The Swords of Night and Day (27 page)

In the back of the long coach Decado had screamed. Memnon, who had been reading a parchment, put it aside and leaned over the boy.

“What is it, child?”

“I killed Caridas!” he said. “I killed others.”

“I know,” said Memnon, soothingly. “I am very proud of you.”

12

A
skari eased her way up the slope, keeping downwind of the Jiamad traveling with the riders. Even so she knew that the creature would also have keen hearing, and each time she moved she waited for the breeze to blow, rustling the leaves in the trees above her and the undergrowth around her. It was slow going. At one point she thought she would lose sight of the riders, but now they had stopped halfway up the slope, some fifty paces from her hiding place. One rider had stepped down from the saddle, staggered, and then slumped to the ground. It seemed that he was ill. The other cavalrymen sat their horses for a while, then, without conversation, dismounted and stood quietly. The small Jiamad squatted down on its haunches waiting for orders.

The man on the ground cried out in pain, startling the horses. The riders calmed them. Then a tall man approached the one in pain, crouching down alongside him and speaking softly. After that the riders drew back, remounted, and set off toward the north, the Jiamad in the lead. Askari waited. They had tethered the wounded man’s horse to a bush and left him behind. He groaned again, then cried out.

What was wrong with the man?

Askari rose from her hiding place, drew her hunting knife, and silently approached him.

He was young, dark haired, and—even though his face was contorted in pain—he was handsome. Beside him lay a single scabbard, from which jutted the ivory hilts of two swords. This, then, was the demonic Decado. Moonlight shone on the blade in Askari’s hand. It would be the work of but a moment to plunge that blade through his vile throat. Askari knelt beside him, ready to slash open his jugular.

His eyes flickered open. “I am sorry, my love,” he said. “I tried. The red mist came. I could not hold it back. Landis is dead, though, his ashes scattered. The blind man is close. I will find him.”

Askari’s knife slid up to the man’s pale throat, the blade resting against the pulse point. “Do not be angry with me, Jianna,” he said. Then his eyes closed.

Jianna!

The name Skilgannon had used when first he saw her. Askari readied herself for the death blow once more.

And could not do it. As a huntress she had killed for meat and skin. As a hunted victim she had killed to protect herself and Stavut. This, however, would be murder. Sheathing her blade, she looked down at the pale, pain-filled face. Once more his eyes opened. His hand reached up and lightly stroked the skin of her cheek. Instinctively she brushed the hand away. He looked hurt, and almost childlike. “What must I do?” he asked.

“Go back to Petar,” she said.

“What of the blind man? You wanted him dead.”

“Not anymore. Leave him. Go back.”

He struggled to rise, groaned in pain, and fell back. Askari took his arm, hauling him to his feet. He sagged against her, and she felt him gently kiss her cheek. “Go now!” she said. Decado took a deep breath, then picked up the sword scabbard and looped it over his shoulder. Askari helped him to his horse, half lifting him to the saddle. “Go!” she shouted, slapping her hand to the gray’s rump. The gelding set off down the hillside. She thought Decado would fall, but he held to the saddle.

And then he was gone.

Askari sighed.
I should have killed him,
she thought. She shivered. Too late now to worry about it, she decided. Scouting around, she found several sticks of dry deadwood. Arranging them in the shape of an arrow pointing north, she set off after the hunting party. As she moved higher up the slope, the woods grew more dense. The riders had kept to a narrow deer trail, and Askari followed it for around half a mile. Then it swung toward the west. This was a problem. The breeze had shifted and was now blowing from the east. If she continued along it, she would no longer be downwind of the Jiamad leading them. It would pick up her scent. If it doubled back through the shadow-shrouded trees, she would have no warning of its approach. Lifting the bow from her shoulder, she nocked a shaft to the string.
You are Askari the Huntress,
she told herself.
If it comes you will kill it.

Then she set off once more.

The trail, which had been rising, now dipped down toward a heavily wooded valley. She found where the horses had left the trail, moving down the slope, and caught a glimpse of the last two riders far below, entering the trees. They were around a quarter of a mile ahead.

Askari squatted down to think through her route. Straight ahead would put her on open ground, but to skirt around the bare hillside would take too long. As she considered the question she heard movement in the undergrowth behind her. Spinning around, she drew back the bowstring. Skilgannon moved into sight, Harad behind him. Askari eased the pressure on the string. Swiftly she told Skilgannon of the route the riders had taken. He listened quietly. Then his sapphire gaze locked to her eyes. “We saw a rider heading south,” he said.

“That was Decado.”

He nodded. “On the hillside I followed your tracks. You met a man there.”

“Yes.”

“The footprints showed you stood very close to him.”

“You read spoor well. I helped him to his horse.”

“Why would you do that, Askari?”

She heard the note of suspicion in his voice, and found herself growing irritated. “I do not answer to you,” she snapped.

“Do you know him?” he persisted, his voice cool.

“No. He was lying on the ground, in pain and delirious. I found I could not kill him.”

“Why did he not seek to kill you?”

“He thought I was someone else. Like you, he called me Jianna. Then he kissed my cheek and asked me what he should do. I told him to go back to Petar.” She saw the shock register and his steady gaze faltered.

“We will talk more of this later,” he said. “For now let us find these riders.”

Rising to his feet, he set off down the slope. Harad set off after him without a word to Askari.

The huntress followed them.

The moon shone brightly as they neared the trees. Then came a high-pitched shriek of pain, and the distant sounds of snarling beasts and terrified horses.

F
or most of the day Longbear had carried the old blind man while Charis stumbled behind. Her skirt was torn from the stand of brambles they had traveled through, to try to gain a march on the mounted men following, and her legs were covered with scratches from the sharp thorns. Charis was wearier than she had ever been. Her legs felt leaden, her thighs sore, her calves burning. The higher they climbed the more she felt that she could not breathe swiftly enough to fill her lungs. There was no conversation. Gamal was old and frail, his strength long gone. His face was gray with exhaustion, and there was an unhealthy blue pallor to his lips. Longbear had told them the night before that a Jiamad was leading the pursuers, and that the soldiers hunting them were horsemen. The chances of escape were slight.

Out in the open a bitter wind was blowing from the snow-covered mountains, and even in the cover of the trees Charis began to shiver. Longbear laid Gamal on the ground, then turned and stared back over the ground they had covered. Far below Charis could see horsemen emerging from the trees. Several of the riders carried long lances, and the last of the sunlight gleamed upon their silver breastplates and plumed helms.

Gamal was awake now. Reaching up, he laid his hand on Longbear’s furry arm. “Save yourself,” he said. “Go now. They are not hunting you.”

“You die soon,” muttered the beast.

“I know.”

Longbear growled, then straightened. “I go,” he said. Without another word he moved off into the trees. Charis sat beside Gamal. The old man was shivering, so she drew him into an embrace, rubbing his back and holding him against her.

The light was failing, the temperature dropping. Charis leaned back against the tree. The six riders below were on open ground now, and she could see the dark figure of a Jiamad loping ahead of the group, heading unerringly along the trail they had walked an hour before. “You go, too,” whispered Gamal. “Longbear was right. I am dying. I have a cancer. Even without Decado I would have lived for a few days only. Save yourself, Charis.”

“I am too tired to run,” she said. “You just rest.”

She saw three running figures emerge some way behind the riders, then cut to the left entering the trees. They were so far away she could not see whether they were soldiers or Jiamads.
What does it matter?
she thought.
Nothing matters anymore.

Still holding to the old man, she looked up. Darkness had come swiftly, and already bright stars were gleaming in the sky. Her father had said that stars were merely holes in the heavens through which the bright, glorious light of the Source shone down on humanity. Kerena had said this was nonsense. Her father had told her they were the ghosts of dead heroes. The Source had blessed them and given them a place in the sky until they could be returned to the earth. Sometimes, if one was lucky, it was possible to see a hero flash across the sky upon his return. Charis had seen two such miracles. One night, sitting on the flat roof of the bakery, she had seen a star shooting across the sky. It was so bright it must have been a great hero.

There were no shooting stars tonight.

Gamal’s head felt heavy on her shoulder, and she eased her position. The old man was sleeping now.

She found herself thinking of Harad, and hoping that he had survived the attack on Petar. She guessed he probably would. Even a Jiamad would think twice before attacking her Harad.

A stooping Jiamad came into sight. It did not approach her, but squatted down some thirty feet away. Then the horsemen came. They drew rein and sat staring at the girl and the sleeping blind man. For a moment no one moved.

“Well?” Charis called out. “Which one of you
heroes
is going to step down and kill an old blind man?” She saw the riders glance at one another. One man eased his horse forward.

“No one here would choose to kill him,” he said. “But his death has been ordered by the Eternal. Step away from him. I have no orders concerning you.”

“A pox on your orders,” she sneered. “I am going nowhere.”

“So be it,” he said, swinging his leg over the saddle and preparing to dismount.

Just then Longbear charged from the trees, letting out a mighty roar. Several of the horses reared. The soldier who had been dismounting was hurled to the ground, his panicked horse racing past Charis. Longbear rushed at the horses, his talons slashing through the neck of the nearest. Blood sprayed in the air, and the horse reared and fell, hurling its rider to the ground. One of the soldiers brought his lance to bear and kicked his mount forward. It charged at Longbear, just as he was rushing toward the enemy Jiamad. The lance took Longbear high in the shoulder, plunging deep before snapping. With a roar of pain and fury Longbear swung and leapt at the rider. As he did so the enemy Jiamad jumped on his back, burying fangs deep into Longbear’s neck. Another lancer charged. His weapon speared the back of his own Jiamad, shattering the beast’s spine. The Jiamad fell from Longbear, who spun and charged at the rider. The lancer tried to turn his mount, but Longbear’s talons ripped into his side, dragging him from the saddle. The rider’s helm came loose and tumbled to the ground. Longbear’s jaws crunched down on the man’s head, crushing the skull. Another lance hammered into him. This, too, broke. The great beast stumbled, blood pouring from the wounds in his back and the torn flesh of his throat.

Charis watched in horror as the five remaining soldiers closed in on the dying beast. Three of them had dismounted, allowing their horses to run free. Two others were baiting Longbear, holding him at bay by stabbing their lances toward him. The beast roared again, but the sound had no power. He tried to rush at the dismounted soldiers, but lost his footing. As Longbear fell they charged him, burying their lances deep. The beast gave one final cry, high and piercing and grotesquely human. Then he died.

One of the riders still mounted steered his horse toward where Charis sat. Amazingly Gamal had not woken during the battle.
Perhaps he is already dead,
thought Charis,
and will be spared the pain of plunging sword blades.

The rider approached Charis. His face was pale and angry. “You knew that beast was close. Now you will die, too, you bitch!” he said.

His head jerked to the right, a black arrow thudding through his temple. He sat very still for a moment, his face showing his shock. Then he dropped his lance and started to reach up. His body slumped forward over the horse’s neck.

The four surviving soldiers swung away from the fallen beast, the men on foot drawing their sabers and straining to see where the shaft had come from.

They did not have long to wait.

Three people emerged from the trees to the left. Charis saw that Harad was one of them, and her heart lifted. The second was Callan, the tattooed man from the palace. He looked different now, harder, his eyes cold. In his hands were two glittering swords. Beyond them was a dark-haired woman, dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt and dark leggings. She held a curved bow in her hands, an arrow nocked to the string.

Harad moved toward the soldiers, carrying a huge ax, but the tattooed man called him back. Then Callan stepped forward.

“There is no need for any more to die,” he told the swordsmen. “Gather your horses and be on your way.”

“We have orders,” said the young man who had spoken to Charis earlier. “The blind man is a condemned traitor. He has been sentenced to death.”

“Your orders are now meaningless. You cannot fulfill them.”

“Large talk. Let’s see you back it with action.” The man ran at Callan. He did not seek to avoid the swordsman. Instead he merely blocked the thrusting sword and rolled his wrist. The soldier’s sword flew from his hand. Before he could move Callan’s own blade was resting lightly on his throat. The second soldier rushed in. Still keeping his left-hand sword against the first soldier’s jugular, he parried the first clumsy thrust and once more rolled his own weapon around the enemy’s blade. The soldier cried out as Callan’s sword sliced across his knuckles. The cry was cut off as the shining blade swept up and touched his throat.