The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Ten

Skilgannon paused on the hilltop above the village, and gazed down at the people working below. He could see Harad on a rooftop, stripping away burned timbers. All around the settlement there was bustle and activity, as the survivors sought to repair the damage caused by the raid. They had buried the bodies of their neighbours, and were now seeking to restore some semblance of normality to their community.

Skilgannon admired them for it, even as he admitted that it was futile — although utterly human — to struggle against the inevitable. More raiders would come. The enemy would send more troops to capture Askari.

The settlement would burn again, and more deaths would follow. Skilgannon had tried to explain this to the wounded Kinyon.

‘What else can we do but rebuild?’ Kinyon had asked. ‘These are our homes.’

Leaving them to their work, Skilgannon had scouted to the south, seeking signs of fresh invasion. He had found nothing. It would take time before whoever sent the raiders realized something had gone wrong. How long? A day? Two days? Then they would come again, with a larger force. It filled Skilgannon with both anger and sadness.

Landis Kan had told him the world had changed beyond anything Skilgannon could imagine. What nonsense that was.

There was no change. True, there were more Joinings now, but the world of man was as it always had been. Violent and cruel. Greed and a lust for power dominated all endeavours. His thoughts swung to Askari. Cool and courageous, she had fought to protect young Stavut from the beasts. At her age Jianna would have done the same. How, Skilgannon wondered, could such natural heroism have become so perverted? Jianna had evolved into the Witch Queen, a terrible, cold and malicious woman who casually ordered the deaths of thousands. Sitting on the hilltop he pondered the question. In order to regain her throne Jianna had been forced to fight, to gather armies and conquer enemies. At first she had been magnanimous in victory, offering the defeated a chance to join her. Skilgannon remembered a young prince who had accepted this offer, but then had betrayed her, pulling his men from the battlefield to join the forces of Boranius. Some months later he had been captured, with his family, trying to escape into Tantria.

Skilgannon had not been present at the execution. He was fighting in the east. But when he returned he heard what had happened. Jianna had gathered her army and addressed them. Then the traitor and his family had been brought out before them. She had his five children killed first, then his two wives. Lastly she had approached the grief-stricken prince. ‘Such is the price of treachery,’ she told him. ‘Now join your family.’ With that she had cut his throat.

Once back with the main army he had gone to her, unable to believe she had ordered children murdered.

‘It weighs heavily on me, Olek,’ she had said. ‘Yet it was necessary. Seven innocents died. Their deaths will ensure such treachery does not occur again. In this war men must be made to realize the consequences that will follow if they betray me.’

Yes, he thought, that was the beginning. After that more such executions followed, until, by the end, the population of an entire city was annihilated. On that day he became the Damned, for it was his men, under his orders, who carried out the slaughter.

He remembered a conversation with the seeress, Ustarte. ‘We all of us carry the seed of evil in our hearts and souls,’ she told him. ‘Even the purest, even the most holy. It is part of the human condition, born into us. We cannot root it out. All we can do — at best — is prevent it from germinating.’

‘And how do we do this?’ he had asked her.

‘We give it no sustenance. The seed will flower if it is fed on hatred, or malice. It sprouts like a cancer within the dark places of the soul.’

‘And what if we have already fed it? Is it then too late for us?’

‘It is never too late, Olek. You have already begun to prune it back, to starve it. Jianna never will, I fear.’

He had felt his heart grow heavy. ‘There is so much good in her, you know? She could be kind and loyal and courageous.’

‘And monstrous, murderous and chilling,’ she added. ‘It is the curse of absolute power, Olek. There is no-one to admonish you, no laws save those you make. We like to believe there is something special, even alien, about evil. We like to think that tyrants are different from the rest of us. That they are somehow inhuman. They are not. They are merely unchained, unfettered; free to do as they please. How often does an ordinary person grow angry at a neighbour, and, for a moment only, consider causing them harm? It happens all the time. What stops them from carrying out an attack? Usually it is fear of repercussion, punishment or imprisonment. What repercussions does Jianna face for her evils? None.

The more terrifying she becomes the more powerful she appears. I pity her, Olek.’

‘I love her,’ he had said.

‘And for that I pity you.’

Skilgannon left the hilltop and began the descent towards the village. He could see Stavut unloading his wagon, offering goods and blankets to people whose homes had been destroyed. Askari was with him.

Harad was sitting by a well. There were two people with him, a slim young man with a bruised face, and a plump blond-haired woman. Seeing Skilgannon Harad waved and called him over.

‘This is Arin and his wife Kerena,’ said Harad. ‘They have come from Petar. Jiamads attacked the town.’

‘What of Landis Kan?’ Skilgannon asked the young man.

‘I don’t know, lord,’ answered Arin. ‘I didn’t see him. I was in the woods with the loggers. We saw buildings ablaze and ran back towards the town. Then Kerena came running up the hillside. She said people were being killed by Jems. So we took off. Kerena has relatives here. We thought it would be safe.’ He glanced at the ruined buildings nearby. ‘Don’t think it is, though,’ he added.

‘You are right,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘Nowhere is safe now.’

‘Well, I am going back,’ said Harad, rising and hefting his axe.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Skilgannon. ‘But first gather some food. I need to speak to Askari and Kinyon.’

He walked away to where the huntress was sitting with Stavut, Kinyon and several other villagers.

Beckoning to Askari, he led her some distance away from the group, just out of earshot. ‘Harad and I are heading back to Petar,’ he said.

‘Why? It has been overrun.’

‘There is a woman there Harad loves.’

‘That explains why he should go. Is there a woman you love also?’

‘You need to leave too,’ he said, ignoring the question.

‘This is my home.’

‘I know that. It is also the reason it was attacked. They are looking for you. They will be back. If you are not here there is a chance — albeit remote — that they will not kill your friends. If you value their lives, then get away from here. Better still, convince Kinyon and the others to leave.’

‘They have nowhere to go. In the south Petar is burning. In the north there are rebel armies and renegade Jiamads. What would you have them do?’

‘Stavut has talked of the Legend people. Perhaps if they make it to their lands they can rebuild. I don’t know. I have no answers. The reality is that if they stay here more Jiamads will come, with more bloodthirsty officers. They will torture and kill in order to find you.’

‘I don’t understand this at all. Why do they seek me?’

He looked into the face he knew so well. ‘If Landis Kan is alive I will find out.’

Harad called out to him. Turning, he saw that the axeman was carrying two packs.

‘We are leaving now,’ he said. ‘I wish you well. . Askari.’

‘You said that like a farewell. I think we might meet again.’

Skilgannon strode away, took a pack from Harad and swung it to his shoulders. He could not resist glancing back, for one last look at the tall huntress.

For most of the afternoon Skilgannon and Harad made swift progress towards the southwest, but by dusk the big axeman was tired. He refused to stop and Skilgannon made no complaint. He held his counsel until darkness began to fall. Then he moved alongside Harad, and took hold of his arm. ‘Wait for a moment,’ he said.

Harad shrugged off the arm and plodded on.

‘So tell me,’ said Skilgannon softly, ‘how you will help Charis when you are too exhausted to lift that axe?’

Harad paused. ‘I will find the strength,’ he muttered.

‘Strength is finite, axeman. Now, either Charis is alive, or she is dead. If she is alive we will find her. If she is dead we will avenge her. But staggering into an army of Joinings without rest, food or sleep is insane. You can only help her if you are strong.’

In the fading light he saw Harad’s shoulders sag.

‘I will rest for an hour,’ said Harad reluctantly. He sank down with his back to a tree, and sat, head bowed. Skilgannon doffed his pack, took out some food and sat quietly eating. Harad, like Druss, was a man of direct action. There was no subtlety to him. A woman he loved was in danger, and he was not close enough to help her. All he could think of was closing the distance as swiftly as possible. But then what? He would walk into the occupied town seeking Charis. It would not matter to him whether there were twenty Joinings or a thousand.

Skilgannon finished his food. He was also weary, but the rest was restoring his strength. Moving alongside Harad he said: ‘Time to talk and to plan.’

‘I’m listening,’ muttered Harad.

‘I don’t think you are.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘There is too much anger in you. It is clouding your judgement.’ Skilgannon fell silent. A cold breeze began to blow down from the snow-covered mountains, and wispy clouds drifted across the bright moon.

‘I do not know how to plan for this,’ said Harad at last. His voice was calmer, and he leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes briefly. ‘I fell trees. I prepare timber. I dig foundation trenches for new buildings. And I can fight. Until I met you I had never killed anything. Never needed to. Now everything has changed.’

‘You will change too, Harad. Give yourself time.’

‘This is easy for you,’ said Harad. ‘You have no friends here. These are not your people.’

‘This is true,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘There is nothing in this new world for me. Everyone I ever loved is long dead. It would make no difference, though, if everyone in Petar was precious to me. I would still be sitting here gathering my strength, and considering the possibilities.’

‘And all the while Charis might be in danger.’

‘Yes. She might. But then Petar is a large town. It is unlikely to have been totally destroyed. Therefore people will have been encouraged to return to their work. The loggers are probably back lopping trees.

The palace servants will be serving new masters. If this is true then Charis is probably doing what she always does, looking after the needs of the palace guests. In short, she will not be in need of rescue.

Rushing into Petar and hacking down a few Joinings before being killed would then be an act of stupidity.’

‘You think that is likely?’ asked Harad, his voice full of renewed hope.

‘I don’t know. There are two other possibilities. One, she ran like Arin and his wife. If she did that, then she is out here in the wilderness somewhere. Again it would be futile, therefore, to rush into Petar.

The other possibility is that she was killed.’ Skilgannon saw the shock register on Harad’s face. ‘If that proves true, then there is no need for sudden and violent action. Does she know that you love her?’

‘Who said that I loved her?’ snapped Harad, his face reddening.

‘Do you not?’

‘It wouldn’t matter if I did. You know what they call me? I am Harad the Bonebreaker. The Brute. I am strong, yes, but I am not handsome. I am not rich. I am not clever or witty. Charis deserves someone better.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘In my experience all women deserve someone better. My own wife certainly did.’

Harad relaxed, and let out a deep sigh. ‘I will find her,’ he said.

‘We will find her, Harad. Now why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch for a few hours and then wake you.’

‘Aye, I could do with shutting my eyes for a while.’ Without another word Harad stretched out on the ground, his head on his pack. Within moments he was sleeping soundly. Skilgannon rose silently and moved away. He needed to think. Something was nagging at him, tugging at the corners of his mind. It was annoying. Though many of the memories of his previous life had returned to him, much else was jagged and unconnected. His concentration was not as focused as it had been, and he found himself constantly struggling to contain his emotions. Anger came far more swiftly than he recalled. On the other hand he was far stronger and fitter than he had been during those last years of his life. The ravages of war, wounds, fractures and strains had taken their toll on his fifty-year-old body. Perhaps that was the answer. As he had grown older nature had made him more wary, more frugal with his strength. He had begun to lose. . what? Passion? Desire? Recklessness? Yes, he realized, it was true. The hotheadedness of youth had been replaced by the cool — apparent — wisdom of maturity. He had thought more about his actions, and planned every strategy carefully.

There is nothing wrong with your mind, he told himself. It is merely being bombarded by the reckless energy of youth. In order to clear his thoughts he decided to expend some of that energy.

Finding a flat area of solid ground he began a taxing series of exercises, some motionless to establish balance, others involving leaps and twirls. Finally, his face glistening with sweat, he drew the Swords of Night and Day, and flowed through a series of moves, cutting and thrusting, as if fighting an invisible enemy. The sword-master Malanek had taught him scores of fighting manoeuvres, and through his long life he had acquired others. The blades flashed in the moonlight. Lastly he flipped the swords into the air.

As they spun above him he dived forward, rolled on his shoulder and came up on his knees, hands held high, fingers outstretched. The ivory hilt of the Sword of Day dropped into his left hand. The hilt of the Sword of Night brushed the fingertips of his right, the blade lancing towards his throat. His hand snapped out, catching the hilt at the second attempt. Even so the sharp blade sliced through the collar of his long topcoat. ‘You still have a little way to go,’ he told himself aloud. Sheathing the blades he wandered to the brow of a wooded hill. His mind was clearer, but the nagging doubt remained.

What are you missing?

Landis Kan had brought him back in secret. Apparently many people had sought his tomb through the centuries. Somehow — perhaps — the Eternal had found out, and the raid on Petar was retribution. Yet that did not explain the attack on Askari’s village. Why would the Eternal care that the bones of a long dead queen had been given new life?

He sat very still, the cold of winter settling on his soul. What was it Gamal had said?

‘ She is, like you and me, Skilgannon, a Reborn. I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded. . Landis and I went on to refine and improve the power of the artefacts, giving her immortality. We created the Eternal.’

And then he knew. Landis Kan had discovered the bones of Jianna, the Witch Queen, and had brought her back. She too had been wandering the Void. Jianna, the love of his life, was the dread Eternal. The shock to his system was immense. He started to shiver, then felt the rise of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

‘ I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded.’

Somehow her immortality was maintained by taking control of new versions of herself, just as Druss had briefly taken over Harad that night in the ruins of Dros Delnoch. Druss, being the man he was, would not steal Harad’s life. The Witch Queen would not hesitate for a heartbeat. And that was why they were hunting Askari. A new, young body for the Eternal.

Skilgannon felt torn, his emotions shredded. Jianna was alive! He could find her, be with her, change the fate that had driven them apart.

‘Are you insane?’ he said aloud. The woman he had loved was fierce and courageous, and filled with idealism. The Eternal was a vampire who had plunged the world into chaos and horror.

He glanced at the night sky. ‘Why do you torment me still?’ he raged. ‘Cethelin said you were a god of forgiveness and love. But you delight in malice and revenge.’

Anger coursed through him, blind and unreasoning. Had he not tried to atone for his sins? Had he not joined a monastery, and sought to learn the way of the Source? So who had sent those killers to bay at the gates and threaten death to the gentle souls inside? None other but the Source. ‘AH my life you have haunted me, sending violence and death to those I loved.’ The gentle actor Greavas, the gardener Sperian and his loving wife Molaire, had been tortured to death by Boranius. Killers had come after Jianna. His entire past life had been plagued by violence and war. Now he had been dragged back into another conflict, where innocents would suffer.

His first life had seen him battling to save a princess from a dark power that sought to destroy her.

Now that same princess was the dark power, and the victim was the physical embodiment of the princess he had loved.

The savage irony of the situation was sickening. Staring malevolently up at the stars he shouted: ‘I curse you with every fibre of my being!’ Then the anger passed. He felt drained and terribly weary.

He was about to make his way back to where Harad was sleeping when he heard a sound from within the woods to his right. Instantly the Swords of Night and Day were in his hands. The undergrowth parted and the huntress Askari stepped from the shadows. She was carrying her recurve bow and wearing leggings of soft leather, with a hooded green shirt under a fringed doeskin jerkin. Her dark hair was held back from her face by a thin silver headband.

‘Are you calmer now,’ she asked him, ‘or do you intend to behead me?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Going with you to seek Landis Kan. Or going without you. I don’t much care which.’

‘Is Stavut with you?’

‘No. He is taking his wagon back to the north. The villagers are going with him. I hope it will prove safer for them there.’

‘Nowhere is safe,’ he said.

‘Kinyon often says, “The journey of life has only one destination,” ’ she replied, with a shrug.

‘Everything dies.’

‘Not everything,’ he said sadly.

Stavut had offered to travel with Askari, and had been both disappointed and delighted when she had refused him. It was an odd feeling. A part of him felt a sense of loss, but he consoled himself with the thought that his own chances of survival had been increased dramatically. Oh, Stavut, he told himself, you are a shallow man!

The sun was shining as he and some twenty-two villagers set off over the mountain pass. Stavut had been amazed and relieved to discover that the Jiamads had not killed his horses, nor ripped apart the contents of his wagon. Longshanks and Brightstar had been in a paddock behind Kinyon’s kitchen.

Stavut had climbed the fence and called them to him. Longshanks came trotting over. The grey had pretended not to notice him, until he began to stroke Longshanks’s neck and rub his knuckles across the chestnut’s long nose. Then Brightstar had moved across, dropping his head and nudging Stavut in the chest. ‘Yes, yes, I am pleased to see both of you,’ he said. ‘But let’s not make a fuss. It is unseemly.’

As he sat upon his wagon in the morning sunlight it seemed that all was better with the world. The goods he carried for trade in Petar would be worth less in Siccus, the city in which he had purchased them, but he could — just — afford the drop in profits. The most important fact was that he had escaped death and dismemberment and was still able to breathe the fresh mountain air. He felt like singing, and would have, had there not been a column of villagers strolling behind his wagon. The only audience ever to appreciate Stavut’s voice was Longshanks and Brightstar — although appreciation might be too strong a word. Brightstar had a habit of breaking wind loudly whenever Stavut sang, but that might have been an attempt to harmonize. Stavut chuckled at the thought.

‘You are in a good mood,’ said Kinyon, from his seat in the back of the wagon. The big man was recovering well, but was still too weak to walk the gruelling high road.

‘Indeed I am. Try not to move around too much. There are some breakables back there.’

The party stopped several times on the road to rest. Many of the villagers were carrying their most prized possessions in sacks upon their shoulders. Others were hauling hand carts. The horses were also weary. The wagon had been over laden with food supplies for the ten-day journey. At one point Kinyon had been forced to climb down, and Stavut had unloaded some of the heavier crates, sacks and barrels.

Even then Longshanks and Brightstar had struggled to make the last rise. Stavut and the villagers reloaded the wagon, and, after another halt to rest, continued on their way.

By dusk on the first day they had reached the highest point of the mountain road, and begun the descent into a wooded valley. Stavut had camped here several times in the past. There was water and good grass, and a rocky hollow in which a campfire could be lit, without being seen from any distance.

Three cook fires were set and the villagers gratefully settled down to rest for the night. As the moon rose the air was rich with the smell of frying bacon, and cook pans sizzled with eggs and toasting bread.

Young Arin approached Stavut. He was a tall, handsome young man, sporting a swollen black eye and a cut to his lip. Crouching down where Stavut sat he asked: ‘How much longer do we travel?’

‘I’d say another ten days, perhaps a little more. There are many high mountain roads. It will be tiring.’

‘Will it be safe?’

Stavut shrugged. ‘Safer than it was back in the settlement. But there are said to be roving bands of runaway Jiamads. I met a few on the way in. However, once we drop down onto the coast road we should come across Legend Riders. With luck they will escort us into Siccus.’

‘We have never been Outside,’ said Arin, a worried look on his face.

‘It is not so different. People still grow crops, and trade. Siccus is the city of the Legend people, so there are no Jiamads there, and no war, thank the Source.’

‘And they will allow us to stay?’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Stavut. Even as he spoke a doubt loomed in his mind. Alahir’s people did not like strangers.

Kinyon approached and, with a grunt, sat down by Stavut. ‘The wound is sore,’ he said. ‘Healing, though.’

‘Good,’ said Stavut, still concerned about his promise to Arin.

‘What are your plans for gathering food?’ asked Kinyon.

‘My plans?’

‘Well, you are leading us,’ the big man pointed out.

‘No, no, no,’ said Stavut swiftly. ‘I am merely showing you the way to Siccus. I am not leading anyone.’

Kinyon leaned in close. ‘Listen to me, lad. These people have been terrified. Some are injured, others have lost loved ones. Now they are leaving their homes to travel Outside — to a place of war and fear.

They need to be able to put their trust in something solid. They know you, Stavut. They like you. And, right now, they need a source of some comfort. The only person here who knows the ways of Outside is you. They believe you will lead them somewhere safe.’

‘I don’t know anywhere safe,’ responded Stavut, keeping his voice down as he gazed at the faces of the villagers round the campfires.

‘Even so, they have put their faith in you. I have put my faith in you.’

Stavut thought about it. He had always avoided responsibility for others. As a sailor he had twice turned down promotion, and, as a Watch Officer in Siccus, he had avoided applying for more senior posts. But this was different, he reasoned. This was merely a ten-day journey to the city. Once there he could prevail upon Alahir’s friendship to see the villagers settled. Then he would be free. What could be so hard about accepting a nominal role as leader?

Even as he thought it a tiny worm of doubt entered his mind. If there was one fact that life had taught Stavut it was that Fate had a twisted sense of humour. He saw Kinyon looking at him expectantly. Stavut sighed. ‘Very well, Kinyon. I shall be leader.’

‘Good lad,’ said the wounded man, wincing as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘You won’t regret it.’

The words hovered over Stavut like an invisible rain cloud. ‘I do already,’ he thought to himself.

There were many times in Stavut’s young life when decisions had turned bad, but never before had the consequences been quite as swift. After Kinyon had wandered back to reassure the villagers that Stavut was in charge, the new leader walked across the campsite to tend to his horses. As he approached them he saw they were nervous. Longshanks’s ears were flat against his skull, and he was pawing at the ground, wide-eyed. The grey Brightstar was also jittery. They were still in their traces, the wagon brake locked in place.

‘Hey, hey,’ said Stavut, keeping his voice calm. ‘Do not fret, lads. I have some grain for you.’

At that moment one of the village women screamed. Longshanks tried to rear. The wagon lurched.

Stavut swung round. Three Jiamads entered the campsite from the north. Others advanced from the south. The villagers gathered together. No-one was armed.

In the moonlight Stavut thought he recognized the lead Jiamad, a hulking brute, obviously part bear.

He was the one Skilgannon had spoken to back in the cave. What in the Seven Hells was his name?

The beast lumbered into the campsite and stood towering above the brightest of the campfires.

‘Leader!’ he growled. ‘Where?’

For a moment there was no movement. Then several villagers pointed at Stavut. The young man glanced at the night sky. ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’ he said. Then, with a deep breath, he walked towards the huge Jiamad.

All his life Stavut had enjoyed a gift for mimicry. He had only to hear a voice to be able to duplicate the tone and the rhythms of speech. It had caused much amusement to his shipmates when he mimicked certain officers. Now he decided to emulate Skilgannon, and — despite his growing fear — his voice rang with authority. ‘What are you doing here, Shakul?’ he asked.

‘Food,’ answered the great beast, his golden eyes fixing Stavut with a hard stare.

‘Why do you not hunt? There are many deer in the forest.’

‘Too fast. They run. Eat horses.’

‘Not good,’ said Stavut.

‘Not good?’ echoed the beast, confused. ‘I smell meat. Meat good.’

‘What then? When the horses are eaten? How will you feed?’

‘Hungry NOW!’ roared Shakul, his bestial face pushing close to Stavut’s own.

Stavut did not back away. ‘You will wait,’ he said. ‘I will give you food for tonight. Tomorrow I will show you how to hunt deer. Then there will be food whenever you need it.’

Shakul’s great head began to sway back and forth. His taloned hands clenched and unclenched. He stared at the cowering villagers. Then his head swung back to loom over Stavut. ‘Hunt deer?’

‘Yes. Good meat. Plentiful.’

‘No deer, eat horses?’

‘There will be deer,’ said Stavut, with an assurance he did not feel. ‘Tell your. . troop to move away to the far side of the camp. I will bring food.’ Shakul stood for a moment, then turned away, gesturing to the other six Jiamads. They lumbered off to squat down to the east of the clearing. On trembling legs Stavut walked to the wagon.

Kinyon joined him. ‘What is happening?’

Stavut lifted the canvas cover on the wagon and pulled out several rounds of ham, passing two to Kinyon. There was also a hank of beef. ‘That’s all the meat we have,’ the innkeeper pointed out.

‘No, it isn’t. There’s you, me and the villagers.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Teach them to hunt.’

‘You are a hunter?’

‘Let’s not go into that. My confidence is frail enough as it is.’

Hauling the beef to his shoulder Stavut walked across to where the Jiamads sat, then heaved it to the ground. Kinyon dropped the rounds of ham, and backed swiftly away. Stavut moved back to the horses and petted them. Brightstar, still nervous, tried to bite him. Stavut leapt back. ‘One more trick like that and I’ll let them eat you,’ he told the trembling grey. He glanced back to see the Jiamads tearing at the beef, splintering the bones and gnawing at the flesh.

The meat did not last long. Stavut went to the villagers and advised them to rest. Then, heart pounding, he returned to the Jiamads, calling out to Shakul. The pack leader rose and followed Stavut to a fallen tree. The merchant sat. ‘Why did you not return to your regiment?’ he asked.

‘No officer. Dead officer we die. Kill us. Where Two Swords?’

‘He will be back. Tell me how you tried to hunt the deer.’

Shakul hunkered down. ‘Scent, chase. Too fast. You catch deer?’

‘We will tomorrow,’ said Stavut.

Askari moved through the thick forest, alert and focused. Bards sang of the silence of the woods, but this always made her laugh. There was never silence within the trees. Breezes caused the leaves to whisper, heat or cold made the tree trunks expand or contract, bringing groans and cracks from the bark. Animals scuttled, birds flew, insects buzzed. Askari ran swiftly up an old deer trail. There were tracks here, but they were not new. Ants had crawled across the deer prints, and the once sharp edges had crumbled.

Up ahead a group of sparrows suddenly took flight. Askari hunkered down. Their panic could have been caused by a wild cat, or a snapping branch. On the other hand it could be a sign that men — or beasts -

were close by. The tall huntress crouched down and closed her eyes, listening intently. She caught the sound of dry wood crunching under a boot, and faded back into the cover of the trees. The breeze was in her face, and coming from the direction of the sound. If there were Jiamads present they would not scent her swiftly. Even so, she notched an arrow to the recurve bow. If necessary she would kill one and head off towards the east, drawing them away from Skilgannon and Harad, who were following her trail.

In her leggings and jerkin of faded leather, and her dark green hooded shirt, Askari was virtually invisible in the deep undergrowth. She waited patiently. A troop of twenty Jiamads moved out of the trees some thirty paces east of her. They were marching in double file. Each one wore a leather breastplate, emblazoned with the head of a silver eagle. Several also wore leather helms. All carried clubs, embedded with iron nails. There were two officers with them, both walking to the rear of the column. Askari waited until the troop had re-entered the trees, heading northeast, then rose and ran swiftly to the far side of the trail. Here she scaled a tall tree, moving smoothly up through the branches. From this high vantage point she could see the valley to the south, and the distant red rooftops of Petar, some twenty miles away.

Horsemen were riding across the valley, and there were small groups of Jiamads scanning the ground. It was obvious that they were searching for something. A rider on a pale grey horse sat unmoving, his long, dark hair blowing in the afternoon breeze.

Movement came from below her. Someone was climbing the tree. Her bow was hooked over her shoulder, but Askari drew a double-edged skinning knife from the buckskin sheath at her side.

Skilgannon eased aside a thick, leaf-laden branch and levered himself up alongside her. He followed her gaze. ‘It will not be possible to cross the valley in daylight,’ she whispered. He was very close to her, and she could smell woodsmoke and sweat on his shirt. The scent made her uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Far from it. She tried to ease back a little from him. A small leaf had come loose and had attached itself to his dark hair, just above the ear. It was an effort not to reach out and brush it away.

‘There are too many Jiamads searching,’ he said. ‘It must be someone important. Maybe Landis himself.’

‘They will find him. The breeze is now northerly. Wherever he is they will scent him. Indeed, if we stay here they will scent us before long.’

Skilgannon returned his gaze to the valley below. Askari found herself staring at his profile, and noting the sheen on his hair and the curve of his cheekbone. Closing her eyes, she drew in the scent of his clothes. When she opened them she found his sapphire eyes staring at her.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Of course. Why would you ask?’

‘Your face is flushed.’

‘This shirt is too warm. I am climbing down now.’ She glanced at him. ‘There is a leaf in your hair.’

Easing her way down the tree she jumped to the ground alongside Harad. ‘We need to take the long route into Petar,’ she said. ‘There are Jiamads swarming over the valley.’

Harad nodded. ‘I thought I heard something from the north,’ he said. ‘Sounded like a scream. Very faint, very distant.’

Askari had heard nothing. ‘There are some Jiamads behind us now. However, they are searching for someone, and it is unlikely to be us. We should be able to avoid them if we move east.’

Skilgannon leapt lightly to the ground beside them. ‘I heard a shout, or a scream,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t place the direction.’

‘North,’ said Harad.

‘I’m not sure it was human. It was cut off too soon. Did you hear it?’ he asked Askari. She was annoyed that she had not. The scramble down the tree had been too hurried, and the swishing of the branches must have obscured the sound. She shook her head.

‘Did you want to investigate it?’ she asked. ‘Such a plan would seem foolish to me.’

‘I agree,’ said Skilgannon, ‘but we have a problem. Harad is looking for a friend. She may be back in the town — or she may be out here. If that scream was human then it suggests there are people in the high woods. Any one of them might know what happened to either Charis or Landis Kan. You lead off, Askari. We’ll follow. Do not get too far ahead.’

The huntress pulled her bow clear and set off towards the north at a lope, ducking under low branches and zig-zagging through the undergrowth. Skilgannon and Harad followed. They had run for almost half a mile before another scream sounded. It was a high, trembling cry, full of agony. Askari slowed in her run and angled towards the east and a stand of trees. Skilgannon and Harad moved up behind her as she scaled a small rise, then crouched down in the scrub at the top. Beyond it was a wide, rock-strewn hollow. There were three bodies splayed out on the ground, and five Jiamads and a human officer were kneeling beside a fourth man. His arm had been severed above the elbow, the limb lying some ten feet away, seeping blood to the grass. The officer had applied a clumsy tourniquet, but not to save the man’s life. Merely to keep him alive during questioning.

‘Where did they go?’ asked the officer. The dying man swore at him, and spat blood towards the other’s face. A Jiamad plunged a knife into the man’s leg, twisting the blade. The man’s scream was high pitched and ended in a gurgling cry.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Harad, heaving himself to his feet.

‘I agree,’ said Skilgannon, his voice cold. Together they walked out into the open. Skilgannon raised his right hand and drew the Sword of Day. With his left he took hold of the jutting lower hilt and drew the Sword of Night.

Two of the Jiamads swung round, hearing their approach. The beasts came to their feet with incredible speed and charged, iron-studded clubs raised. Skilgannon darted to the left, the Sword of Day flashing out and down, slicing through the fur of the first beast’s throat, slashing the skin and severing the jugular.

In the same movement he spun on his heel, the Sword of Night plunging through the second beast’s leather breastplate and skewering the heart. Harad leapt at the remaining three. Snaga hammered into the skull of one, the glittering blades splitting the bone and exiting at the dead beast’s mouth. Another fell, a black-feathered shaft buried in its eye socket. The last of the Jiamads hurled himself at Harad. The giant logger leapt to meet it, ducking under the swinging club, and plunging Snaga’s twin points into its belly.

The Jiamad’s golden eyes bulged as the cold steel ripped through its breastplate. It let out a fearful howl and staggered back. Harad wrenched Snaga clear. The beast lurched forward. Harad, unable to bring the axe to bear, struck it in the snout with a straight left. Two fangs snapped off under the impact. Dazed now, the creature half turned. Snaga clove through its neck.

The officer of the Eternal was alone. He was young, and fair-haired, his features handsome. But his hands were covered with the blood of a tortured man.

‘Who are you looking for?’ asked Skilgannon, as the man drew his army sabre.

‘I’ll tell you nothing, you renegade!’

‘I believe you. Which makes you useless to me.’

Skilgannon stepped in swiftly, blocked a clumsy lunge, and near decapitated the young man. Even before the body had hit the ground Skilgannon was kneeling beside the prisoner.

‘I. . enjoyed. . that,’ said the man, blood on his lips.

Harad moved to the other side of the wounded man. ‘Lie still, Lathar. We’ll try and stem the bleeding,’ he said.

‘Don’t! They’ve ruined my legs and. . bitten off my. . arm. Wouldn’t. . want to live. . even if I could. Killed my brothers too.’

‘Who were they looking for?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘The old blind lord and. . the girl who. . brings your food, Harad. Saw them yesterday. With a Jem. One of ours. Should have gone with them.’ Lathar closed his eyes and went still. Askari, who had walked over to join the men, thought he had died. Then he opened his eyes again. ‘That’s some axe,’ he said. ‘I’d like to say it was worth it, just. . to see you cut the bastards down. Damned well wasn’t, though.’

Skilgannon untied the tourniquet over the stump of the logger’s left arm. Blood immediately began to flow. ‘Which way did they go?’ he asked.

‘North. Damned acorns and oak trees,’ said Lathar, his voice fading. ‘Can’t get it out. . of my. .

head.’

‘Nor me,’ said Harad. Reaching out he stroked the hair back from Lathar’s brow. The logger’s breath rattled in his throat. Then there was silence.

‘A friend of yours?’ asked Askari.

‘No. Could have been, though,’ Harad told her sadly.

‘We need to go,’ said Skilgannon. ‘The scent of the blood will carry far. There will be beasts swarming over this hollow in no time.’

Even as he spoke there came the sound of howls to the south and east.

Stavut did not sleep through the long night. He sat quietly away from the villagers, seeking to summon to the surface all that he knew of hunting. It did not take long. At no time in his life had Stavut ever hunted, and he knew nothing of the movements of deer, elk, or any other wild meat-bearing creature. Yet, with the dawn, he would be leading a party of carnivorous Jiamads out into the wilderness. His stomach tightened, and he spent some time berating himself.

He tried to avoid staring at the sleeping beasts. Even in repose they were massive and terrifying. If they couldn’t hunt, how in the Seven Hells could he help them?

‘ You know, tinker,’ Alahir had once said, ‘ if I were to put my shield in your mouth it would still rattle.’

In the darkness of this frightening night Stavut had to accept the truth of the remark. He had a fast mind, and all too often he would speak his thoughts without due consideration of the consequences. The brilliance of his instant plan to stop the Jiamads from killing his horses could not be denied. In the short term it had saved the day. In the longer term it was likely to cost him dearly. He could imagine only too well the consequences of being out in the wild lands with a group of hungry Jiamads, and no meat.

Stavut wished that Askari was close by. She knew how to hunt. She could have advised him. The huntress had talked of deer, but, truth to tell, he had not really listened. He had sat staring at her exquisite face and body, doing his utmost to picture her without any clothes.

Which he began to do now.

‘Are you a complete idiot?’ he asked himself. ‘Now is not the time.’

All he could remember was that Askari would find a hide and wait. She talked of bringing down a deer with a single killing shot, so that panic would not affect the tenderness of the meat. Stavut couldn’t remember why a panicked deer would taste any less tender.

He recalled far more of what she had told him about wolves. Everyone knew they hunted in packs, but Stavut had never realized how complex was the planning. Since wolves did not possess the stamina and speed of a stag they would split into groups, forming a large circle miles wide. Then the first group would rush at the stag. It would run, and they would chase, driving it towards the second group. Just as the first attackers were tiring, the second would pick up the chase, herding the stag inexorably towards a third group. Meanwhile the first hunters would lope off to a prearranged position, resting and regrouping their strength. Eventually this teamwork would see the exhausted stag seeking out a spot on high ground in which to make its last stand. By the time it arrived there all the wolves would have gathered for the kill.

Stavut had found it all fascinating, but of course it wasn’t helpful now. There were only seven Jiamads.

He could hardly separate them into packs, forming circles in the hills.

At any other time Stavut would have found the problem facing the Jiamads to be an interesting one.

Here they were, huge and powerful, and yet with no hunting skills. Most were at least part wolf. One would have thought they would have retained enough memory to know how to hunt. Hell, they had hunted Stavut and Askari with a fair degree of skill. That, he realized, had not been too difficult. Their prey was slow moving and had gone to ground in a series of caves. Out in the open the speed of the deer would give it a great advantage.

Several hours passed. In the end Stavut moved over to where the villagers slept, and nudged Kinyon awake. The big man sat up, and ran his fingers through his sandy hair. ‘I was having a good dream,’ he complained.

‘Lucky you. What can you tell me about hunting?’

‘I never was any good at it,’ said Kinyon, reaching for a water canteen and drinking deeply. ‘Too impatient. That’s why I took up cooking.’

‘Good. Perhaps we can teach the Jiamads to cook pies.’

Kinyon rolled from his blankets. ‘Let us dwell on the positives, Stavi. The Jiamads are strong and fast, and they can scent the deer.’

‘But they can’t catch them.’

‘A drawback, I’ll admit,’ said Kinyon. They talked for some time, but then the big man began to yawn, and Stavut let him return to his blankets. The merchant strolled out from the campsite and walked up the hillside, sitting down on a jutting rock.

Whatever plan he came up with would have to be simple, and rely on scent and strength.

And luck.