The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Eleven

Dawn was approaching as he returned to the campsite. Shakul was waiting for him, the other beasts hunkered down close by. ‘Hunt deer now?’ asked Shakul.

‘Absolutely. This may take time, and you will have to be patient.’

The red-garbed merchant walked away from the camp, the small troop of Jiamads filing after him. The wind was from the north, so Stavut headed in that direction, moving up towards higher ground. When they were some half a mile from the camp he paused and called Shakul to him. ‘Can you scent deer?’ he asked. Shakul’s great dark head tilted up, his nostrils quivering.

‘Yes.’ He pointed northwest towards a group of wooded hills.

‘Good,’ said Stavut. ‘Now we need to find a deer trail, downwind of their position.’ The Jiamads stood around him, unmoving. Shakul loomed above him.

‘We hunt now.’

‘How many deer have you caught so far?’ asked Stavut.

‘No deer. We hunt now!’

Momentarily Stavut’s fear of the creatures vanished, replaced by annoyance. ‘You will do as I tell you

— or there will be no deer. I am the hunter. I am a great hunter. I have killed more deer than. . than there are stars in the sky.’ Several of the beasts looked up at the clear blue heavens. ‘No, not now,’ said Stavut. ‘At night. Than there are stars in the sky at night. First we find a deer trail. Downwind. So they won’t scent you. Then we begin the hunt.’

Shakul’s head twisted to one side and jerked. Finally, after a long silence, he said: ‘Downwind, yes.’

‘Good,’ said Stavut. ‘Let’s go.’ For the next hour they walked round the base of the high hill below the stand of trees where Shakul said there were deer. They found three trails. At the third Stavut called Shakul to him. ‘Now we are going to have to pick the best of your Jiamads, and set them the task of chasing the deer.’

‘Deer too fast.’

‘Exactly. But they are going to chase them towards us. One Jiamad must climb this trail and get behind the deer so they pick up his scent. Another must climb the far trail. They must pick up his scent also.

Then the deer should run down the third trail towards where the rest of us will be waiting. Because the wind will be in our faces the deer will not scent us. As they come out of the trees we rush them, and bring one down.’

‘How?’ asked Shakul.

‘Right, we’ll take this more slowly,’ said Stavut, sitting down on a flat rock. ‘We need two of your troop, one to go up the first trail, the other to go up the second trail. They need to get behind the deer so that the deer scent them and start to run. You, me, and the others will be hidden at the foot of the third trail. The deer will run towards us. As they come close we rush out and kill one.’

‘Again.’

Twice more Stavut explained the simple plan. Shakul squatted down, eyes closed, his head jerking from side to side. He gave a low growl. ‘Not there,’ he said at last.

‘What is not there?’

‘Pack. Third trail. Not there.’

‘Why won’t we be there?’ asked Stavut, patiently.

‘Long walk. All the deer will have run away.’

For a moment Stavut had no clue at all what the beast was talking about. Then it dawned on him.

Shakul was right. If a Jiamad ran up the hill and scared the deer they would instantly run. It would take around half an hour to traverse the hill and take up positions. It would take longer for the Jiamad who was to rush in from the second trail to get into position.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to grasp the flaw in the plan. You have done well. Now, here’s the second part. The first Jiamad waits at the foot of the trail, and we send the second round to the other trail. Then we return to the killing ground. Once we are in position we’ll. .

howl! Yes, that’s it. You can howl. Once. The Jiamad on the first trail can. . howl back. So can the other one. Then we’ll know everyone is in position and the. . the hunt can begin.’

‘Again.’

‘Again? The rock I’m sitting on has heard enough to hunt deer.’

‘Rock?’

‘Never mind. We’ll go over it again. Then we pick the two brightest Jiamads to follow the plan.

Having said that, I do appreciate that brightest might be the wrong word. You have anyone clever, sharp, quick witted?’

‘No.’

‘The surprise is overwhelming. Right, let’s go over it again.’ It seemed to Stavut that several days passed by as he sat with Shakul, but finally the huge Jiamad nodded.

‘Good,’ he said.

It took even longer to explain the plan to the others. Stavut listened as they spoke to one other, and struggled to follow the guttural growls and grunts that interspersed the conversation. One Jiamad sat silently. He was leaner and shorter than the others, his head more elongated, his eyes wider set. His fur was a mottled grey-brown. Finally he spoke. The long tongue lolled, slurring the words, and Stavut could not quite grasp the point he was trying to make. Shakul translated. ‘Grava says howls will frighten deer.’

‘Good,’ said Stavut. ‘Excellent point. Well done. It doesn’t matter about our two. . scouts frightening the deer. That’s what we want. I shall whistle when we are in position, and the two scouts will then howl.’

‘Whistle?’ queried Shakul.

Stavut placed two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. ‘Like that!’

‘Ah, good,’ said Shakul.

‘I think Grava should be one of the scouts.’

‘Yes, Grava. He will run the deer towards us. I will be other scout.’

Stavut tensed. That would leave him with five Jiamads he did not know. ‘I think you should be with the killing party,’ he said swiftly.

‘No, I go.’

Stavut sensed there was no point arguing with the creature. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just remember, get behind the deer and then charge at them. Force them down the third trail. Some will get away, but we’ll probably catch one. Well. . maybe not the first time. We’ll see.’

Without another word Shakul loped off towards the far side of the wooded hill. Grava climbed a little way up the deer trail then squatted down. With a sigh Stavut set off towards the third trail, five Jiamads moving silently behind him. As he walked he thought of all the things that could go wrong. The deer could have another trail. They might not keep to a trail, but scatter through the trees. What the Hell did he know about deer anyway? His spirits sank with every step back to the killing ground. The brush was thick around the base of the hill and he ordered the Jiamads to hide themselves. ‘Be ready!’ he said.

‘You’ll need to be quick.’

The Jiamads spread out, then crouched down in the brush. Stavut wandered over to a fallen tree and sat down with his back to it. ‘This is a stupid plan, and you are an idiot,’ he told himself. Then he realized he had forgotten to signal Shakul and Grava. Standing up, he sent out a piercing whistle. It was answered by a howl to the north, and then another.

‘Get ready!’ he shouted, then hunkered down behind the fallen tree.

A whole series of blood-curdling howls erupted from the hill. Stavut waited. A deer suddenly came into sight, bounding over the trail and veering away far to the left of the Jiamads. Then another leapt a low bush and escaped. Stavut swore. And then seven deer, led by a tall stag came bursting into view just above where the Jiamads were hidden. The beasts leapt from their hiding places and charged. Two deer swerved away, but the stag went down, its throat ripped open by sharp talons. Two other deer were down. A fourth swung away and tried to run back up the hillside. Shakul came into sight, moving with terrifying speed, and leapt upon the animal’s back, bearing it to the ground. His jaws closed on the hapless creature’s neck, snapping the spine. Stavut stood rooted with shock. During the past few hours his fears of the huge beasts had subsided, but now he witnessed their full terrifying power, saw their faces contorted by blood lust, observed the ghastly wounds that had ripped the life from the deer.

He felt unsteady on his feet, and a growing queasiness hit his stomach. He swallowed hard, and decided it would be a good time to return to camp. Then he noticed that none of the Jiamads was feeding. They were all staring at him. Nothing moved. Stavut became aware that something was expected of him, but had no idea what. Then Shakul bent over the deer he had killed. His taloned arm flashed out, ripping aside ribs and exposing the chest cavity. Reaching in, he tore a section of lung clear, then strode over to Stavut, the bloody flesh dripping gore. ‘Bloodshirt eat first,’ said Shakul. Stavut wanted to explain that hunger was the last thing on his mind, but he sensed the importance of this gesture. He took the warm flesh from Shakul’s taloned grasp, lifted it to his mouth and tried to bite the greasy meat. Blood smeared his mouth and he gagged. The Jiamads sent up a roar, and then proceeded to tear into the slaughtered deer.

‘You great hunter,’ said Shakul. Then he returned to the first carcass, pushed aside one of the Jiamads, and crouched down to eat. Stavut found himself gazing at the dead stag. As fierce jaws tore into its body its head flopped back and forth, the wide brown eyes staring accusingly back at the merchant.

On trembling legs Stavut returned to the fallen log and slumped down. Realizing he still held the ghastly flesh Shakul had given him, he hurled it away. He felt drained, but then a rather pleasant thought struck him. His idea had not only proved successful, it had been spectacular. He had saved his horses, and the villagers, and taught the Jiamads how to hunt. Not bad for a merchant with no knowledge of hunting. This day would go down as one of the few when everything had worked out perfectly. He relaxed and planned how he would regale Alahir with his adventure the next time they met. ‘Bloodshirt, they called me. The Great Hunter.’ He tried hard to picture an admiring look on Alahir’s face, but couldn’t quite pull it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing could blight this glorious moment of achievement.

Feeling better, he rose to leave.

Just then nine Jiamads emerged from the trees to his left. They wore no shreds of uniform, but still carried long clubs, embedded with iron nails.

Shakul and his troop of six saw them, and rose from their feeding. They began to snarl and spread out.

Only one of Shakul’s Jiamads carried a club; the others had obviously ditched their weapons following the fight in the cave. If a pitched battle followed it was possible that the new Jiamads would win it, and then Stavut and the villagers would face a fresh threat.

‘Let’s all stay calm,’ Stavut heard himself say. ‘It is a beautiful day and the sun is shining.’ Slowly he walked towards the two groups. The Jiamad at the head of the newcomers was taller than the others, towering over seven feet. The fur of his face and head was black, but paled to a mottled grey on his shoulders, chest and arms. His mouth was severely elongated, with two long incisors jutting over his lower lip. ‘Who are you?’ asked Stavut. The creature stared hard at the small man. Its green eyes glinted with hatred.

‘I kill Skins,’ it said, raising its club.

‘We kill deer,’ said Stavut swiftly. ‘We hunt. We feast. How long since you tasted deer meat?’ He glanced at the other Jiamads. They looked scrawny, and their tongues were lolling, their nostrils quivering at the scent of fresh meat.

‘We take your meat!’ snarled the leader.

‘And then what?’ said Stavut. ‘Then you starve again. I can show you how to hunt.’

‘You die!’ The club flashed out. Stavut hurled himself backwards. In that moment Shakul leapt upon the leader and the two fell to the ground, jaws snapping, taloned claws ripping through fur and flesh. The leader lost his grip on his club and they fought with tooth and claw, snarling and growling. The fight was brief, bloody and vicious. It ended when Shakul’s massive jaws closed on the leader’s throat. Shakul’s head surged up. Fur and flesh parted, and the leader’s jugular sprayed blood into the air. Shakul reared up above the dying beast and hammered his taloned hands into its chest, smashing ribs and ripping open a huge wound. He tore out the heart and held it high over his head. Then, dashing it to the ground, Shakul tensed and made ready to charge into the rest.

‘Wait, Shakul!’ shouted Stavut. ‘Everyone wait!’ Shakul relaxed, his great head turning towards Stavut. ‘With a bigger pack you could hunt better. Sixteen. . er, fifteen. .’ he corrected himself, as he saw the blood dripping from Shakul’s jaws, ‘fifteen is a good number for a pack. Let them join you.

There is enough meat here for all. You can teach them to hunt with you.’

‘Bloodshirt wants these things to live? They are enemy.’

‘No, Shakul. They were enemy. The truth is that they are runaway Jiamads like you. They will be hunted — just like you. You need each other. You will hunt better with fifteen than with seven. Let them live. Let them feed. Think on what I have said.’

Shakul’s great bear head tilted and he made several small, growling sounds. Then he walked to the first of the newly arrived Jiamads. ‘You fight?’ he growled. The beast dropped to all fours and turned its back on Shakul. One by one the others repeated the same manoeuvre. Shakul strode among them, growling. Then he walked back to Stavut. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘They can feed. Tell them.’

‘Go and eat,’ said Stavut. The eight half starved Jiamads rose to their feet and ran to the deer carcasses.

‘Our pack now is bigger,’ said Shakul.

‘ Your pack,’ Stavut corrected, uneasily.

‘Bloodshirt’s pack,’ said Shakul.

A thousand soldiers, marching in lines of three, entered Petar at midday, followed by a regiment of four thousand five hundred Jiamads. They were followed by fifty supply wagons, with a hundred more on the road some way behind. Three hundred cavalrymen, in white-plumed helms and armour of polished iron, escorted the Eternal up the slope towards the palace of Landis Kan. Jianna, the former Witch Queen of Naashan, rode a strange horse, pure white and eighteen hands tall, its head adorned with two horns, which curled back over its ears like those of a mountain goat. The Eternal’s helm, shaped from gleaming silver, sported identical horns, and sunlight glinted from the delicate chain mail shoulder guard she wore over a sleeveless shirt of thin black leather. The slim and beautiful woman on the horned horse drew rein and stared out over the settlement, her dark eyes angry as she took in the burnt out buildings and the remains of funeral pyres. There were some people moving around, but little sign of the thriving town Petar had been only a few days before.

Touching her heels to the flanks of her mount, she rode on towards the palace.

Unwallis was waiting for her at the entrance. He bowed deeply. In the sunlight he looked old, the lines on his face deeply chiselled, his eyes weary. For a brief moment Jianna remembered the young man she had taken to her bed a half century before. He had been witty and good company, though she could recall nothing of his skills as a lover. Unwallis had merely been one of hundreds of fleeting affairs to lift the boredom. Most had been disappointing, some had offered ephemeral joys, a few had made a mark on her memories. Landis Kan’s devotion had been appealing at first, but had soon become cloying.

The hooves of the horned horse clattered on the stone paving slabs before the entrance. The Eternal drew up before Unwallis, who bowed once more. He was dressed in an ankle-length tunic of grey, embroidered at the shoulder with the head of a silver eagle. The Eternal felt a moment of regret. She had last seen this clothing worn by Landis Kan ten years ago at the palace in Diranan.

I should have killed him then, she thought.

Jianna stepped down from the saddle. A cavalryman rode alongside, taking the reins of the horned horse and leading him away.

‘You look like death,’ she told Unwallis.

‘As ever, my queen, you look radiant,’ he responded.

Jianna did not feel radiant. This current body was approaching forty years of age, and though there were few visible signs of age she could feel them. The long ride had been tiring and her lower back was aching. She looked into Unwallis’s eyes. The man was more nervous than she had expected.

‘Where is Decado?’

‘In the wilderness somewhere, Highness. Still seeking Gamal.’

‘What happened here?’

‘I was not here for the. . the problems, Highness. Decado says the townspeople sought to hide Gamal. He found it necessary to kill a few. The rest panicked and fled. Jiamads ran riot. Houses burned.

It is as you see. Some have been encouraged to return. More will do so — assuming there is not more violence. I have had rooms prepared for you, Highness. There are still no servants, but some semblance of normality is returning.’

Despite his attempt at forced neutrality Jianna caught the implied criticism. Decado had bungled this simple task, producing exactly the result she had warned him against. It was almost time to put him aside.

Even as she thought it she realized that Decado would not be like her other lovers. He would not tolerate being dismissed. Ah well, she thought, it would have to be death then. When Memnon arrived she would discuss it with him.

‘You have a bath prepared?’ she asked Unwallis.

‘Yes, Highness, the water is being heated as we speak. However. .’ And there was that look of nervousness again.

‘What is it?’

‘Something you should see. A matter of some urgency, I believe.’

‘Show me,’ she ordered him. Unwallis bowed once more, then led Jianna into the palace and down to the long library. Moving through it, he brought her to the small study Landis Kan had used.

A lantern was burning in the windowless room, and the heat was oppressive. Upon the desk lay a picture frame. For the first time in centuries Jianna felt a shock so great that it caused her legs to tremble.

Reaching out, she supported herself on the desk, and stood staring down at the tattooed skin stretched out in the frame.

‘He found Skilgannon, Highness. I believe he brought him back.’

She laid her hand tenderly on the tattooed eagle. ‘A Reborn?’

‘More than that. In his notes Landis talks of Gamal finding Skilgannon’s soul.’

Jianna struggled to contain her feelings. Her mind swam with images, her emotions surging. Keeping her voice as calm as she could she turned towards Unwallis. ‘This is all fascinating,’ she told him. ‘We will talk later. First I will bathe. Send a rider out to meet the Black Wagon. Memnon should be here by dusk.’

On leaden legs Jianna followed Unwallis to a first floor bathroom. Soldiers were moving back and forth, pouring hot water into a blue-veined bath of marble. Unwallis walked to a nearby shelf, upon which stood jars of perfumed oils. Lifting each of the glass lids he sniffed deeply, before deciding on the scent of lavender. Carrying it to the water’s edge the grey-haired ambassador poured a small amount of oil into the steaming water. The bath was only half full, the water lapping at the second of four steps. Dipping his hand into the bath he withdrew it swiftly. ‘Fetch more buckets of cold water,’ he told the soldiers.

Jianna moved out onto a wide balcony overlooking the mountains. Reaching up she lifted clear her horned helm, laying it on a wicker table. Her long, dark hair fell free. She wanted to ask so many questions, but they would show how seriously she regarded the rebirth of Skilgannon. There could be no show of such weakness with anyone — even one as loyal as Unwallis.

She thought of the last time she had seen Olek Skilgannon. He had fought a vicious duel with the traitor Boranius, and was standing on a battlement, high above the rocks below. A madwoman also stood there, armed with an ornate black crossbow. She had tried to jump, but Skilgannon had leapt from the high ramparts, catching her, and then making a wild grab for a jutting rock. Jianna had run to the battlement’s edge and peered down. He was hanging on grimly, but he could not hold her. Her weight was dragging them both to their deaths.

‘ Let the girl go. I’ll haul you up.’

‘ I cannot.’

‘ Damn you, Olek! You’ll both die!’

‘ She is. . the last survivor. . of Perapolis.’ His blood-covered hand was giving way. He grunted and tried to cling on.

Jianna climbed over the ramparts, lowering herself to the thin ledge. Holding to a crenellation she reached down, clamping her hand over his wrist. ‘Now we all go, idiot!’ she said. Then the weight lessened. Looking down she saw that Druss the Legend had climbed out of the window of the roof hall, and was standing on the ledge below, supporting the unconscious girl. ‘Let her go, laddie! I have her.’ Freed of the weight Skilgannon swung his left arm over the lip of stone and, as Jianna made way for him, climbed back to the battlements.

Jianna took his hand and wiped away the blood. His fingers were deeply gashed, and more blood pumped from the wounds. ‘We almost died. Was she worth it?’ she asked softly.

‘ Worth more than the Witch Queen and the Damned? I would say so.’

‘ Then you are still the fool, Olek,’ she snapped. T have no time for fools.’ Yet she did not move away.

‘ We need to say goodbye,’ he said.

‘ I don’t want to say it,’ she told him. Leaning in he kissed her lips. Malanek and several soldiers arrived on the battlements. They stood back respectfully as Jianna put her arms round Skilgannon’s neck.

‘ We are both fools,’ she whispered.

With that she had swung away from him. She had looked back only once, as she rode from the citadel. High on the ramparts Skilgannon was standing with Druss.

She never saw him again, though she had followed his adventures.

At the last, when she learned he was preparing to face the might of the Zharn, she had led a Naashanite army against them, crushing two of their armies. She had thought it might give him a chance to survive.

She never knew in life whether she had succeeded. On the night after the battle she had felt unwell.

Pains struck her chest, flowing down her left arm. Her strength had failed, and she had taken to her bed.

At some point, though she could not now recall it, her life had flickered and failed.

On the balcony she shivered, remembering the dread time in the vastness of the Void. Demons had sought to kill her, and for a while she believed they would succeed. Then had come help from a bizarre quarter. Surrounded by scaled beasts, with black eyes and taloned fingers, she had seen a bright light.

Fire swept through the demons, killing several and scattering the others. Jianna had stood very still, her dagger raised. From the smoke came the Old Woman. ‘ Love blinds us to peril,’ said the hag, with a harsh laugh.

‘ You said that when I killed you,’ Jianna told her. ‘I didn’t know what it meant then, and I do not now.’

‘ Come sit in my cave, child, and we will talk.’

‘ If you want revenge do it now. I am in no mood for conversation.’

‘ Revenge? Ah, Jianna, my dove. I would never have harmed you in life, and I will not harm your spirit now. What did I mean, after you plunged the Sword of Fire into my back? I meant that I had loved you for all your life. As I loved your mother. You are blood of my blood. You are my descendant, child. The last of the line of Hewla. Now come with me. I will keep you safe.’

‘ You tried to kill Olek. He was the great love of my life.’

‘ No, he wasn’t, Jianna. Be honest with yourself. You loved power more. Otherwise you would have given it all up just to be with him. The woman in you loved him, the queen in you knew he was a danger. And so he proved. You were unwell in the palace, before leading the army against the Zharn. Your own physicians warned you to stay home and rest. You ignored them, in a vain bid to save him. He died anyway, child.’

‘ Did he win, though?’

‘ Of course he won. He was Skilgannon.’

‘ Then he is here? Somewhere?’

Fire flashed from the Old Woman’s fingers. A demon screeched, and darkness fell again.

‘ Let us talk somewhere safer.’

Jianna followed her up a steep hillside, and into a deep cave. The Old Woman gestured at the entrance and a wall of flame closed over it. By its light she sat on a rock shelf and stared at Jianna. ‘It is as well there are no mirrors here, Jianna. I fear you would not like what you would see.’

‘ What do you mean?’

‘ Look at your arm.’

In the firelight Jianna saw that, like the beasts which had attacked her, her skin was grey and scaled. ‘Why do I look like this?’ she asked, sheathing the dagger and reaching up to feel the ridged skin of her face.

‘ The evil that we do follows us. Here our spirit mirrors our true selves.’

‘ You are not scaled, and yet you lived a life of appalling evil.’

‘ Magic still operates here, child, though not as powerfully as in the world of flesh. But I am scaled and grotesque. I merely disguised it so that you would not recoil and run from me. Or, worse, strike me down with the dagger I gave you.’

‘ What happens now? Is there somewhere we must go to escape this horror?’

The Old Woman shook her head. ‘Nowhere for souls like us, kinswoman. This is where we dwell now. Yet I have hopes for you. Your bones were placed in a vault beneath the statue of you in the palace gardens. Those bones may be the key to returning to the flesh. We will see. We will survive.’

‘The bath is ready, Highness,’ said Unwallis.

Jianna strode back into the bathroom, and removed her clothes. Then she climbed into the perfumed water.

‘So, what became of the reborn Skilgannon?’ she asked. ‘Did Decado kill him?’

‘He was gone, Highness, when Decado came for Landis. He is somewhere in the forests with another Reborn.’

‘Another?’

‘Apparently Landis experimented with bones found in a locket in Skilgannon’s tomb.’

‘His wife, Dayan,’ said Jianna. ‘It was his dream to bring her back to life.’

‘No, Highness. It was a man. Landis described him as a brooding giant, immensely powerful and short tempered. The last notes talk of a double-headed silver axe which Landis asked Skilgannon to give to the man. This too was found in the tomb.’

‘The axe is called Snaga,’ said Jianna. ‘The man who wielded it in life was known as Druss the Legend.’ Leaning back in the bath she suddenly laughed. ‘Ah, Landis, you were such a clever, clever man.’

She relaxed for a while, then rose from the bath. Unwallis was waiting with a long, soft towel, which he held out for her. Taking it from him, she swirled it round her shoulders and walked back to the balcony.

The air was cool on her wet skin.

‘Do you still desire me, Unwallis?’ she called back to him.

‘I do, Majesty, but I fear I am a little too old to perform as I should.’

‘Then we shall take it gently, for I am in need of a little distraction.’

‘I am sure Decado will return shortly.’

‘Are you frightened of him, Unwallis?’ she asked, moving closer to the statesman, and laying her hands upon his shoulders.

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘And this will stop you making love to me?’ Her hand slid down the front of his tunic.

‘Apparently not,’ he said.

As night fell Askari, Harad and Skilgannon had still not found the blind man and Charis. Askari had discovered tracks. At first she had believed there was a Jiamad on their trail, but she had soon realized the beast travelled with them. In places his footprints overlaid those of the two humans, but in others their tracks overlaid his. They were heading northwest, and not moving at any great speed. Even so, with the coming of night, it was foolish to press on. They could lose the trail at any time. So Askari found a secluded hollow for a night camp, and they settled down, without a fire, to wait for the dawn. Harad stretched out without a word and went to sleep. Skilgannon sat apart, his expression bleak and distant.

He had seemed changed since that moment on the hillside, when she watched and listened as he railed at the heavens. There was such rage in him, such power. And before that, as she had watched silently, she had seen him dance, twisting and leaping with extraordinary grace. The contrast had been stark. Even more so now she had seen him fight. He killed the Jiamads with cold precision, and murdered the officer without a second thought. He was — in every way — a dangerous man, and Askari felt uncomfortable with his brooding silence.

‘What is it that makes a good swordsman?’ she asked him, in a bid to start a conversation. His expression flickered as his thoughts were interrupted. At first she thought he was going to tell her to leave him alone, but then he seemed to relax.

‘A combination of strengths,’ he told her. ‘Some learned, some granted by nature. Speed of hand and a good eye, balance. An ability to close off fears, and free the mind.’

‘Are there tricks you learn?’

‘Tricks?’

‘Yes. Like when shooting a bow. The secret is to loose the shaft between breaths, so there is no movement in the upper chest. If you hold your breath you will be too tense. If you breathe in, or out, there will be movement that affects the steadiness of the arm. Therefore you breathe out, slowly, and then, with the lungs empty, you let fly.’

‘Yes, I see. With the blade, and against another master, one must seek the illusion of elsewhere. The mind empties of all distractions, like heat, cold, pain, hunger, fear. The body is then freed to do what it has been trained for. A swordsman will have learned scores of moves, variations of attack, counter-attack and defence. He will flow into the combat like a dancer.’

Askari glanced down at the sleeping Harad. His huge hand was curled around the haft of the silver axe. ‘How would a swordsman fare against a man with such a weapon?’

‘That would depend on who was wielding it. There is only one sure fact about such a combat: it would not take long. To kill an axeman one must come within range of his axe. If he has speed and skill he will bury the blades in you before you can strike and step back. A good swordsman would kill the axeman, because the axe is a heavy offensive weapon, and ill suited to defence. But that axe was once carried by a Legend. I know of no swordsman who could have bested him and survived. At least none ever did.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was killed in a battle, not far from here. He was sixty years old and he still fought like a giant.’

‘You speak as if you knew him.’

Harad grunted and sat up. ‘How is anyone expected to sleep with such chatter?’ he grumbled, scratching his thick black beard. ‘Is there any food left?’

‘No,’ said Askari. ‘We carried only enough to bring us to Petar. Tomorrow I will find meat, but we may have to eat it raw. The smell of roasting flesh will carry on the breeze.’

The sound of horses’ hooves came to them, and they fell silent. Skilgannon beckoned Harad to stay where he was, then he and Askari rose smoothly to their feet and edged towards the undergrowth to the south of the hollow. The ground rose here and they carefully made their way to the rim. Below, on a wide track, they saw six horsemen, following a lean Jiamad. The breeze was blowing towards the two watchers, and there was no way the beast could scent them. It dropped to all fours and sniffed the track.

Then it pointed to the northwest, and the small group moved on.

Skilgannon and Askari made their way back to the camp. Harad was standing, axe in hand, waiting for them. ‘Riders,’ said Skilgannon. ‘They have moved on. We must follow.’

‘Why?’ asked Harad.

‘The lead rider was a killer named Decado. I think he is hunting Gamal.’

‘Landis Kan told me of Decado,’ said Askari. ‘He said he was terrifying. He carries two swords, like you. He has killed many men. Landis said no-one alive could best him with a blade.’

‘That is not the problem now,’ said Skilgannon. ‘First we must follow them. They cannot suspect they have enemies behind. The wind is with us at the moment, but we must move without undue noise. Askari, you set off first. Leave sign on the trail so that we can track you in the dark. With luck they will lose the scent, or stop for the night. If either should prove true we will bypass them and seek out Gamal before they do.’

‘And if not?’ asked Harad.

‘Then we kill them all. You and Askari will take out the Jiamad tracker and the riders. I will deal with Decado.’

Askari looked uncertain. ‘You need to know that Decado is not human,’ she said. ‘He is one of those soulless Reborns, brought back from Hell. Landis told me this.’ Touching her brow and chest in the sign of the Blessed Priestess, she went on. ‘They are cursed creatures who only look like men. They have demon power and are unconquerable.’

Harad’s face darkened. Skilgannon’s reply was cold. ‘Let us hope you are right,’ he told Askari.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will, but this is not the time to discuss it. Set off and we will follow.’

Askari hooked her bow over her shoulder, then turned and loped off towards the northwest.

Skilgannon glanced at Harad, whose expression was thunderous. ‘She is merely mouthing superstition.

It means nothing.’

‘What if she’s right?’

‘She’s not. You think a man without a soul would seek to rescue a woman in danger?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’ Harad sighed, yet Skilgannon saw him relax. ‘A week ago I was a logger. My biggest concern was meeting the quota and earning enough to pay for my winter supplies.

Now? Now I have a dead hero’s axe and I have fought and killed.’

Skilgannon said nothing for a moment. He looked into the familiar ice blue eyes. ‘The real concern is that you are enjoying it. Is that not so?’

‘Yes, I am,’ admitted Harad. ‘And that’s why I fear the girl is right.’

‘We are closest to life when we are vying with death,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘The blood runs hot, the air smells sweet, the sky becomes an unbearably beautiful blue. Battle is intoxicating. That is why the ghastly vileness of war has always been so popular. Now let us follow Askari.’

It was close to midnight and the pain had moved from the ever present thudding in his temples to a sharp, nausea-inducing agony behind his eyes. Decado drew rein on a flat shelf of land, high on a hillside, and, in dismounting, almost fell from the saddle. He staggered for several paces, then slumped down. His stomach heaved, and fresh pain surged through him. From a small pouch at his side he drew out a small glass phial. With trembling fingers he broke the wax seal and drank. He had long ago learnt to tolerate the vile, metallic taste. Without a word to the riders he swung the Swords of Blood and Fire from his shoulders and laid them by his side. Then he stretched out on the ground.

Bright colours flashed across his closed lids. His senses grew sharper. The smell of the horses was stronger now, and he could hear their breathing, interspersed with the creaking of leather saddles as the riders fidgeted. The pain grew more intense, as it always did when the poison seeped into his body.

Sharp cramps clawed at his belly, and a tingling began in his arms and fingers. Lying very still he waited.

Sometimes the visions were harsh and frightening, causing fresh upsurges of pain. At other times they would be gentle and reassuring and he would slip away into peaceful dreams of better days.

He had long ago given up hoping for these. They either came or they didn’t. There was nothing he could do to encourage them.

The scent of the grass grew stronger, and the breeze seemed full of perfume.

Memnon’s pale, golden features appeared in his mind, his jet black hair drawn back from his thin face, his large, dark, almond-shaped eyes staring at him intently. He was sitting by Decado’s bedside. Heavy black curtains were drawn across the windows, the only light coming from two flickering lanterns. ‘Are you feeling better, child?’ asked Memnon.

Decado remembered that long ago night. He had been eleven years old, and the awful headache had lasted for several days. He had tried to knock himself unconscious by head-butting a stone wall, but had merely gashed his brow, making the pain worse.

Now he was lying in a broad bed, a cool breeze whispering through a narrow gap in the curtains. His head was resting on a satin pillow. The freedom from pain made him want to weep for joy. ‘The pain is gone, sir,’ he said. Memnon patted the boy’s arm. Decado had flinched. Memnon’s hands were curiously webbed, his fingers long, his nails dark, as if painted. They were also mutilated. The little finger of each hand had been amputated.

Memnon had noticed the boy’s unease and withdrawn his hand. ‘Do you remember what happened when the pain began?’

Decado had struggled to recall the incident. He had been playing with Tobin and his friends in the open fields behind the apple orchard. The sun had been very bright, and Decado had found it made his eyes water. There had been an argument, but he couldn’t recall what it was about. Then Tobin had thrown an apple at him. It had struck him on the cheek. After that the other boys had pitched in, hurling fruit at him.

It was not an unusual scenario. Decado was slim and small, and often the object of bullying.

‘Do you remember?’ said Memnon again.

‘I was hit by an apple,’ the boy told him.

‘And after that?’

‘I passed out.’

‘Do you remember the knife?’

‘Tobin’s knife?’

The master nodded.

‘Yes, sir, it is a little knife with a curved blade. Tobin’s father gave it to him.’

‘What colour was the blade?’

‘It was red, master,’ said Decado. ‘Red and wet.’ Even as he spoke an image came to him, sharp and vivid. He saw his own fist, smeared with blood, the dagger blade dripping gore. ‘I don’t understand. And how did I come to be here?’

‘It is not important, my boy. You will stay with me for a while. Then we will journey to Diranan.’

Within a day the familiar head pain had begun again, but this time Memnon had given him the black draught. He had gagged and been violently sick, but enough of the noxious substance reached his belly for it to ease the agony. Decado had slept for several hours.

For several days he had remained in the palace. Memnon gave him books to read, but they were dull, full of stories about men with swords and shields, fighting and killing. Decado had no interest in such things. At the orphanage he had become fascinated with the craft of pottery, the shaping of wet clay into useful and beautiful objects. He had been most proud of a jug he had made, with the handle shaped like a lizard. It had cracked in the glazing process, but his tutor — the elderly Caridas — had been most complimentary about his skill. ‘You are an artist, Decado,’ he had said.

It was to Caridas that Decado had always gone when the bullying was at its worst. ‘Why do they torment me?’ he had asked the old man.

‘Sadly, it is the nature of children. Do you ever think of fighting back?’

‘I don’t want to hurt anyone.’

‘And that is why they feel safe when they attack you, Decado. There is no fear in them, for you will not cause them harm. They see themselves as wolves, and you as the deer. Perhaps they would react differently were you to find a little bit of wolf in yourself.’

‘I don’t want to be a wolf.’

‘Then you should avoid their company, Decado.’

On the surface it was good advice, but the village was small and there were few places a young boy could go that did not bring him into contact with other children. Decado spent much of his time with Caridas the Potter, and found himself looking forward to the times he would be taken to Lord Memnon’s palace, in the hills outside the village. At least twice a year Memnon would journey west from Diranan.

Decado did not know why the courtier should be interested in him, nor did he care. The week-long visits to Memnon were free of stress and fear. The lord would talk to him about his dreams and his hopes, and would set him little physical tests that were always diverting. Most were simple, and Decado failed to see why Memnon found them fascinating. He would ask Decado to hold out his hand, palm downwards.

Then he would take a small stick and hold it below the boy’s hand. ‘When I drop this I want you to catch it,’ he said.

Decado had done so. It was not difficult. Memnon, holding the stick between both index fingers, would release it. Decado’s hand snapped downwards, catching the stick almost before gravity had exerted its influence. ‘Wonderful!’ said Memnon.

It was baffling. What was wonderful about catching a stick? Decado had put this point to the lord.

Memnon bade him wait, then called in several of his servants. One by one he set them the same task.

No-one caught the stick. It fell from Memnon’s fingers, and their fingers scrabbled for it, catching nothing but air.

‘Reaction time,’ Memnon had said, after the servants had gone. ‘You see the stick fall, you send a message to your arm and hand, then — and only then — do you instruct the hand to catch the stick. In that time the stick is already falling away from the reach. But not for you, Decado. Your reactions are lightning swift. This is good.’

Decado failed to see how this — until now — unrealized skill could have any benefit. One did not have to catch falling clay in order to make a pot. However, the tests engaged Memnon’s interest, and as long as he was interested he would continue to invite Decado to spend time with him. It was a fair trade. Decado was free from the bullies, and all he had to do was catch sticks, or juggle knives, or pluck insects from the air. In the evenings Decado would ask the lord about his dreams, or talk about the Eternal and the wars being fought. Decado found talk of war unsettling. There was a man in the village, a friend of Caridas, who had lost an arm during a battle. He had once, according to Caridas, been a fine potter.

Now he was a cripple, bitter and lost.

On the last morning, before the journey to Diranan, Decado had asked Memnon if he could go and say goodbye to Caridas. The lord shook his head.

‘Best not, child.’

‘He is my friend.’

‘You will make new friends.’

On the journey the head pains had started again. Memnon gave him more of the black draught and Decado had fallen into a dream-filled sleep.

As he awoke he remembered the incident in the orchard. The boys had been laughing as they threw hard fruit at him. The dreadful pain in his head had increased, and he had rushed at Tobin. At some point he had snatched Tobin’s dagger from its sheath and slashed the blade across the boy’s throat. Blood had bubbled and sprayed from the wound. Decado had shrieked like an animal and leapt on another boy, bearing him to the ground, and plunging the small dagger again and again between his shoulder blades. At first the boy had struggled and screamed, but then there was silence.

Someone grabbed Decado and hauled him off the boy. Decado had spun, the blade flashing out and plunging through Caridas’s right eye. The old man cried out and fell back. His body had twisted and convulsed. Then it too lay still alongside Tobin and the other boy.

In the back of the long coach Decado had screamed. Memnon, who had been reading a parchment, put it aside and leaned over the boy.

‘What is it, child?’

‘I killed Caridas!’ he said. ‘I killed others.’

‘I know,’ said Memnon soothingly. ‘I am very proud of you.’