other humans, nor Jiamads.

Turning back to the human pair, he smelled the blood on the woman again. Hunger surged in him. His long tongue lolled from his mouth as he began to salivate. The woman had removed a small pack from her shoulder. From it she took a loaf of bread. As her hands delved deeper the scent of dry-cured meat came to him. Longbear watched as she produced half a round of pink meat from the pack. “I have some ham and bread, Lord,” she said to Gamal.

“Give the meat to Longbear,” he said, softly. “And tell him your name.”

Longbear stood silently. The golden-haired woman turned to stare at him. He could scent her fear in the sweet smell of sweat breaking out on her face and arms. “Would you like some ham?” she said, moving nervously toward him and extending her arm. “My name is Charis.”

Longbear did not speak to her. He snatched the ham and moved away from the pair. Squatting down, he tore at the meat, then gnawed at the bone beneath. It only partially sated his hunger.

The old man approached him. “Time for you to rest, my old friend,” he said. Gently he laid his hand upon the jewel in Longbear’s skull. The familiar vibration began, soothing, warming. Longbear yawned and lay down. “Sleep, Longbear. Dream no dreams.”

Peace settled on the Jiamad, and he passed into darkness.

C
haris sat very quietly with her back to a rock, staring at the sleeping Jiamad. The deep scratches on her side were stinging, and there was blood on the left side of her cream shirt. The night grew colder, and she drew her rust-colored, hooded cloak around her shoulders. The shivering started then, but it was not caused just by the cold. The long day had been terrifying.

It seemed somehow inconceivable to her that only that morning she had been singing a song in the palace kitchens as she and four other servants prepared the food packages for the loggers in the woods. The day had been bright and clear, a soft breeze blowing down from the mountains. Charis had been happy. Life was good.

Then she had been sent to Landis Khan’s apartments with a tray of food and a jug of wine. As she reached the apartment she realized there was no goblet upon the tray. Annoyed with herself, she had swung around to return to the kitchen. Then she remembered that there were several crystal goblets in the guest rooms close by. Moving to an empty apartment, she opened the door and stepped inside, laying her tray on a table by the wall. She heard footfalls in the corridor outside and peered around the half-open door. One of Landis Khan’s guests had returned, the dark-haired man with the cold eyes.
Probably need two goblets now,
she thought.

Decado entered Landis Khan’s apartment. Then Charis heard voices. She would never forget the words spoken.

“You said you would not kill me,” she heard Landis Khan say, his voice trembling with fear.

“And I shall not,” came the voice of a woman. “He will. Not a trace of flesh or bone to be left. Burn him to ash. I do not want him reborn.”

“As you order, so shall it be,” she heard Decado reply.

“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 woman’s voice. “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 woman’s voice had spoken once more. “You once told me you would die happy if my face was the last thing you were allowed to see. Be happy, Landis Khan.”