The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Thirteen

The long ride back to Petar helped clear Decado’s head. The pain finally faded away, and the freedom from it was almost as blissful as a kiss from the Eternal.

There were people moving through the streets of the town, and a semblance of normality had returned.

There were no Jiamads in sight, but he saw several groups of soldiers walking among the citizenry.

At Landis Kan’s palace he dismounted, handed the reins of the horse to a servant and walked up the steps to the great doors. Once inside he saw two female servants, carrying a heavy rug. They were young women, and quite pretty. One of them glanced up. He smiled. The girl cried out, dropped her end of the rug and fled. The second girl also let go of the rug, and backed away, her eyes wide, her face pale. ‘I am not going to hurt you,’ said Decado. The girl turned, gathered up her long skirt and ran after her friend.

Decado looked down at the embroidered rug, which had partially unrolled. It was stained with dried blood.

He wandered up to his rooms, wondering how long it would be before the Eternal returned from the high country. Now that his head was clearer he found it strange she should have been there at all. It was rare for her to travel without her guards. And she had been dressed strangely. In disguise, he guessed.

The outfit suited her, the leather leggings emphasizing the sleekness of her figure. Once in his rooms he removed his boots, and looked for some wine. He needed a drink, but there was nothing here, and no servants were close by. Even if they were, he realized, they would run from him. Tugging on his boots again, he walked to the door. At that moment there came a tap at the wood frame outside.

‘Come in,’ he ordered, hoping it was a servant. Instead it was the old statesman Unwallis. Decado gazed at him curiously. The man seemed different, younger. Lines of stress had vanished from his face.

Though his hair was still iron grey there was a brightness to his eyes, and the smile he offered was warm and friendly.

‘Welcome back, Decado,’ he said. ‘How was your mission?’

‘I fell ill. The Eternal ordered me back here. Let me know when she returns.’

‘Returns?’

‘I saw her in the high country. She said to come back to Petar.’

‘Er. . She is here, in Landis Kan’s old apartments.’

‘That’s not possible. She could not have returned before me.’

Decado saw the confusion in Unwallis. The statesman stood silently for a moment. ‘May I come in?

We should sit down and talk.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Decado, my boy, there is everything to talk about. The Eternal arrived here two days ago. She has not left the palace.’ He sighed. ‘Is it possible you dreamed it? I know of the head pains, and the narcotics Memnon supplies. They are very powerful.’

‘Yes, they are,’ snapped Decado. ‘But I always know the difference between dreams and reality. She was there, dressed as a hunter. She even had a bow.’ He went on to explain how he had been following the trail of the blind man, but had been struck down by terrible pain in the head. Then he described how she came to him, and ordered him back to Petar. Unwallis listened intently.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘there were some things Landis did not note down. Fascinating.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She was not the Eternal. That is the only point you need to realize. I take it you did not find the nephew?’

‘No.’

‘Then you should know he is not the nephew. Landis Kan rebirthed the bones of Skilgannon. He also found the man’s soul and reunited them. The man you were chasing is the legendary Skilgannon himself.’

Decado walked back into the apartment, and sat down on a wide couch. The Swords of Blood and Fire were beside him, and he absently reached out and laid his hand on one of the hilts. Unwallis moved into the room and sat beside him. ‘The woman you saw is a Reborn. Landis obviously stole some bones from the Eternal’s last resurrection two decades ago.’

‘I need to see Jianna,’ said Decado. ‘I need to explain. .’

‘Of course — but may I suggest that you bathe first? The days of travel have left you. . somewhat pungent, Decado. Servants are preparing a bath downstairs.’

Decado, still shaken by what the statesman had told him, nodded. ‘Yes, that is a good idea. Thank you, Unwallis.’

‘A pleasure, my boy. Come. I will have fresh clothes brought for you.’

‘Just lead on!’ snapped the swordsman. As he followed Unwallis from the room he felt foolish. There was something about the urbane statesman that always riled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had once been a lover of the Eternal. Decado didn’t know — but he did know she did not want Unwallis killed. This was a problem for the young swordsman. Often he had no control over such matters. Just like the first time in the orchard. He would hear a roaring in his ears, and then — apparently — pass out. Only he did not pass out. He would awake some time later to discover either bloodstains on his clothing, or the corpses of those he had slain. Only later would the memories return, and with them the shame of his murderous rage. Memnon called it the Sleep of Death and had offered advice on how to prevent, or at worst delay, its onset. Curiously it involved being more aggressive with people. According to Memnon the condition was triggered by Decado’s attempts to hold in his rage. ‘Let it out a little at a time with angry words,’ Memnon had advised. Mostly it worked, though as Decado followed Unwallis down the long corridor he saw more bloodstains on the rugs there, and he remembered the unfortunate servants who had fallen victim to his insanity. A deep depression settled on the young man, and he focused on the murals they passed, hoping his concentration on works of art would blot out the images of the terrified victims. It was a vain hope.

They reached the lower levels and Decado followed Unwallis into a small, lantern-lit bathhouse. There was already hot water in the deep marble bath. Decado sighed. If only he could wash away the sins of his flesh as simply as he could sponge away the dust and the dirt on his body.

‘I will leave you to relax, my boy,’ said Unwallis, stepping to the long garden window and pulling shut the heavy drapes.

‘I. . thank you,’ said Decado. ‘I am sorry that I have been so boorish in your company.’ Unwallis looked shocked. He stood waiting for some barbed comment. When he realized none was to come he smiled.

‘Enjoy the bath,’ he said. Decado stripped off his travel-stained clothes and laid them on a chair, placing his scabbarded swords on top of them. Then he moved towards the bath. There was a mirror on the wall and his anger returned. Decado did not like mirrors. He could not stand to look at himself. The eyes always accused, as if the man in the mirror was someone else entirely. Someone who knew him, and, knowing him, loathed him. Almost against his wishes he stared back at his slender, naked reflection.

‘You do not deserve to live,’ the mirror man told him.

‘I know,’ he replied. Stepping forward he lifted the mirror from the wall, intending to smash it. Yet he did not. He had destroyed so much in his young life. Instead he placed the mirror on the floor, resting it against a table on which clean white towels had been laid.

Then he entered the bath. The warmth was welcome. The water was lightly perfumed. Decado sank beneath the surface, running his fingers through his hair, to wash off the dust. Then he surfaced, and looked around for some soap. He saw several small blocks in a wicker basket to his right. As he reached for one he froze. In the mirror he had placed against the table he saw the reflection of a crossbowman, stealthily moving from the door behind him.

The weapon came up. Decado hurled himself to his left. The twang of the twisted string came to him, just before the bolt splashed into the water. Decado heaved himself from the bath and rolled to his feet.

The crossbowman, a slim, dark-haired young man, threw aside his weapon and drew a dagger from his belt. Decado darted towards him. Even as he did so he saw the heavy drapes over the garden window drawn back, and another armed man ran in. The first assassin rushed forward, dagger extended.

Decado flung himself to the floor, swinging around to kick the man’s legs from under him. The assassin fell heavily, cracking his head on the marble floor.

Decado came up fast. The second man came at him. Decado leapt feet first, his heel slamming into the man’s chin, hurling him back. Rising, Decado ran for the Swords of Blood and Fire. Two more killers had entered the room. They were soldiers, and carried both swords and daggers. Decado drew his swords and ran to meet them. The newcomers were terrified. One tried to run, the other slashed his sabre at the swordsman. The Sword of Blood clove into his neck, severing the jugular and slicing through muscle, sinew and bone. The fleeing soldier had reached the door, but, as he pulled it open, the Sword of Fire plunged through his back. The soldier gave a gurgling cry and slid down the door. Decado spun. The second attacker was unconscious. The first groaned and tried to sit. Blood was smeared above his left eye, and flowing down over his right.

Decado ran to the drapes, pulling them shut, then moved to the injured man, pushing him to his back.

Resting the Sword of Blood against the man’s throat he said, ‘Who sent you?’

‘The Eternal has spoken the words of your death,’ said the man. ‘What choice did I have but to obey?’

‘You lie!’

‘I am not an imbecile, Decado. You think I wanted to come after you? The Eternal ordered me.

Personally. Unwallis was with her, and the Shadowlord.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Decado, stepping back from the surprised man. ‘She. . loves me.’

‘I don’t understand either,’ said the man, rubbing blood from his eye. ‘Are you going to kill me? Or can I go?’

‘Sit over there while I think,’ said Decado, gesturing to a chair. Moving to his clothes he dressed swiftly. Then he returned to the soldier. ‘What exactly did she say to you?’

‘I was summoned by my captain, and sent in to see her. She asked me if I was good with a crossbow.

I said I was. She said she wanted the death to be clean and fast. Then the Shadowlord said I was to cut off your finger and bring it to him. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I don’t need to. What happened then?’

‘Nothing,’ said the man, but he looked away.

‘Be careful, my friend, for your life depends on this.’

The other attacker groaned and started to rise. Decado stepped in, slashing a blade through the back of the man’s neck. The assassin slumped to his face, twitched once then lay still.

‘Oh, careful, is it?’ said the first man, his expression hardening at the murder of his comrade. ‘You won’t let me live anyway.’

‘Then you would have nothing to lose by speaking. You would gain a little more time. However, I am telling you the truth. Speak freely and I will let you live.’

The prisoner considered his words, then shrugged. ‘She said some stuff about you, Decado. Not complimentary. She told Memnon he’d made a mistake with you, and she didn’t want him repeating it.’

‘Exactly what did she say?’

The man took a deep breath. ‘She said you were insane, and she told me to forget the finger. We were to carry your body out into the garden and burn it to ash.’

‘Take off your clothes,’ said Decado.

‘What for?’

The Sword of Fire nicked a cut into the man’s neck. ‘So that you can live. Be swift!’ The man undressed. ‘Now get in the bath.’

The slim soldier looked nonplussed, but he slowly waded down into the water. ‘Good,’ said Decado.

‘Now come out, and pick up the two sabres your friends dropped.’

‘I can’t fight you!’

‘You don’t have to fight me. Just do as I say.’

Decado followed him across the room, to prevent any sudden flight. The naked man took up the two swords. ‘Now what?’

‘Now you can leave — through the garden.’

‘Without any clothes on?’

‘Alive, though.’

‘You’re going to stab me in the back.’

‘Just leave,’ said Decado, tapping the man’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.

‘Whatever you say.’

The man walked to the heavy drape and pulled it back. Then he opened the garden door and stepped outside. Something moved past him in a blur. He cried out and fell back into the bathhouse. Dropping the swords he began to crawl, but his body spasmed. A pale shape appeared in the doorway, large round eyes narrowed against the lantern light. Its thin face was corpse grey, and its lipless mouth hung open. A wide, curved single tooth jutted from its maw. It was stained with blood.

The Sword of Fire lanced out from behind the curtain, spearing through both the creature’s temples.

Decado dragged the blade clear, then walked back to the twitching soldier. ‘You are not dying,’ he said.

‘You will be paralysed for an hour or two. After that you will be dead. The Eternal does not appreciate failure.’

The man passed out. Decado stood silently, trying to think of what to do. The one joyous, true and perfect part of his life had been his time with the Eternal. Now she had betrayed him. Decado felt the pain of it, and a cold anger began. He considered striding through the palace and cutting out her heart.

Then he would kill Unwallis and. . Memnon?

The Shadowlord had been like a father to him, helping him with his pain, and his rages. And the soldier had said he wanted a piece of bone, and that could only have been used to bring Decado back.

Decado needed time to think.

Swords in hand he left the bathhouse. The gardens were empty, and he walked round the rear of the building until he reached the stable. There he chose a sturdy chestnut gelding, saddled it, and rode from the palace grounds.

The battle was short and fierce. Enemy lancers, some two hundred strong, hidden in the woods on the slopes of the mountains, had suddenly charged Alahir’s troop. They had obviously expected the surprise of their attack to disconcert the Legend Riders. The enemy were charging from the high ground. All the advantages were theirs. Alahir yelled an order and his fifty men coolly swung their mounts, and lifted bows from saddle pommels. The first volley sent horses and men tumbling to the ground. The charge faltered as the hurtling men behind the fallen swerved their mounts to avoid running down their own wounded. A second volley tore into them. Then a third.

Hurling aside their bows, the Legend Riders drew their sabres and heeled their mounts forward. In close order battle the long lances were of little use, and the enemy let them fall, drawing their own swords. But the impetus of their charge was lost, and they were now facing grim and deadly opponents, who slashed and cut their way through the enemy centre. Alahir was relieved to find that his borrowed mount — afraid of shadows and swirling cloaks — showed no fear in the battle. It followed his every physical command.

Alahir saw the enemy officer, on a pure white stallion, and heeled his horse towards him. A lancer tried to block his path. Alahir ducked under his slashing blade. The lancer was wearing a heavy breastplate and mail, but his arms were unprotected. Alahir’s sabre flashed out, hacking into the man’s forearm and snapping the bone. The lancer’s sword fell from his hand, and Alahir swept past him. The officer beyond, still holding to his lance, made a feeble stab at the warrior closing on him. Alahir struck the lance with his sabre, diverting it, then, as their horses crashed together, hammered his sabre against the man’s bronze helm. The officer swayed in the saddle. Alahir struck him twice more. The second time the sabre cut through the man’s ear and down through his neck. He pitched from the saddle. His white horse galloped away. Even in the chaos of battle Alahir found himself wishing he had time to catch it. It was a Ventrian purebred, and deserved better than the wretch who rode him.

Pushing thoughts of horses from his mind Alahir swung to find a fresh opponent — but the remaining lancers were fleeing in panic. The younger and less battle-hardened of his men began to give chase.

Alahir bellowed an order, and they drew rein.

Alahir gazed round the corpse-littered battlefield. About seventy lancers lay dead, or wounded. Alahir scanned the area, seeking out fallen Legend Riders. He saw eight bodies, lying unmoving, and nine more men, unhorsed and carrying heavy wounds. Gilden rode alongside. The sergeant had a deep cut on his cheek, almost exactly between the white scars. Blood was flowing freely from it, and running over his mail shirt.

‘What orders?’ he asked.

‘Deal with our wounded first, then find two prisoners who will survive a trip back to camp. Then we’ll push on.’ He pointed up the mountain slopes. ‘There’s a fine view of the south up there, and we’ll see how many troops they are funnelling through the passes.’

Leaning to his left Gilden spat blood from his mouth. ‘Luckily they weren’t great fighters.’

‘They were good enough,’ said Alahir grimly. ‘They just weren’t Drenai.’

Gilden smiled, which opened the wide cut on his cheek. He swore.

‘Get someone to stitch that,’ said Alahir.

‘What do you want to do about the prisoners we don’t need?’

‘Let them go — without their mounts.’

‘Agrias won’t like that.’

‘Do I look as though I care?’

‘No.’

In the distance Alahir saw a huge flock of birds suddenly take to the sky, and his mount reared. A deep groan came from the earth. Alahir’s horse bolted. Several other riders were unhorsed. Alahir kept a firm grip on the reins and let the frightened beast have its head for a while, then he gently steered it to the left, seeking to head it back to his troops. Ahead of him a cloud of dust swirled up from the earth, followed instantly by a tremendous thunderclap. The horse, totally panicked now, galloped on. Alahir saw a jagged black line appear on the flatland some fifty yards ahead, as if a giant, invisible sword was scoring the earth. Then the ground suddenly split and a chasm began to open.

Alahir’s first instinct was to kick his feet from the stirrups and roll clear of the horse. However, the memory of Egar’s paralysing fall still haunted him, his friend lying on the damp earth, unable to move his limbs. If Alahir were to die, it would not be because he fell from the saddle. The horse thundered on. The dust was billowing now, and Alahir had no way to tell how wide the chasm had become.

As the galloping horse closed on the yawning gap Alahir let out a Drenai battle cry. The terrified horse leapt. For a frozen moment Alahir believed they would not survive. It was as if he and his mount were hanging in the air over a colossal drop. Time stood still. Then the horse’s front hooves struck solid ground. It landed awkwardly, and stumbled. Alahir was half thrown from the saddle, but hauled himself back. The horse came to a stop, and stood trembling. Alahir patted its sleek neck, then stared back at the chasm. It was closing behind him. Clouds of dust swirled up once more. In the distance he saw huge trees tumble to the mountainside. Touching heels to the still trembling horse he rode back to where his men were clustered together. Most of them had dismounted and were holding the reins of their frightened mounts.

His young aide, Bagalan, looking shocked and pale, called out to him. ‘What is happening?’

‘Earthquake,’ replied Alahir. ‘Speak calmly. The horses are frightened enough.’ He was surprised to hear that his voice showed no sign of the fear pumping through his body. His legs felt weak, and he decided not to dismount for a while, but sat, staring up at the ruined woods above. Some of the wounded enemy lancers were also standing, alongside their conquerors, all thoughts of war vanished.

For a short while there was silence among the gathered men. As the dust began to settle Alahir rode to where Gilden was sitting on the ground, having the wound to his face stitched by another rider. ‘Forget prisoners,’ said Alahir. ‘Get them to dig a grave for our dead, then let them all go.’

Gilden raised a hand in acknowledgement.

Turning his horse, Alahir rode back to Bagalan. The youngster was still pale, and there was a bloody cut on his forearm. Alahir dismounted. From his saddlebag he drew out a leather pouch. Flipping it open he took out a curved needle. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll stitch that wound.’

The lad sank to the ground and looked up at him. ‘Why did you leap that chasm?’ he asked. Alahir threaded the needle and took hold of his aide’s arm. At first the question seemed odd, then he realized how it must have looked. He had turned the horse and headed directly at the great split in the earth.

Looking up he saw other men staring at him. He chuckled and shook his head.

‘Because it was there, boy,’ he said, inserting the needle into the torn flesh, and drawing the thread through. Once back in camp, with a few flasks of wine being shared, he would tell them the truth.

Or maybe not.

Alahir supervised the burial of the eight dead Legend warriors. First they removed the armour. The Drenai were a poor people now, and the cunningly crafted chain mail was too expensive to bury. The mail coifs and shoulder protectors alone contained hundreds of hand-fashioned rings, involving months of work. The knee-length hauberks, the ring-mail gorgets, the chain leg mail, the helms, swords and bows, would cost more than the average Drenai land worker would earn in several years. Armour was therefore passed from father to son.

Stripped of weapons, each man had copper coins placed over his eyes, held in place by a black strip of silk. Then they were wrapped in their red cloaks and laid carefully in the mass grave dug out by the enemy lancers. The grave was marked, so that the bodies could be recovered later and taken away for a more suitable funeral, where songs would be sung, and their deeds spoken of.

All the dead were well known to Alahir. He had grown up with two of them. And another had been one of his history teachers. This last, a stern man named Graygin, had been nearing sixty, and had tried to hide the fact that the rheumatic had begun to eat away at the joints of his arms. Alahir had known of the condition. ‘I should have sent him home,’ he thought.

‘The fields are green, the sky blue, where these men ride,’ he said, as the warriors gathered round the grave. ‘They will be welcomed in the Fabled Hall, for they were men, and the sons of men. We will all see them again. Keep them in your minds and your hearts.’ He sighed. ‘When this patrol is over we will gather them up and speak the stories of their lives.’ Pulling his mail-shirt hood into place he donned his plumed helm. ‘Now it is time to ride,’ he told them.

Throughout the afternoon they rode a twisting trail, higher and higher into the mountains. Alahir had sent scouts ahead, and they reported no sign of enemy activity. On one section they found the bodies of three lancers, crushed by falling rocks. Trees were down, cutting off the trail in places, and the riders had to dismount and haul them aside, or make difficult detours over rock-strewn slopes.

Gilden, his face stitched and bloody, angled his mount alongside Alahir as they topped a steep slope.

‘Land’s pretty twisted now. Can’t tell where we are,’ he said.

‘We’ll see better when we crest that rise,’ replied Alahir, pointing southwest.

A strong breeze was blowing. It was chill with snow from the upper peaks. Alahir shivered.

Turn to the east, said a voice in his mind.

Alahir tensed in the saddle. Gilden spotted the movement. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. The horse spooked.’ Alahir felt anger swell in his heart. He had thought he had silenced the voices years ago, when he had refused to answer them. They had brought him nothing but humiliation and mocking laughter. As a child he would answer them out loud, and other children would stare at him, at first confused, but then would come the jeers.

‘Alahir’s talking to ghosts again!’

Stupid Alahir. Alahir the Loon. ‘The poor boy is unhinged,’ he heard an old woman tell his mother. So he had stopped speaking to them, and stopped listening to them. Gradually they died away. In truth he had never really expected them to stay away for good. His grandfather had gone mad, people said. He had dressed in rags, covered his face in mud, and moved about on all fours wailing like a hound. His great-grandfather, on his mother’s side, had also been insane. Gandias had walled up his wife and two of his sons, and had taken to murdering travellers on the high road above Siccus. It was even said he drank their blood. His trial had produced shocking evidence of his debauchery. When he had been taken to the scaffold Gandias had shrieked and begged, insisting that the voices had told him to do these dreadful things, and that he was not to blame.

So when Alahir started hearing voices his mother was terrified. One night Alahir had crept downstairs and listened to a conversation between mother and father. ‘Madness runs in families,’ he heard her say.

‘What if he is another Gandias?’

‘He’s just a boy with an over-active imagination,’ his father told her. ‘He will grow out of it.’

Alahir never forgot that conversation. It was why he had never married. If he was to go mad like Gandias he would do so as a single man. No wife of his would be walled up to die in a dark, airless room.

As the years passed he had grown a little more confident about the voices. Never convinced he was free, but allowing his hopes to grow.

Now they were back.

Turn east, Alahir. There is something you must see.

‘You need to step down from the saddle, man,’ said Gilden. ‘Your face is whiter than snow.’ The sergeant reached out to take his arm.

‘I’m fine!’ snapped Alahir, snatching his arm out of reach. The movement was so sudden Alahir’s skittish horse reared, and sprang to the left, moving out onto a steep scree slope. Immediately it began to slide. Alahir fought to keep its head up as it scrambled for footing. There were few riders better than the Drenai captain, but even he almost lost control. Finally firmer ground appeared under the horse’s hooves and it scrambled safely to a rock shelf some two hundred feet below the other riders. Alahir looked up at the worried faces above him and waved to show he was all right. Then he rode on, seeking a path back to the high trail.

Irritation flared as he was forced to continue along a rock trail running east, away from his men. Ahead of him was a sheer wall of rock that had been split open by the earthquake. Several tons of earth had been displaced, and a score of trees levelled. As he rode by he glanced at the desolation. His eye was caught by an odd sight. Just beyond the huge mound of fallen earth he saw a wide lintel stone above a half-buried doorway. It made no sense. Who would build a doorway into a mountain?

Alahir knew he should get back to his men. The enemy lancers might have regrouped, or been reinforced. And yet. . The doorway beckoned to him. How long must it have been hidden here, to have been covered so completely?

Dismounting, he trailed the reins of his mount and climbed over the earth mound. On closer inspection the lintel stone was beautifully carved, and an inscription had been engraved upon it. It was full of earth, and Alahir scraped some of it away with his dagger.

He soon realized it was in a language unknown to him. Considering the history of the land he decided the inscription must have been Sathuli. Possibly a tomb of some kind. His interest waned.

Then the voice came again. Go inside, Alahir.

‘Leave me alone, damn you!’

If you wish it I will never speak again. But go inside. The hope of the Drenai lies within.

No other inducement would have caused him to lever himself into the dark of the tomb, but his heart and mind had been filled with worry for his people for too long now. With a sigh he removed his crested helm, laid it on the earth, then climbed inside. Beyond the entrance was a tunnel, going off into the dark.

Alahir moved along it. Some fifty paces ahead he saw a shaft of light shining down through a crack in the ceiling. Alahir made his way towards it.

The shaft was illuminating a great block of what at first seemed to be ice, shimmering and glistening.

Squinting against the glare Alahir approached the block. It was too perfectly shaped to be ice. More like a gigantic cube of glass. Then he saw what it contained and his breath caught in his throat.

On a wooden stand within the block was a suit of armour, beautifully crafted in bronze. It had overlapping scales of plate, and the breastplate was emblazoned with a golden eagle, wings spread, flaring up and over the chest. There were scaled gauntlets, and a winged helm, crested with an eagle’s head. Beneath the breastplate was a bronze ringed mail shirt, and leggings with hinged knee caps. Then there was the sword, the hilt double-handed, the guard a pair of flaring wings, the blade gold. It shone in the shaft of light as if it was crafted from fire.

Alahir’s mouth was dry.

He stepped forward on trembling legs. His booted foot crunched down on old bones, and he glanced down to see the desiccated remains of a man. Shreds of dry cloth clung to the bones.

‘Who was he?’ he asked.

Lascarin the Thief. He saved the Armour of Bronze and brought it here, before the horror that was the last battle.

Alahir knew the story of that battle. Every Drenai child did. The civil war had raged for nine years, culminating in a fierce exchange at Dros Delnoch. The fortress had been built to withstand an assault from the north, and was virtually open to attack from the south. The defenders had been vastly outnumbered, and, three days before the last battle, the thief Lascarin had stolen the Armour of Bronze. Two days later an earthquake ripped through the fortress, bringing two of the walls down, and killing more than a thousand men. The surviving defenders had taken their families and fled north to the colony of Siccus.

These were Alahir’s ancestors.

‘Why did he steal the Armour?’ asked Alahir.

He did not steal it. He saved it.

‘Who are you?’

One who cares, Alahir. One whose voice can echo across Time’s vast valleys.

‘You are a ghost?’

In a manner of speaking. I am alive as I speak to you, but in your time I am long dead. I cannot speak for long, Alahir, so question me not. You know what you see here, and you know what it means. This is the Armour of Bronze, crafted for Egel, worn by Regnak, as he stood beside Druss the Legend. You stand before your own destiny. For this armour is yours, Alahir, by blood and by right. You are the Earl of Bronze, and it falls to you to help save your people.

‘I have less than fifty riders. The armies of Agrias are a hundred times larger. And even were I to forswear my allegiance and defeat him there would still be the Eternal.’

There is a man coming to you. He carries the Swords of Night and Day. Ride with him, Alahir.

‘And this will save my people?’

I cannot say for certain. There is much I do not know. I will try to speak again, but for now I must leave you. My strength is waning. Draw the sword, Alahir. Don the Armour.

‘Wait!’ he shouted. The word echoed, and then there was silence.

Draw the sword, the voice had said. Not an easy task when it was encased in crystal. Alahir reached out towards the hilt. His hand slid through the crystal as if it were mist.

He shivered.

Then drew the golden sword from the crystal. It was lighter than it looked, and yet perfectly balanced, the golden blade glittering in the shaft of sunlight. Alahir sighed — and returned it to its scabbard.

Askari found a deep cave in which the travellers could shelter from the wind, and the four of them hunkered down in its mouth and risked a fire. Skilgannon had been withdrawn since the death of Gamal, and had spoken little. Harad and Charis seemed oblivious of everything, except each other. They would walk hand in hand, and, at night, wander off to be alone. Askari too had left the brooding Skilgannon, and gone scouting. Her thoughts were troubled as she found the cave. So much had happened in these last few days. Her entire world had been torn asunder. Her settlement was ruined and deserted, her friends fled or slain. Landis Kan was dead. And yet the handsome swordsman filled her mind. She found herself watching him, noting with satisfaction the easy grace of his movements, the calm, assured style of his speech. It was difficult to look into those sapphire eyes without reddening. It was as if he could read her thoughts, and they were not thoughts considered seemly.

Desire was not a stranger to Askari. She had desired Stavut, and before him a tall young woodsman who used to travel to the settlement for supplies. Her feelings for Skilgannon, however, were vastly different. A glance from him would set her heart beating faster. She sensed in him a similar desire, and yet, for some reason, he fought it. Askari could not understand such reticence.

As they settled down by the fire she saw him staring out over the mountains, his face expressionless, his eyes distant.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked. For a moment she thought he had not heard her. Then he sighed.

‘I was thinking of a temple that no longer exists,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘It holds the key to everything.’

‘You are a strange man.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘strange indeed. You spoke of Reborns earlier. You said I should beware Decado, because he is soulless.’

‘I remember. You gave an odd answer.’

‘Not so odd, Askari. I am Skilgannon. Once I was called the Damned. I led armies, destroyed cities.

Cities that are now dust, and forgotten by history.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘How could that be?’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Because I am a Reborn. I died a thousand years ago. Landis Kan brought me back. . from Hell,’ he added.

She looked at him closely, hoping he was lying for some reason. She saw in his face that he was not.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.

‘I was brought back for a purpose — one that even Landis did not fully understand. One that I certainly do not yet understand. I need to find that temple. The answers are there.’

‘You did not answer my question.’

‘It is not easy to answer.’ He glanced back to where Harad and Charis were sitting together in the rear of the cave, holding hands and leaning close. ‘Harad is also a Reborn.’

‘No!’

‘I am afraid so. You think he has no soul?’

‘Landis Kan brought him back?’ she asked.

‘Landis Kan could not bring back the man he was. He tried. He went to Harad when he was a child and asked about his dreams, hoping, I think, to gain some insight to who he might have been in that previous life.’

Askari looked into those sapphire eyes, and this time did not redden. ‘He asked me about my dreams also,’ she pointed out.

He nodded. ‘Then do you need your question answered?’

A cold knot appeared in the pit of her stomach. The ramifications of his words were too ghastly to contemplate. Anger flared.

‘You are suggesting that I am a soulless Reborn?’

‘I said nothing about souls. And I am suggesting nothing. I know you are a Reborn. That is why they are hunting you. That is why Decado called you Jianna.’

‘I don’t believe it! I know who I am. I am Askari.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said softly. Then, as best he could, he told her of the process Landis Kan had described to him, the placing of shards of bone in an arcane machine, and the impregnation of a willing surrogate. ‘You were born, as any child is. You were nursed and raised. But the essence of your physical being comes from Jianna the Eternal. Everything about you is identical to her. It is why she has become the Eternal. Young women are bred from her essence and born. As the years pass the Eternal casts off each ageing body, and takes. . steals. . a new form.’

‘She casts out their souls from their bodies?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where do they go?’

‘To the horror of the Void, and, perhaps, through it. I do not know.’

‘And this is her plan for me?’

‘I don’t think so. I think Landis Kan wanted you for himself. It is my belief that he loved the Eternal, and that she discarded him. You were his future. That is why he wanted to take you to distant lands.’

Askari looked at him closely. Anger was still strong in her, but she could no longer deny the obvious.

He had called her Jianna when first they met. Decado had also been convinced of her identity. Inner turmoil raged and she felt the need to strike out. ‘So,’ she said, at last, ‘when Landis Kan created you, he did it the same way?’

‘I would imagine so.’

‘Your body would have been born and then grown to manhood. Then the soul was cast out and you were brought back to. . how did you put it. . steal the body?’ She saw the shock register. The sapphire eyes closed and a look of pain crossed his features.

‘How stupid of me,’ he said. ‘It did not cross my mind. I have been too self-absorbed. Of course. A young man was bred to be slaughtered so that I could return.’ She saw his pain and felt a stab of guilt that she had caused it, and her anger passed.

‘Why did he bring you back?’

‘He thought I could end the reign of the Eternal. He tried to tell me his actions were to protect his people. They were not. It was all so that he could find a place to be with you, without fear that Jianna would find him.’

‘Did he think you would kill her?’

‘I don’t know what he thought. He was relying on an old prophecy. It referred to my swords, and some magical silver eagle. That was why he sought my tomb.’

‘I know of the Silver Eagle,’ she said. ‘It flies among the stars, granting wishes to righteous wizards.

An old hunter told me the tale, on the night he gave me my first longbow. The ancient gods crafted it from silver, and blessed it with life. Then they hurled it into the sky and it flies around the world, for ever, chasing the moon, and feeding on the sun.’

He smiled. ‘Ah well, then perhaps that is my destiny. To be cast into the sky to seek its nest.’ Then the smile faded. ‘The truth is I do not yet know my destiny. What I do know is that I must fight her, and do everything in my power to end her reign.’

‘Can you?’ asked Askari.

‘Once there was a time when I believed there was no deed beyond me. I was younger then. Now I am a fifty-four-year-old man in a young body, striding through a world that is alien to me. I cannot undo the evil that Jianna has wrought. But I knew the woman who made the prophecy, and I trust her.

Therefore there must be some way I can win.’

‘And you believe this. . this lost temple is the answer?’

‘Yes. All the magic seems to have flowed from it. I went there once. I saw the ancient artefacts, and the glittering lights in the walls, with no flame in them. I stayed there for a month. It seemed to me that all the priests there were wizards, in one form or another.’

‘You say it is no longer there?’

‘Gamal told me the entire mountain, in which the temple was carved, has disappeared. All that remains is open land, where metal twists out of shape, and natural laws hold no sway.’

‘Mountains cannot disappear,’ she said.

‘My thoughts exactly.’ He laughed then, the sound rich and full of humour. ‘But then I am a thousand-year-old dead man in a world full of monsters. Who am I to deny the power of magic?’

Just then huge flocks of birds took off from the trees below the cave, soaring into the sky like a black cloud. The wind died down and an eerie silence settled over the land. Askari pushed herself to her feet.

‘That is not natural,’ she said.

A low rumble came from the ground beneath them. Skilgannon surged to his feet. ‘Earthquake!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of the cave! Harad! Get out into the open!’ Hauling Askari to her feet he held tightly to her hand and they began to run. The earth twisted beneath their feet. Skilgannon staggered. Askari fell against him. From above them came a great crashing. Rocks and boulders began to tumble down the cliff

— then a huge section of stone sheared away. Harad and Charis came running from the cave. A massive rock crashed down mere feet from where they stood. Charis fell. The black-bearded axeman picked her up and began to sprint for open ground. More boulders tumbled, then an avalanche began. Skilgannon ran down the slope, seeking out a place of safety. There was none to be found. He ran on for a while.

Boulders came flying past him. Finally he swung round. ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Askari.

‘We can’t avoid what we can’t see,’ he told her.

A huge rock, twice the height of a man, came hurtling towards them. Skilgannon darted to the left. The rock crashed into a tree, snapping the trunk. The ground lurched — and opened beneath Askari. Even as she fell Skilgannon dived, his hand stretching out. Her fingers clutched at his wrist. For a moment it seemed her weight would drag him over the edge of the huge crack in the earth. But he held on. Using her feet Askari scrambled up from the yawning gap. Skilgannon hauled her to solid ground. With a grinding roar the earth closed. Dust spewed up around them. Trees were tumbling about them, and with the dust clouds and the shifting earth there was no way to avoid disaster. Skilgannon drew Askari in close, holding tightly to her. Helpless against the fury of nature she suddenly relaxed, laying her face against his cheek. And they stood, waiting for the end.

Then silence came again, and the dust slowly settled.

‘We are still alive,’ said Askari, genuinely surprised. All around them were fallen trees and massive boulders. One tree had crashed into the earth no more than ten feet from where they stood.

‘So it would appear,’ he said, releasing his hold on her. A sense of emptiness touched Askari as his arms fell away from her. ‘Where is Harad?’ he said suddenly. Together they ran back over the ruined land, searching through the fallen trees. Skilgannon found Harad pinned beneath the trunk of an elm.

Touching the axeman’s throat he felt a pulse, strong and steady. He had been hit by the upper part of the tree, and thrown from his feet. Skilgannon had no way to test for broken bones or internal injuries.

Calling out to Askari he tried to lift the tree from the unconscious axeman. It was too heavy. Even with Askari’s help he could raise it only a few inches. ‘You take the weight again,’ Askari told him, ‘and I will try to pull Harad clear.’

Crouching down he grasped the trunk, and waited for Askari to get into position alongside Harad.

‘Ready!’ she said. Skilgannon took a deep breath, then heaved at the trunk. Askari grabbed Harad’s jerkin and hauled at the huge body. Skilgannon strained to hold the trunk, as inch by inch Askari eased Harad from beneath it. ‘Clear!’ she said.

Gratefully Skilgannon released his hold. His arms were trembling and he saw there were cuts upon his palms. Ignoring the pain he ran to Harad. ‘There is no blood in his mouth,’ he said. ‘That is a good sign.

And his pulse is strong. With luck he is merely bruised and stunned.’ He glanced around. ‘We must find Charis.’

‘I found her,’ said Askari softly. ‘Let us see to Harad.’