The Swords of Night and Day (55 page)

“Not a move they taught us in training school,” said Decado. “I must remember it.”

“You won’t have to remember it long, boy,” Skilgannon told him.

Decado laughed. “Nice try, kinsman,” he said, circling again, “but, as you know, anger is the third enemy in any duel.”

With lightning speed he launched a counterattack. Now it was Skilgannon’s footwork that kept him alive, as he backed away, defending desperately. Decado’s sword lanced out, slicing through Skilgannon’s long coat. Jianna thought it was a death blow—and gasped. The Sword of Night swept up. Decado blocked it. Skilgannon hooked his foot around Decado’s and shoulder-charged him. Decado fell, but rolled to his feet as Skilgannon moved in for the kill.

They circled again.

Just then the door behind Memnon crashed open, the top hinges parting, the frame splintering. A massive form, blocking the light from beyond the door, ducked its head and lurched into the chamber. It was grotesquely malformed, with three arms, one growing from its chest. The head was elongated, the mouth lipless and wide, showing two rows of sharp fangs. As it entered other beasts poured in through the shattered doorway. Two huge hounds, larger than lions, surged at Memnon. The Shadowlord ran for the dais and leapt. Instinctively Jianna threw out her arm, grabbing his wrist and hauling him over the railing.

“Thank you, Highness,” he said—ramming his dagger into her side. Jianna cried out and fell back. As she did so a huge hound leapt the dais. Jianna saw its great jaws close on Memnon’s head, and heard the crunching of bone. Blood and brains sprayed from the beast’s mouth. Ignoring Jianna it lifted the dead Memnon in its mouth and strutted from the dais.

Jianna stared down at the dagger hilt jutting from her body. Judging by the angle of entry the blade was close to her heart. Her rib cage was burning, her head spinning.
I ought to be dead,
she thought. Then she looked at the beautiful crystal, slowly spinning within the swirling smoke.
It is keeping me alive,
she realized. Grabbing the dais rail, she hauled herself to her feet. Decado and Skilgannon, no longer fighting each other, were battling against the beasts back to back. Decado’s tunic was blood drenched, and she could see he was growing weaker. They could not survive for long.

Swinging back, she looked again at the crystal. Skilgannon and the Legend riders had risked all to destroy this marvel. She stared at it. Rainbow lights flickered around her. Pain lanced through her. She knew then that the power of the crystal was trying to heal her body, the flesh forming around the dagger blade in her chest. Gripping the hilt she prepared to pull it clear. Then she paused and glanced back at Skilgannon. He was fighting desperately. Decado half fell. Skilgannon leapt in front of him, plunging his sword into the chest of a towering Jiamad.

While this crystal survived Jianna would always be the Eternal, and men like Skilgannon would fight and die to bring her down.

Gasping for breath Jianna took up her saber and hammered it against the glass cylinder protecting the crystal. The blade bounced clear. Twice more she struck it. To no effect.

Her strength failing she turned toward Skilgannon.

“Olek!” she shouted. “I cannot destroy it! Throw me a sword!”

A three-armed creature lunged at Skilgannon. Ducking under a murderous punch, he clove the Sword of Day into the creature’s heart. Even as the beast fell Skilgannon dragged the blade clear, spun away from another attack, then threw the Sword of Night toward Jianna. The razor-sharp blade spun through the air. Jianna judged the flight—then her arm swept out, her fingers closing around the ivory hilt.

Darkness was closing in on her and she fought it back.

The Sword of Night hammered against the glass. A small crack appeared in the cylinder. Then another. With the third stroke the cylinder disintegrated. Colored smoke billowed from it, flowing out into the room. The floating crystal dropped to the base of the golden column with a dull thud. With the last of her strength Jianna raised the Sword of Night and hammered it down on the crystal. The massive gem shattered in a blinding blaze of multicolored light.

As the shards of crystal exploded outward all the lights in the Shrine dimmed, and the floor ceased to hum and vibrate. All was silence. Around the room the beasts were standing very still. Then, one by one, they toppled to the floor. Some writhed for a while. Then there was no movement.

It grew darker. Soon the only light in the Shrine came from moonlight shining through a high window. Jianna dropped the Sword of Night and looked around for Skilgannon. He was kneeling beside the fallen Decado. Jianna staggered from the dais and made her way to the two men. Decado was conscious. Moonlight glistened on the length of blood-smeared metal jutting from his belly. “There’s no pain,” said Decado. “Which I must say is a novel experience for me. And I can’t feel my legs. I take it that is
not
a good sign?”

“No,” said Skilgannon. “Tell me why you didn’t kill me.”

“You were too good, kinsman.”

“I know how good I am,” said Skilgannon. “But, as my old tutor once taught me, there is always someone better. You were that man. Three times you had me. Three times you ignored the death blow. Why?”

Suddenly more figures entered the room. Skilgannon surged to his feet, his sword held high.

“
W
hoa there, laddie,” said Druss. Beyond him came Alahir and several Legend riders. Skilgannon knelt again by Decado’s side. “Tell me,” he said. “I need to know.”

But Decado was dead.

He glanced at Jianna. “Do you know why?”

He saw that her face was unnaturally pale. She swayed and sagged forward into his arms. His hand touched the dagger. Gazing down, he saw the black hilt, the blade buried deep in her chest. Jianna’s face settled against his shoulder. “I . . . thought I had . . . killed you,” she whispered.

“The abbot had a shard of—” In that moment he thought of the shattered crystal. Heaving her into his arms he ran for the dais. Jianna cried out.

“The pain! Put me down, Olek. Please!”

“In a moment, my love. Hold on!” He carried her back up to the dais and laid her on the ground, then searched among the shattered glass. Finding a large shard of crystal, he returned to her side. Skilgannon raised the crystal shard—then stopped. Realization struck him, and he groaned aloud.

“I can’t,” he said. “I cannot save you. I would give my life to have Jianna by my side. But I can’t allow the Eternal to return.”

“It is all right, Olek,” she whispered. “The Eternal’s time is over. I’m glad we . . . met . . . again. I missed you . . . so much.”

Her eyes closed, and her head sagged. Skilgannon leaned down and kissed her lips. Then he sat alongside her, head bowed. Her body spasmed. A single word escaped her lips.

“Stavi!”

Skilgannon spun around. Grasping the dagger hilt, he pulled it from her. She cried out. Instantly he took the crystal shard and held it to her wound. “Lie still, Askari,” he ordered her. “Just lie still until the strength returns.”

He saw the color begin to return, and her eyes opened. “Where is Stavi?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where am I?”

“Lie still. I will explain all when you are well again.”

Her eyes closed. Alahir came alongside and touched Skilgannon on the shoulder. Leaning in close, he whispered: “Stavut is dead.”

“Sit with her for a while,” Skilgannon told him. “Hold this crystal to the wound.”

He rose and walked across to Druss. “I’m ready to return to the Void. How do I do that, Druss. How do I give that young man his body back?”

“You can’t, laddie,” said Druss. “I took Charis to the Golden Valley. The lad chose to cross with her.”

The shock was intense. “I don’t want it! The only person I ever loved has just gone to the Void! I should be there!”

“You will be. But not now,” said Druss. “If I see her there, I’ll help her as best I can.”

“You are going back?”

“Aye, laddie. My time here is done. I’m going home to Rowena. It was good to breathe the mountain air, but I am done with death and slaughter. I’ll not return.”

Skilgannon sighed, then reached out and shook Druss by the hand. “One day, perhaps, I’ll make it through that Golden Valley.”

“You could have done it anytime, laddie.”

“No. I remember I was scaled, like the other demons.”

“There never was anything stopping you—save your own conscience. You believed you needed punishing—so you punished yourself. Now you have a life again. Live it well. There is a world full of evil out there, and a lot of defenseless people who will need your strength. Give it freely.
Then
when you go to the Void, walk straight toward the light. I’ll see you there.”

Druss walked to the wall beneath the window and lay down. “Harad will be here soon. Tell him I was proud of the way he stood his ground against the beasts.”

“I’ll do that. You be careful in the Void, Druss. Wouldn’t like to think of a demon stopping you getting home.”

The axman laughed. “In your dreams, laddie!” he said. Lying back, he closed his eyes.

Skilgannon walked back to the dais and retrieved the Sword of Night. Askari was sitting with Alahir. He had his arm around her shoulder.

Sheathing his swords, Skilgannon began to fill his pockets with more shards of crystal. Then he returned to the abbot’s chamber.

The old man was still alive, but he looked different now, his hair white and thin, his face heavily wrinkled. His breathing was ragged. Skilgannon knelt beside him, opening the man’s deformed hand and pressing a shard of crystal into it.

The abbot sighed, and his eyes opened. “Thank you,” he said. “It will not be enough to save me.” Skilgannon reached into his pocket for more shards. “No!” said the abbot, placing his hand over Skilgannon’s arm. “Save them for those who will need them more.”

“What is happening to you?” asked the swordsman.

“Time is . . . catching up on me. Those five hundred years you spoke of were not cheated. They were merely waiting to claim us all.” He fell silent for a moment. “You destroyed the crystal?”

“Yes.”

The man looked desolate. “No golden age to discover now,” he whispered. “No end to disease and starvation. No bright, sparkling cities reaching the clouds.”

A slow rumbling sound came to Skilgannon, and the walls began to vibrate. “What is happening?” he asked the abbot.

“The Mirror is closing, drawing itself back.” Tears fell from his eyes. “All I have lived for is gone now. I am so tired.”

“Then think on this, priest: You stopped the Eternal from finding greater weapons. Your actions here have led to her death. The world is free again.”

“Free? Of one tyrant perhaps. You think there will be no others?”

“No, I do not. But I know there will always be men to stand against them. You grieve because of a pure magic lost. That magic was corrupted by evil. This is how evil thrives. We find an herb that cures disease, and someone will make a poison from it. We forge iron to make a better plow, and someone will make a sharper sword. There can be no power that evil will not corrupt. There may be no golden age to come now, but equally there will be no more Joinings, no more twisted, malformed beasts. No more wizards casting dark spells.”

The old man’s fingers opened, and a black shard of stone fell from it. “The Eternal is no more?” he said, his voice barely audible.

“She is gone from the world.”

“Then . . . some small good came from . . . my actions.”

“Aye, it did.”

His eyes closed, his head sagged back. Skilgannon sat by the body for a few moments. The decay continued rapidly, the hair growing, the skin drawing tight over the skull. Then it split and peeled away, falling in dust to the floor. Skilgannon rose.

Then he walked from the temple, and out into the desert night.

EPILOGUE

T
he next few days were spent by the rock pool. Skilgannon used the crystal shards to heal the worst of the wounded, but the power was soon used up, the shards turning black. Of the two-hundred-fifty men who had set out with Alahir, less than sixty survived to make the return trip.

Every day more bodies of the dead were transported down into the valley, where deep graves were dug. Alahir presided over all the funerals, speaking movingly about each man. Harad helped with the digging, and not once did Skilgannon see him holding the ax of Druss the Legend.

On the third morning Skilgannon saw Harad sitting by the pool with Askari. He joined them. “How are you feeling, my friend?” he asked.

“I am alive. I would not have been had Druss not returned. I heard what he did—and how he turned back the enemy.”

“It makes you sad?” asked Skilgannon.

“No. It makes me proud. He is a part of me. It shows me what I may become.”

“That gladdens my heart, Harad. Where will you go now?”

“Back to Petar, I think. It is my home. I am sorry about Stavut,” he said to Askari. “I liked him greatly.”

“He was a good man,” she said. “Alahir says he will miss him.” She looked at Skilgannon.

“You think his beasts survived the ending of the magic?”

“I hope so. We three survived, and we were created by the same magic.”

“And where will you go, Skilgannon?” she asked.

“I am leaving today. I will cross the sea, to the ancient kingdom of Naashan. I loved that land, but most of my life was spent away from it. I will ride the valleys and the plains, and see what is left that I still recognize. But first I will collect the white horse.”

“I think that merchant is not trustworthy,” said Harad. “He may not want to keep his promise to you.”

“One way or another he will keep it,” said Skilgannon.

“He had a lot of men,” Harad pointed out. “I wouldn’t like to think of you dying over a horse.”

Skilgannon laughed, then leaned in and clapped Harad on the shoulder. “In your dreams, laddie!” he said.

Harad looked bemused. “What does that mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. It just seemed the right thing to say.” Skilgannon rose and turned to Askari.

“I hope you find happiness,” he said. Rising smoothly to her feet, she stepped into his embrace. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “It was a privilege to have known you.”

“We may meet again,” she said.

“That would please me,” he told her.

Moving to the rear of the pool, Skilgannon saddled his horse and prepared to leave.

Alahir found him there and urged him to ride with them to Siccus. “Harad is coming with us. We’re going to put Druss’s ax in the Great Museum. It would be an honor for us if you were there, too.”

Skilgannon shook his head.

“I am going back for the white stallion,” he said, “then I’ll make my way southeast to Dros Purdol. I want to go home, Alahir. I want to see Naashan again. I want to look upon the mountains of my childhood.”

Alahir was disappointed. Then he brightened. “When you have done that, you might want to come and see us. There’ll be a place of honor for you at my table.”

The two men shook hands, in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “I may just do that,” said Skilgannon, stepping into the saddle. With one last look around the battle site he rode away.

Soon afterward Askari saddled her own mount. “Are you leaving us, too?” asked Alahir.

“I think I’ll travel with him,” she said. “Good-bye, Alahir.” Then she smiled. “Or should I say Earl of Bronze?”

“Alahir is just fine.”

Vaulting to the saddle, she swung her horse and began to ride away.

“Wait!” called Alahir. “You have forgotten your bow.”

She drew rein and glanced back at him. “Of course I have. How foolish of me.” Alahir fetched it, and she looped the weapon over her shoulder.

“I hope we meet again,” he said.

“You should always be careful of what you hope for,” she told him.

Then she heeled her horse and rode after Skilgannon.