The Swords of Night and Day (53 page)

Stavut felt the weight of the chain mail on his shoulders, and sweat was beginning to trickle down his neck.
How odd,
he thought.
Water is running freely from my skin, and yet my mouth is parched and dry
. It was then that he realized his bladder was full. He swore. “What is it?” asked the man beside him. Stavut told him, and the young soldier smiled. “Me, too. It will be the same for every man here.”

“Why?” asked Stavut.

“According to Gilden it is the tension and the fear. It tightens the muscles around the bladder. The feeling will go away once the battle starts.”

“Oh, I’ll look forward to that,” muttered Stavut.

The Eternal Guard began to march. Instinctively Stavut reached for his sword hilt. “Not yet,” said the soldier. “Your arm will be tired enough by the end. Wait until you actually need to draw it.”

Up ahead Stavut saw Druss, dressed now in a long mail hauberk, walking along the front rank, Alahir beside him in the Armor of Bronze. The axman was talking to the soldiers, but his words did not fully carry to the second phalanx. Stavut thought he heard the word
wedge.

“Can you hear what he’s saying?” he asked the soldier beside him.

“Don’t need to,” said the man. “Alahir told us last night what the plan was. We will hit them when they reach the narrowest point of the road. They will be expecting arrows. Instead they will be met by a charge, in wedge formation. It will hit them like an arrowhead, with Druss at the point.”

The Eternal Guard marched on, not swiftly, but steadily, conserving their energies for the battle ahead. Stavut found himself wondering about his lads, and how they were faring in the green hills. He sighed. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, and he saw several doves flying by. A sense of unreality gripped him. It was hard to believe, standing here in the sunlight, that men were about to die. Then he thought about Askari. She had been acting so strangely these last few days. Ever since the nightmare. She had suddenly awoken beside him with a cry. He had reached over to her, and she had slapped his hand away and looked at him strangely. “It is all right,” he said. “You were dreaming. That’s all.”

“Dreaming?” She relaxed then. “Yes, I was dreaming. Where is Olek?”

“Olek?”

“Skilgannon.”

“He is out scouting the passes for sign of the Guard.” He had leaned in to her then, and suggested they find a spot away from the others where they could be together.

“Not now, Stavut,” she said. It had been odd hearing her use his full name. He had become so used to
Stavi.

The men around him began to shuffle and swing their arms, loosening the muscles. Stavut saw that the Guard were approaching the narrowest point of the road. They began to shuffle together, raising their long shields to protect themselves from arrows. Without any battle cries the Drenai line surged forward, Druss at the center, ax raised. It was several moments before the marching Guard realized they were under assault. Stavut saw the huge ax splinter a shield and sweep the man beyond from his feet. Then the noise erupted, metal on metal, screeching and clamoring, screams and shouts and death cries. Several of the Guard were pushed over the edge of the precipice, and fell. Stavut watched them, arms flailing as they plummeted toward the rocks far below. Switching his gaze back to the front line he saw the carnage and his stomach knotted. The ax rose and fell, swept and cut, blood spraying from it. It seemed perpetually in motion, as if it were somehow mechanical. There was a gap opening around Druss as men fought to keep back from the slashing blades. Then, with the initial shock of the charge over, the Guard’s discipline reasserted itself. They began to push forward. Now Stavut saw Legend riders fall as the black-and-silver ranks hurled themselves at the defenders. Slowly, inexorably, the Drenai were forced back. Druss fought on, and the enemy warriors had almost reached the point of encircling him. Then Alahir threw himself into the attack, battling to reach Druss. Several men, Gilden among them, joined him, and once more the two fighting groups became wedged together, neither giving nor gaining ground.

The battle seemed to go on forever, but Stavut glanced at the sky and saw the sun had barely moved.

Another line of Drenai reserves rushed forward to fill the gaps left by the dead and dying. The soldier beside him had been right, thought Stavut, as he and the men around him shuffled forward. He no longer felt the urge to piss, and his mouth was no longer dry. He saw Alahir go down, and then rise again. The battle looked chaotic now. More men fell screaming from the edge, and the ground was dense with bodies, some still writhing, or trying to drag themselves clear of the fighting. Stavut, though he had no experience of battles, could sense that the tide was beginning to turn. The Drenai had been pushed back from the narrow point. This allowed more Guard to enter the fray. Druss was still holding his ground, but once more the two flanks were pressing inward. A second line of reserves ran in, briefly bolstering the defense. Druss suddenly surged forward into the men trying to join the fighting, cutting left and right with his terrible blades. Stavut shivered as he saw men go down, helms crushed, faces slashed away. This sudden, almost berserk attack opened a gap behind the Guard, and Stavut saw many men in the front ranks glance nervously behind them. Alahir must have seen it to, for he bellowed: “At them Drenai! Kill them all!”

The defenders returned to the attack with renewed vigor, hacking and slashing, hurling themselves at the enemy. The Guardsman at the rear turned and fled from the awesome ax. Then the front line caved. Men spun on their heels and began to run, streaming back down the pass road.

Stavut couldn’t believe his luck. He had not been called to battle at all.

Legend riders ran to their fallen comrades, lifting those still breathing from the battle site and carrying them back to the relative safety of the rock pool. Then they began to gather their dead. It seemed to Stavut there were a great many bodies. Swiftly he cast his glance around, estimating the numbers of the survivors. There were considerably less than a hundred men still standing. He saw Druss walk to the narrow point and stare down at the enemy. Then the axman swung back and strode back up the road. Stavut shivered as he saw him. The chain-mail hauberk was splattered with blood, as was his face and beard. There were bleeding cuts on his huge arms, and a long gash on his cheek. A cut above his right eye was seeping blood. “There is a rider coming,” the axman told Alahir.

The earl of Bronze and the axman walked back to meet him. Stavut wandered up behind them. The rider was a tall man, hawkeyed and lean. He sat his black horse and stared past the two men, observing the battlefield. Then he turned his dark gaze on Druss.

“You have performed bravely, but you cannot hold out much longer,” he said.

“Ah, laddie, that was but a warming-up exercise. Now that we’re loose the real fighting can begin.”

The man gave a cold smile. “Do I have your permission to remove my wounded and dead?”

“What, no offers of surgeons?” said the axman.

“I fear the amount of damage you have caused necessitates me using both my surgeons,” said the officer.

“You can have your wounded,” said Druss. “The men you send to carry them better be stripped of all armor and weapons, or I’ll roll their heads back to you.”

“Your tone is disrespectful, sir,” said the officer, tight-lipped.

“I’d have more respect had I seen you among your men, and not watching the battle from afar. Now scuttle back to where you came from. This conversation is over.”

Druss turned his back on the man and led Alahir back up the road. Stavut watched the officer wrench his horse around and ride away.

“Why were you so discourteous, Druss?” asked Alahir.

The axman chuckled. “I want him boiling mad. Angry men tend to act rashly.”

“I think you achieved that. And you were right about the surgeons.”

“As soon as they have collected their dead and wounded, form up the bowmen and prepare for the beasts.”

Druss glanced to his right. A wounded Guardsman was desperately trying to unbuckle the breastplate of a fallen comrade. Blood was gushing from beneath the smashed armor.

Druss laid aside his ax and moved alongside the men. Together they wrenched the breastplate clear. The man’s right side was drenched with blood. Druss ripped the shirt open to reveal smashed ribs and a huge cut. From the look of the ruined breastplate, and the depth of the wound, Stavut knew it had come from Druss’s ax. Druss pulled the shirt back over the wound and told the second man to hold his hand over it. “Press lightly,” he said, “for those ribs might be pushed into the lung.”

“Where did you come from?” asked the second man.

“From hell, laddie. Let’s look at your wound.” The soldier had taken a heavy hit on the lower leg, which was broken. “You’ll live,” said Druss. “Your friend might not. Depends how tough he is.” He stared hard at the young soldier with the chest wound. “Are you tough, laddie?”

“Damned right,” said the man, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Druss grinned. “I believe you. Normally when I hit a man that hard, the ax cleaves all the way to the backbone. You were lucky. Caught me on a poor day.”

Stavut gazed around the battle site. There were hundreds of fallen Guardsmen, and the road was slick with blood.

And noon was still hours away.

S
kilgannon struggled to rise. The old priest knelt by his side. “Do not move, my son. Conserve your strength. Hold on to life and I will help you as best I can.” Skilgannon felt liquid in his throat choking him. He coughed and sprayed blood to the floor. The priest drew the golden chain from around his neck. Turning Skilgannon onto his back, he placed the black-and-white crystal on the bleeding wound. “Lie still, let its power work.”

Breathing was becoming difficult, and Skilgannon’s vision swam. His hands and feet grew cold, and he knew death was close. Then a gentle warmth began in his chest and slowly flowed through his body. His palpitating heart grew more rhythmic in its beat.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and cursed himself for a fool. Askari never traveled without her bow, and the few arrows in her quiver would have meant nothing to the Legend riders. Feeling stronger, he placed his hand over the crystal and sat up. His shirt was ripped, and he pulled it open. Smearing away the blood, he found no wound below it. He turned to the priest. “My thanks to you . . . ,” he began. Then he stopped. The old man was sitting down with his back against the desk. His face was waxen, his breathing ragged. Skilgannon moved to his side, holding out the crystal. Then he saw that it no longer glittered, and was instead merely a lump of black stone.

“The Moon has been growing weaker,” said the old priest, his voice a dry whisper. “It is because I have not taken it to the Shrine to pray. It always gleamed when I did that.”

“You allowed me to take all its power,” said Skilgannon. “Why?”

“To pay a debt. I am the oldest of the brethren, Skilgannon. The last of them. You look at me now and you see a twisted ancient. I looked different when you rescued me from the Nadir. I was young then, and full of idealism. Did you keep in touch with little Dayan?”

“No.”

“A sweet girl. She wed a young man and went to live in Virinis. I visited her there several times. She had seven children. Her life was happy, and she gave joy to all who knew her. She was over eighty when she died. A full life, I think.”

“That is good to know.”

“Do not let the evil one desecrate the Shrine.”

“Her evil will end today. I promise you that.”

Skilgannon rose, drew the Swords of Night and Day, and walked from the room.

Outside the sun was beginning to set.

21

I
t took several hours for columns of unarmed men to climb the high road and carry away the Guard dead and wounded. Stavut walked back to the poolside, where a number of the veterans were trying to stanch the wounds of the Drenai injured. Many of the older riders carried needle and thread, but so great were the numbers of wounded that many were unattended. Stavut removed his hauberk and helm, casting aside his saber. He moved to a young man who was trying vainly to stitch a wound in his own side. The cut extended over his hip and around to his back. Stavut ordered the man to lie down, then took the needle from his hand. “The chain mail parted,” said the soldier.

“Lie still.”

“It was made for my great-grandfather. Some of the rings were badly worn.”

“There’ll be plenty of mail to choose from after today,” Stavut told him, glancing across to the pile of hauberks that had been removed from the dead and stacked against the cliff wall. Stavut drew the last flaps of flesh together, drawing the thread tight and then knotting it. Taking the man’s knife from his belt, he cut the excess thread clear. The rider’s face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his face.

“My thanks to you, Stavut,” he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt of pain.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a new hauberk.” The man staggered off. Stavut saw him sifting through the discarded armor.

Stavut moved on to the next wounded man, only to find that he had bled to death. A number of the injured had broken arms or legs. Several Drenai soldiers brought enemy shields back to the poolside and began breaking them up to make splints. Even as he stitched wounds and offered comfort to the bleeding men, Stavut found himself wondering why. The beasts were coming, and there was no way they could be turned back. All this effort was a waste of energy. Every man here would be killed when the end came. Yet around him he could hear wounded men making jokes and chatting to one another.

He worked on. Druss came by to talk to the wounded, then stripped off his armor and waded into the pool, washing the blood from his face and body.

Druss.

Stavut no longer thought of him as Harad. How could he? What he had seen today had been awesome. The axman had stood like a great rock against an onrushing sea. The immovable against the unstoppable. Druss emerged from the pool and sat in the sunshine for a while. Then, once dry, pulled on his clothing and hauberk. There was still blood upon his face. The water had washed away the forming scabs. Stavut walked over to him. “I’ll stitch those cuts,” he said.

“Just the one above the eye,” said Druss. “It was damned annoying trying to fight and blink away the blood.”

“What will happen to Harad?” asked Stavut.

“Do not fret, laddie. When this day is done he will return. I am not a thief.”

“I didn’t think you were. Not for a heartbeat,” said Stavut with a smile.

“He didn’t have the experience to survive this—especially not with a cracked skull.”

Stavut suddenly laughed. “You really still think we are going to win?”

Druss looked at him. “Winning is not everything, Stavut. Men like to think it is. Sometimes it is more important to stand against evil than to worry about beating it. When I was a young man, serving with Gorben’s Immortals, we took a city. The ruler there was a vile man. I heard a story there. His soldiers had rounded up a group of Source priests, and they decided to burn them all. One citizen stepped out from the crowd and spoke against the deed. He told them that what they were doing was evil, and that they should be ashamed of themselves.”

“And did he save the priests?”

“No. And they killed him, too. But that’s what I am saying, laddie. I remembered that man’s deed, and it inspired me. Others who saw it would have been inspired. Evil will always have the worst weapons. Evil will gather the greatest armies. They will burn, and plunder, and kill. But that’s not the worst of it. They will try to make us believe that the only way to destroy them is by becoming like them. That is the true vileness of evil. It is contagious. That one man reminded me of that, and helped me keep to the code.”

Stavut inserted the needle into the split flesh above Druss’s eye and carefully sealed the cut. “You believe that you can defeat evil with an ax? Is that not a contradiction in terms?”

“Of course it is, laddie. That’s always the danger. However, in this instance I am merely standing my ground. If they come at me I will cut them down. I am not invading their land, or burning their cities, or ravaging their women. I am not trying to force them to bend the knee, or accept my philosophy or religion. Do I think we can win today? I think we have already won. I have seen it in the eyes of the Guard. Will we die? Probably.”

Stavut tied the knot in the stitch, then cut the thread.

“Almost time,” said Druss, glancing at the sky. “Best get your armor on.”

“I don’t think so, Druss. I shall help the wounded. I’ll stand my ground without a sword in my hand.”

“Good for you, laddie,” said the axman.

Taking up his ax, he strode away toward the road.

A
lahir stood and watched as the last of the bodies was carried down the hill road. The battleground was clear again, and if Druss was right, the Jiamads would come next. There were less than a hundred Drenai warriors to face them, and many of those were carrying wounds. Even those who had escaped injury were exhausted. Had the troop been at full strength it was unlikely they would be able to defeat a hundred Jiamads. Alahir’s heart grew heavy. He had learned so much in these last few days, about leadership, and courage, and the nobility of spirit that so often characterized fighting men. He had also learned what separated the ordinary warrior from legends like Druss. Earlier today he had been knocked from his feet, and a warrior had loomed over him, ready for the death blow. In that moment Alahir saw Druss glance in his direction. But the axman did not come to his aid. Instead it had been Gilden who flung himself at the attacker, blocking the blow and killing the Guardsman. After the battle Alahir had replayed the scene in his mind. Druss was holding his ground. To turn away and aid Alahir would have meant showing his back to the enemy. He had made an instant judgment. Alahir’s death, while hopefully regrettable, was less important than containing the Guard. Such intensity of focus was beyond Alahir.
In fact it is beyond most men,
he thought. Druss in combat was a killing machine of relentless power and determination. He radiated a kind of invincibility that cowed those facing him. Alahir hoped he would have the same effect on the Jiamads.

Even as the thought came to him, he glanced down the long road. The Jiamads were forming up. Many of them carried huge swords, others clubs. Swinging around, Alahir called out: “Form ranks!”

Drenai soldiers gathered up their bows and ran along the road. Druss approached, walking past Alahir and scanning the advancing beasts. “We need to hit them from here, then fall back, line by line, to the poolside,” said Druss. “The entrance is narrow. Easier to defend.” Alahir agreed, and issued orders to his riders. Forty men gathered, nocking shafts to the string. Twenty paces behind them fifteen more bowmen stood in line. Alahir organized three other ranks of fifteen, spaced all the way back to the pool entrance. Then he walked back to stand with the first group, leaving Druss standing by the entrance.

The Jiamads were halfway up the slope when the Drenai sent the first volley sailing through the air. The arrows rose and curved, then flew down into the Jiamad ranks. The range was long, and only two Jiamads fell, and one of those rose again. Others ignored the arrows jutting from their flesh, or ripped them clear. Then they began to run. Another volley hit them. This time three went down and did not rise.

They were closer now, and their roaring echoed through the mountains. As they neared the defenders, the arrows struck them harder, and with more penetrating force. Alahir counted at least ten dead.

Not enough,
he thought.

One last volley struck them. They were only twenty paces away when the shafts struck.

“Back!” bellowed Alahir.

The archers spun on their heels and sprinted up the road, moving between the next rank, who loosed another volley before themselves turning and running.

The beasts charged, their speed incredible. They overran the fourth rank of bowmen, smashing through them. One archer was dragged from his feet and hurled out over the precipice. Others were ripped or hacked to pieces. Throwing aside their bows, the Drenai who had made it to the pool entrance drew their sabers. Druss hefted Snaga. The first of the beasts rushed at the waiting men. Druss leapt to meet it, Snaga crunching through its skull. As it fell Druss wrenched the ax clear, sweeping it out in a murderous cut that clove through the rib cage of a second beast. Alahir surged foward to support the axman, spearing his golden blade through the heart of a huge creature bearing a massive sword. In its death throes the beast hammered his weapon against the bronze breastplate. Alahir was lifted from his feet and thrown against the cliff wall. Around him the soldiers were fighting courageously, but the dead were mounting. The beasts were just too large and powerful. Only Druss was able to hold his ground. Two of the creatures burst through the Drenai lines and, maddened by the smell of blood from the wounded, raced into the pool area. Several of the wounded, armed with bows, shot them down.

Alahir struggled to regain his feet. Someone reached down and hauled him up. It was Stavut. The merchant was not wearing armor, but had a saber in his hand. There was no time to speak. Alahir pushed forward, hacking and stabbing.

Instinctively he knew it was to no avail. They had but moments left before the line broke and the beasts swept through.

Then he saw the giant form of Shakul appear behind the Jiamad lines. An enemy beast was hurled from its feet, a second lifted high and pitched from the precipice. Others of Stavut’s pack appeared. They tore into the enemy ranks, forcing back the Jiamads. “Now!” yelled Druss. “Attack!”

It was a pivotal moment. Alahir knew it, and Druss had voiced it. Raising the golden sword, Alahir bellowed: “On Drenai! Victory!” The surviving defenders surged out of the entrance. Ahead Alahir saw the mighty Shakul, his body pierced by two huge spears, still fighting. A sword smashed into his side, bringing a roar of pain. Druss, coming alongside, killed the wielder. Stavut ran past Alahir, heading for the stricken Shakul. Alahir tried to call him back, but the merchant was not listening.

“Shak!” he cried out. “Shak! I am with you!”

As he tried to reach the beast a Jiamad thrust a spear into his back. Stavut staggered and fell. Shakul leapt upon the spear wielder, flinging him aside. Another spear plunged into him. This time even Shakul’s mighty strength gave out. Falling first to his knees, he pitched sideways to the ground. Alahir and several Legend riders charged into the beasts around him.

And the remaining Jiamads broke and ran.

Members of Stavut’s pack gave chase. Alahir swung around to see Stavut crawling to Shakul’s side, leaving a trail of blood as he moved. Alahir ran to him. Stavut reached Shakul and struggled to his knees. The great beast rolled to his back, two spears embedded in his chest. “Oh Shakul,” said Stavut, “why did you come back? I wanted you to run free.” Blood was flowing fast from the death wound in Stavut’s back and the exit wound in his belly. As his strength failed, he sagged across Shakul’s chest. Alahir was joined by Gilden and some of the other riders, and they stood staring down at the dead man and the dying Jiamad. Shakul’s arm came up around Stavut. “Run free . . . now,” he said.

Alahir knelt beside Shakul. “I thank you, my friend,” he said. “We all thank you.”

Gilden came alongside. Reaching out, he touched his finger to one of the wounds in Shakul’s chest. Then he lifted it to his mouth. “Carry with us,” said Gilden. Shakul’s golden eyes stared at the man. Then they closed. Others of Stavut’s pack gathered around. One by one they each took blood from the wound. Alahir rose.

“Good-bye, Tinker,” he said. “I shall miss you.” A stoop-shouldered Jiamad approached Alahir. It spoke, and Alahir struggled to understand it. Slowly the beast repeated the words.

“Go now. Hunt deer.”

With that he led the fifteen surviving members of the pack away. As they left Alahir saw Druss waving to him from the narrow point in the road. Alahir walked down to him. The axman pointed down to the Guard’s camp. Their Jiamads had fled, and there was no indication of another attack.

“I think we won, laddie,” said Druss.

“Aye, we did, but what a cost. I feel a great sense of shame, Druss. All our lives we have been taught Drenai legends. Nobility, bravery, truth. Part of that truth was that Jiamads were soulless beasts, devils in flesh. Yet they came back and died for us.” He looked at Druss and asked: “Were there animals in the Void?”

“No. Just human souls.”

“Then they have nowhere to go when they die.”

“I didn’t say that,” Druss told him. “I don’t know the answer, but my heart tells me that there is a place for them. A place for all living things. Nothing truly dies, Alahir.”

Gilden called out from above them, and pointed down into the valley below.

Alahir and Druss walked to the edge.

Where the crater had been now stood a mountain. Shining bright upon its peak was a dazzling shield of gold.

J
ianna walked out of the room, leaving Skilgannon dying on the floor. Stabbing him had been instinctive rather than planned, and as she walked on the full horror of it seeped through the centuries of emotional barriers she had constructed in her mind.

She felt a tightness in her stomach and a lump in her throat. Tears welled. In truth Jianna had known she would have to kill him. Olek would never have compromised. This realization clashed with her promise to bring him back. Another twenty years in the Void, while a new Reborn was cast from his bones, would do nothing to change who he was, what he believed in.