The Swords of Night and Day (50 page)

“I am afraid so, kinsman. This never was my fight. It pleased me to stay while I thought it might be won.”

“Well, good luck to you, Decado.”

The man smiled. “No pleas for me to stay? No appeal to my loyalty?”

“No. I think you for your help today. You are a fine warrior. Perhaps we will meet again, in happier times.”

With that Skilgannon turned away from the man and strolled back to where Druss was standing, apart from the other men. “Not looking good,” said the axman.

“No,” agreed Skilgannon. “Skills on both sides are even, but their numbers will win the day. I think we can resist two, maybe three attacks.”

Druss nodded. Skilgannon saw the blood on the axman’s temple, and the huge bruise beneath it. “That looks bad.”

“Feels it,” admitted Druss. “I think Harad’s skull might have been cracked. Damned painful.”

The two men stepped aside as Legend riders moved past, carrying wounded men. “I take it you will be staying for a while?” said Skilgannon.

“I think it best,” Druss told him. “Harad is a good lad, but this skirmish is going to need a touch more than guts and determination.” He glanced across at Alahir and grinned. “Good to see that armor again. And he wears it well.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He is Drenai,” said Druss. “Says it all for me.”

The sun faded down behind the mountains, and darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon moved away to sit on a rock and clean his swords. As he finished wiping the dried blood from the Sword of Night he lifted the blade to examine it. What he saw caused his breath to catch in his throat.

Reflected in the shimmering steel was the temple mountain, pale and gleaming in the starlight, the Mirror of Heaven bright upon its peak. He turned his head and glanced back down the mountainside. There was no temple, only the huge crater that had killed Bagalan.

Switching his gaze back to the reflection in the sword blade, he wondered if his mind was failing him: Askari wandered over to squat down beside him. “This is no time to be admiring yourself,” she said.

“Look in the blade and tell me what you see,” he told her, passing her the sword. Askari held it up.

“I have looked better,” she said. “There is dirt on my face.”

“Move the blade and look down the mountain.”

Askari did so. Her expression changed as she saw the reflection of the temple mountain, and she swung around just as Skilgannon had. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means it always was some kind of ward spell. It can fool the eye, but not a mirror.”

“What will you do?”

Skilgannon sighed. “Everything in me yearns to stand with these men and face the foe. Yet it is not what I came for. I came to end the reign of the Eternal. I cannot do that up here. I must get into the temple.”

20

F
or Stavut there was no sense of even a transient victory. The day had been nightmarish. The first battle, in which Harad had been struck down, was bad enough. Eight of his lads were dead, three others nursing deep wounds that concerned Stavut. Then they had traveled here to find the Legend riders facing massive odds. Shakul, without any order from Stavut, had hurled himself into the fray. He now carried more cuts and a puncture wound to his thigh.

The Jiamad wounded from earlier, who had lagged behind in the march to the high pass, arrived just as night fell. One of them was Ironfist, the scrawny hunchback who had joined them recently. He was being supported by the powerful Blackrock. Ironfist was breathing heavily, and there was blood dripping from his elongated jaw. Stavut ran to him and helped Blackrock lower him to the ground. Ironfist leaned his back against the cliff face. Stavut laid his hand on the beast’s shoulder. “How are you feeling, my friend?”

“Much pain. Better when sun shines.”

“Sit quietly. I’ll fetch a surgeon.”

Stavut ran back to the poolside where the seriously injured had been carried from the battle site. He saw the small surgeon, Anatis, kneeling beside a seated rider and inserting stitches in a wound to the man’s shoulder. Stavut recognized the burly rider as the man who had screamed at him, and almost caused a war between the Jems and the riders. His name, Stavut had learned later, was Barik. Stavut moved alongside them. “One of my lads is seriously wounded,” he said to the surgeon. “Do you know anything about Jems?”

“I don’t treat beasts,” answered the man, without looking up.

“Then you won’t live to treat anyone ever again, you bastard!” shouted Stavut, dragging his saber clear of its scabbard. Terrified, the surgeon flung himself to the ground, rolling behind the wounded Drenai soldier.

“Whoa!” ordered Barik. “Rein in, Stavut! This man came to help us, and I’d as soon you didn’t kill him before he’s finished sealing this scratch.”

“My lads have died in your battle, Drenai! The least you could do is see them tended.”

“I agree.” Pushing his hand over the still-bleeding wound, he glanced around at the cowering Anatis. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir,” he said. “I’ll sit here while you tend to his friend. Is that all right with you?”

“The man’s mad!” said Anatis.

The soldier laughed. “You think sane men would choose to come to this arid place in order to kill each other? Go tend the beast.”

Stavut let his saber fall clattering to the ground. “I am sorry, surgeon,” he said. “Will you help me?”

Anatis eased himself to his feet and swung his medicine bag over his shoulder. “I do not know how the melding changes the physical structure. But I will do what I can.”

Together they walked out into the moonlight. “I should have asked for lanterns,” he said. Ironfist was breathing raggedly, his head resting back against the rock face. The surgeon glanced at Stavut. “He’s not going to attack me, is he?”

“No.” Stavut crouched down on the other side of the beast. “It is me, my friend. I have brought someone to help you. You understand? To mend your wound.”

The surgeon took hold of Ironfist’s paw, which was resting over an awesome puncture wound in his chest. His fur was covered in blood, some dried, but more flowing from the wound. At the point of entry the blood was coming in small spurts. Ironfist suddenly coughed, and blood sprayed Stavut’s face and chest. The surgeon looked across at Stavut. “Now, do not go back for that saber, but there is nothing I can do. All the indications are that the wound is deep and has pierced a lung. It has also severed an artery, which is why it is coming so fast.”

“Would you know what to do if he were a man?”

“If he were a man he would be dead already. And before you ask, the answer is no. Even if I got to the man immediately the way the wound was delivered I could not save him. My best guess is that your . . . friend will not last the night. All you can do is make it comfortable.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?”

“No, Drenai, I would not lie about my craft, not even to an enemy. If we had bright light, and perfect surroundings, and the right tools, I could have tried opening the wound farther and attempting to seal the artery. This would cause immense pain to the creature, and would still result in death forty-nine times out of fifty. I do not have the light, or the tools, and this wound has been bleeding too long. Its strength is almost gone. It could not survive surgery. And now, if you will excuse me, I shall finish stitching the soldier’s wound.”

Stavut said nothing and turned back to Ironfist. “I don’t know how much of that you understood, my friend,” he said. “So we will just sit together for a while, you and I.” Shakul came alongside and peered at Ironfist.

“You die soon,” he said.

“Soon,” answered Ironfist. Shakul squatted down and laid his huge hand gently on Ironfist’s arm. Leaning forward, he touched his finger lightly to the wound, then licked the blood. Pulling back, he made way for Blackrock, who did the same. One by one all the beasts tasted the blood of Ironfist. Stavut had seen this peculiar ritual earlier, but had not asked Shakul about it. By the time Grava came to repeat the maneuver Ironfist was dead. Grava looked inquiringly at Stavut.

“Why do you lick his blood?” Stavut asked. The beast answered in his usual incomprehensible manner. This time, however, Stavut managed to piece together the words.

With a sigh Stavut placed his own finger on the wound, then licked it clean. Then he rose and sought out Alahir.

The rider was talking with Skilgannon and Askari as Stavut approached. Then the group broke up, Skilgannon walking back past the former merchant. He reached out to Askari as she passed. She smiled at him. “I will see you later,” she said, then followed Skilgannon.

“Well, we survived the day, Tinker,” said Alahir.

“And tomorrow?”

Alahir shrugged. “They are great warriors, and they outnumber us. I won’t lie to you. Chances are we won’t see another sunset.”

“I don’t want my lads to die here.”

“No, nor do I. I don’t think the Guard will send their beasts. Though they might, if we hold them long enough. You have done enough, my friend. Take your pack and go.”

“No, I will stay. I will send my lads back out over the other pass. I’ll need to borrow some armor.”

“There is plenty to choose from, Tinker. We lost seventy men today.”

“That many? I am sorry, Alahir.”

The sound of horses’ hooves clattered on the stone. Stavut swung to see Skilgannon and Askari ride from the pass.

“Where are they going?”

“To the temple. Skilgannon thinks he can find a way in. We need to hold the Guard back for another day.”

Stavut walked back to where the pack were sitting, by the entrance to the rock pool. He squatted down alongside Shakul. “It is time we had a new leader,” he said. Shakul stared at him.

“Bloodshirt leads.”

“No. Not anymore. This is Shakul’s pack. I want you to trust me, Shak. Tomorrow this battle will be lost, whether you are here or not. The pack has given lives for these men and their war. You have fought well. Tonight I want you to take the pack back through the pass we fought in earlier today. From there you can see the green mountains. There will be deer there. You can hunt. You can run free, Shak. You can truly run free.”

Shakul’s head swayed from side to side. “Hungry,” he said.

“Hungry,” muttered some of the others.

“Hunt deer,” said Shakul. Pushing himself to his feet, he swung to the others. “We go!” he said.

Immediately they rose and padded off.

Stavut stood alone and watched them until they had disappeared over the rim of the road.

“Not a sentimental bunch, were they?” said Gilden, moving alongside him. “No hugs. No long speeches.”

Stavut shook his head. “I watched one of them die tonight. Each of the others placed a finger on the wound and licked it. I asked why. Grava told me in three words.
Carry with us.”
The two men stood in silence for a moment.

“Come on, Stavut,” said Gilden, “let’s find you some armor. You can be a Drenai warrior for a day.”

T
he moon was bright in a clear sky as Skilgannon rode down the mountainside. The trail was more treacherous here, shifting scree under his horse’s hooves, so he rode slowly and with care, constantly glancing back to see how Askari was faring. Once on level ground she drew alongside him, and they moved on in silence for a while.

“You could not have saved them if you stayed,” she said.

He glanced at her. “It would not have been to save them. I brought them to this. My head tells me that I must go to the temple, but my heart feels I am deserting them. Stavut is with them. Are you not concerned about his survival?”

“Of course I am. He is a sweet man.”

“A sweet man?” he echoed. “Faint praise for a man you love.”

She did not reply, and the silence grew. “Have I offended you?” he asked, at last.

“Not at all. I was thinking about what you said.”

“About Stavut?”

“No, about love. Do you really believe in it, Skilgannon?”

“What an odd question. It is not about
belief.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure.”

“Do you desire me?”

The question shook him. He drew in a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, at last. “You are a beautiful woman.”

“Is that love?”

“Of a physical kind. Yes. But that is not
just
how I loved Jianna.”

“Ah. Two kinds of love then. Did you love your father?”

“Deeply.”

“And that is three. Love seems to be a harlot, flitting from object to object. A word with so many uses ultimately becomes meaningless. I have heard Alahir talk of the love of the homeland, and Stavut speak of his love for the beasts. It is all mystifying.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, “but once true love touches your heart you will understand. It has a power beyond any magic in the world. If I walked into a room in which Jianna was sitting, I felt my spirit lift. She was in my thoughts every day for all of my previous life. I would fall asleep thinking of her, and wake thinking of her. The day she died it was as if someone had robbed the world of sunlight.”

“And you never felt that way about anyone else?”

“No. There were women I cared for deeply, and others whose company I enjoyed for a time.”

“Perhaps it was just because she was the first,” offered Askari.

“There is . . . was . . . a belief among the Naashanites that, for every man and woman, there was one great love waiting to be found. Some never found it. Some settled for less. The very lucky would stumble across it. Like finding a diamond in a ditch. Jianna was my diamond. There could never be another.”

“Yet you can contemplate destroying her, and sending her soul to the horror of the Void?”

“We all face the horror of the Void,” he said. “And, no, I could not kill her. Any more than I could kill myself. What I am attempting to destroy is the
Eternal,
and the magic that has brought this world to vileness and ruin.”

“A magic that brought about my own life—and yours,” she pointed out.

Drawing rein, he turned toward her. In the moonlight her beauty was startling. It robbed him, for the moment, of speech. She edged her mount alongside his own. His throat was dry, and it seemed as if time ceased flowing. All that existed was this one moment. “What is it?” she asked, softly.

Tearing his gaze from her, he turned his horse. “We must move on,” he said, heeling his mount into a run.

Allowing the gelding to have its head, Skilgannon tried to clear his thoughts. The pounding of the hooves, the wind in his face, helped him to focus. Ahead lay the crater. Slowing his mount, Skilgannon rode to the rim and drew the Sword of Night. Staring into the blade, he saw once more the rearing temple mountain and the great golden shield at its peak. More than this he saw, some distance to his left, shimmering, blue lights on the desert floor, marking a path to the doors of the temple. He touched heels to the gelding and rode around the rim until he reached the start of the path. Then he dismounted. Askari came alongside. He showed her the reflection.

“How do we know it is a pathway?” she asked.

“My guess is that the priests needed a safe way through the crater in order to bring in supplies. But let us test it.”

From around his neck he lifted clear the golden locket, then, holding the Sword of Night high, he tossed the locket over his shoulder to land between two of the shimmering lights. Then he turned to watch what happened. The locket lay on the ground, unmoving. Skilgannon took a deep breath, then stepped out onto the crater to retrieve it. Moving back to Askari, he said: “I intend to walk the path. It might be safer if you wait here for me.”

“I didn’t come this far to hold the reins of your horse. I will come with you.”

He smiled. “I guessed you would say that.” Then it registered that she had not brought her bow with her. Instead she had a scabbarded cavalry saber looped over her shoulder. “The first time I have seen you without the recurve,” he said.

“I loaned it to the Legend riders. They are running out of arrows.”

Skilgannon drew both swords then, holding one above his head, the other before his eyes. Carefully he adjusted the higher sword until the path could be seen reflected in the blade before his eyes.

Then he walked slowly toward the hidden temple.

“
H
ow does anyone find the strength to fight, wearing all this?” complained Stavut as Gilden looped the chain-mail hauberk over his head. The sleeves came down to Stavut’s elbows, the hem touching the backs of his calves. It was split, front and back, at the waist, allowing for freedom of movement in the saddle, but the biggest surprise to Stavut was the weight. “I feel like I’m carrying Shakul on my back!”

“The best is yet to come,” said Gilden, lifting the chain-mail coif and settling it over Stavut’s head. It was lined with soft leather and smelled of rancid goose grease. Lastly came the helm. When Stavut had first tried it, he had laughed aloud. It was way too big and slid around his head comically. Now with the added thickness of the coif the helm fitted perfectly. Gilden tied the bronze cheek guards together.