The Swords of Night and Day (34 page)

They were a scrawny pair, one heavily round shouldered, almost hunchbacked, the second tall and thin, his fur almost black. They stared at him, then looked at Grava, who said something unintelligible, but in a harsh growl.

“Serve Bloodshirt,” said the hunchback.

“Your names?” asked Stavut.

“Ironfist,” the hunchback answered. “This Blackrock,” he added, pointing to his skinny, black-furred companion.

“You will hunt with us. You will kill no Skins.”

They both nodded.

“Do not forget it. Now go.”

They shuffled away. Grava said something else, which Stavut did not understand, but it ended in a gargling sound that Stavut recognized as laughter, so he smiled and nodded. Then he settled down by the fire. Shakul awoke and stretched. Then he broke wind loudly.

“Charming,” said Stavut.

“Good sleep,” said Shakul. “No dreams.”

“The best kind.” Stavut scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. Normally he was clean shaven, but lately he had decided a beard would suit Bloodshirt. “Time to be getting back to the villagers,” he said. “They will be glad of the fresh meat.”

Shakul lifted his head and sniffed the air. “They have gone,” he said.

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“Head south.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

Shakul shrugged, then leaned down toward the joint of roasted venison. “Burned,” he said, shaking his head.

“When did they go?”

“We leave, they leave,” said Shakul.

That was yesterday morning. “Why would they do that?” said Stavut.

“Fear us,” said Shakul. “Fear Bloodshirt.” Stavut looked into the beast’s golden eyes, and at the huge fangs in the immense face. There was nothing now about Shakul that caused him any fear. But, of course, that would not—could not—apply to the villagers. He knew then that their lack of argument had nothing to do with his leadership, but everything to do with their terror of the beasts, and an increased fear of Stavut himself.

“I would never have harmed them,” he said. Shakul’s head came up. The wind was southerly, and he tipped his head, his nostrils quivering.

“Many Skins,” he said. “Horses. Jems.”

“Soldiers?” queried Stavut.

“They hunt us?” responded Shakul, his eyes glinting.

“I wouldn’t think so. Where are they?”

“South. Your Skins see them soon.”

Stavut swore. “We must get to them. If it is an enemy raiding party, they will be in danger.”

“Useless Skins,” said Shakul. “Don’t hunt. Do nothing. Better without them.”

“That’s true,” agreed Stavut, “but, as you say, they are
my
Skins. We help them.”

Shakul rose and let out a howl, which brought the other Jiamads to their feet. “Run fast,” said Shakul. “Bloodshirt slow. Shakul carry Bloodshirt.”

The suggestion put Stavut in a quandary. He knew it was the only sensible choice. The Jiamads could move at terrifying speed, and if they waited for him it would be a long, slow, and pointless journey. If the villagers were in danger now, that peril would be long past by the time the group reached them. On the other hand there were only two ways Shakul could run and carry Stavut. Either like a babe in arms, or with Stavut clinging to the fur on his back. The first would be ludicrous, and would—Stavut believed—severely dent his authority among the beasts. The second would be equally risible, for Stavut’s arms were not powerful, and he knew he could not hang on to the fur for a long journey. This left the prospect of falling off a number of times, and then having to revert to the first ghastly option, that of being carried like a babe.

“Right,” said Stavut, buying time to think. “Let’s be sure of what we are all doing. We are seeking my comrades, who may be in danger. If they are, we must rescue them. I want no one rushing in. We get close enough to see what the situation is, then I shall give orders. Is this understood?”

“Yes,” said Shakul. “Now leave?”

Stavut gazed around the pack. There were more than forty Jiamads now. Some still carried iron-studded clubs, others heavy swords. A few retained long staffs. Several of them still wore wide baldrics on their shoulders, from which hung empty scabbards. Stavut crossed to two of them and told them to remove their baldrics. The beasts did so without question, handing them to Stavut. Both had broad brass buckles. Undoing them, he buckled them together and walked back to Shakul. “Bend forward,” he said. Shakul obeyed instantly. Stavut slipped the double-sized baldric over his head. Shakul was larger than any of the other Jiamads, and the leather hung to just above his hips. “Stand still,” said Stavut, lifting his leg and placing it on the lowest part of the loop. Then he stood and took hold of the long fur on Shakul’s massive shoulders. “Now we go!” he said.

Shakul took off at a great pace, and Stavut was briefly thrown back. He clung on grimly, seeking to read the rhythm of the great beast’s running style. Within a very short space of time he began to feel sick. It was almost as bad as the first time he had gone to sea. With iron resolve he willed his belly to hold on to its contents and tried to think of other things as the run continued. This was hard, for with each heavy running step Shakul took Stavut’s belly heaved.

Just when he felt he could hold on no longer he saw a sight that took all thoughts of sickness from him.

Shakul ran into the campsite he had left yesterday. His wagon was still there, his beloved horses, Longshanks and Brightstar—or what was left of them—still tethered. “Stop!” shouted Stavut. Shakul came to a stop and Stavut leapt down. His legs almost gave way, and the ground seemed to be moving. Stavut gazed down at the dead beasts. He saw a movement in the trees nearby, and two gray wolves padded back from sight. The villagers had left his wagon behind, not thinking that, with the brake applied, the tethered horses would have no way to escape a wolf pack.

Shakul loomed alongside him. “I loved those horses,” Stavut told him. The great beast looked nonplussed. Stavut sighed. Two Jiamads approached the dead beasts. Shakul snarled at them, ordering them back.

“Time to move on,” said Stavut.

This time he felt no sickness. His heart was heavy, and all he wanted was to find the villagers safe. Then he would turn the pack over to Shakul, seek out new horses, and head north.

He realized Shakul was speaking to him, and leaned forward to catch what he was saying.

“Blood in air,” said Shakul. “Skin blood.”

T
he trio rested up for most of that day, and the one following. Harad said little. He sat by Charis’s grave, his expression bleak, his eyes distant. Skilgannon did not intrude on his grief, and Askari left the two men, setting off to hunt for food. She returned at dusk on the second day with three hares, which she skinned. “The meat is better when left to hang for a while,” she said as they ate.

Skilgannon thanked her for the meal, then walked out into the moonlight. His mind flowed back to the dream meeting with Memnon. Now, there was a dangerous man. No anger, no hatred; a cold mind and eyes that glittered with intelligence. He was an enemy to fear.

He suddenly laughed aloud. All across this war-torn land there were enemies to fear, armies of Joinings, cavalry, foot soldiers, archers. Memnon was merely one more to add to the list, along with Jianna and Decado—and who knew who else.

He glanced back to where Harad sat by the fire and sighed. The young man had lost the woman he loved, and his world was in ruins. Skilgannon felt for him, recalling the cold day he had heard of Jianna’s death. Would Harad ever be the man he once was? Skilgannon wondered. He had not touched the ax all day. It lay against the cliff wall, forgotten. Askari strolled out. “You want to be alone?” she asked.

“No. We must set out tomorrow and find Kinyon. Or if not Kinyon, then someone who can offer directions to the Rostrias. I am sure that if I find the river, I can locate the temple.”

They heard a horse whinny in the darkness. Askari reached for her bow and nocked a shaft. A figure rode into sight.

It was Decado.

His clothing was travel stained, a layer of dust upon the black jerkin he wore. He seemed surprised to see them, and drew rein.

Askari drew back on the string, but Skilgannon reached out and touched her arm. “Do not kill him yet,” he said.

“Nice of you,” said Decado, lifting his leg over the saddle pommel and jumping lightly to the ground. His dark eyes stared hard at Skilgannon. “So, you are my ancestor. To be honest I see no resemblance.”

“I do,” Skilgannon told him. “It is in the haunted look, and the fear of the blades.”

“I fear nothing,” said Decado. “Not you, not the beauty with the bow, not the Shadows. Nothing.”

“A poor lie,” Skilgannon replied. “You fear losing those blades. You do not like them out of your sight. When you sit in the evenings you make sure they are beside you. You reach out and touch them endlessly. In the mornings the first action you take is to caress the hilts.”

Decado gave a cold smile. “True,” he said, reaching up and pressing an emerald stud on the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. With one smooth pull the Sword of Fire slid from its scabbard. Skilgannon stepped back and drew his own blades.

“You have come a long way just to die here, boy,” said Skilgannon.

Decado’s second blade appeared in his hand. “A man has to die somewhere. Keep the bow nocked,” he said to Askari, “and move back away from us. Stand as close to the cliff wall as you can.”

Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Decado loosen the muscles of his arms, sweeping the swords back and forth. “You see the clouds gathering?” said Decado.

Skilgannon glanced at the sky.

“Be ready when they cover the moon,” said Decado. “I don’t know how good you are, kinsman, but death is very close if you are less than superb.”

“You think you are that good?”

Decado smiled. “Oh, I know how good
I
am, but it is not me you need to concern yourself with at this moment. The Shadows are here.” Harad, ax in hand, had moved out into the open.

Darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon closed his eyes, slipping into the Illusion of Elsewhere. There came a sudden hissing sound, like a breeze blowing through a window crack. Skilgannon spun, the Sword of Night slicing through the air. The blade struck something metallic, which then fell against his shoulder. He heard Askari cry out. Then came a high-pitched screech of pain. The darkness was total. Skilgannon leapt to his right, then spun again, blades extended. He heard the slightest whisper of movement. Instantly he dropped to one knee and slashed out with the Sword of Day. The blade struck something soft, then cut through. The clouds began to clear the moon. Sight returned. Skilgannon blinked. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw a pale form some twenty feet away. Then it was gone—only to appear alongside him. A dark dagger plunged toward his chest. The Sword of Night swept up. The creature ducked and moved with incredible speed. The Sword of Day snaked out, the very tip of the blade slicing across the creature’s throat. It sped away, staggered, then fell.

Moonlight shone down, illuminating the open ground. Harad was down, as was Askari. Decado looked at Skilgannon and smiled. “Quick, aren’t they?”

There were three skeletal bodies lying on the earth. Snaga was embedded in one, a second lay close to Decado, and the third was the one slain by Skilgannon. “And now do we fight?” he asked Decado.

“If you really want to,” replied the swordsman. “For myself I would like to sit beside a fire and relax. Perhaps stroke my sword hilts for a while.”

“How many more of these creatures are there?”

“None close, I think. They travel in threes. More will come, though.”

Skilgannon moved alongside Askari and knelt down. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes open. Reaching out, he touched her throat. There was a faint pulse. “She is not dead,” said Decado. “The venom in their darts and daggers merely paralyzes. Close her eyes for her, and let her sleep. She will awake in an hour or so, with a ghastly headache.”

Decado stepped to where Harad lay. “Now, that is a strange sight,” he said. “I would have wagered all I have that a huge clod with an ax would not have been able to kill a shadow.” Placing a booted foot under Harad, he flipped the axman to his back. Sheathing his swords, he dropped to one knee and closed Harad’s eyes. Then, ignoring the fallen man, he walked over to the dying fire and added a few sticks. Skilgannon joined him.

“Why did you aid us?” he asked.

“Actually, kinsman, it was the other way around. The Shadows were hunting me. So how does it feel to be alive again after all these centuries?”

“Why were they hunting you?”

“I fell out of favor with the Eternal. She ordered my death. Strange really. She only had to ask me and I would have killed myself for her.” Decado sighed. “According to legend you loved her, too, so you’ll know what I mean.”

“What do you intend to do now?” said Skilgannon, ignoring the comment.

“Well,” said Decado, “I could follow your historic example and join a monastery. I don’t think so, though. My namesake did that, too, you know. He was after your time. He became a warrior of the Thirty, in the days of Tenaka Khan. He was known as the Ice Killer—the greatest swordsman of his age. Of any age. I suppose he would have been your . . . what . . . great-great-grandson. Something like that. Nice to know blood can run true, don’t you think?”

“You have merely said what you are
not
going to do,” pointed out Skilgannon.

“I have not made up my mind.”

“Let me know when you do.”

“You’ll be the first, kinsman.”

Skilgannon cleaned his blades then sheathed them.

“Our swords are very similar,” said Decado. “Is that how you knew of my obsession?”

“Yes. It is the same for me. These blades are possessed, Decado. They make us more violent. They have the capacity to unhinge us, turn us into madmen. They call for blood and death. It is hard to resist them. Yours are more dangerous than mine. The Swords of Night and Day were created by a witch named Hewla. She was extraordinarily talented, but the blades she made were merely copies of a more ancient and deadly pair. You carry those. The Swords of Blood and Fire.”