The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Fourteen

When Harad opened his eyes he was surprised to feel no pain. He remembered the tree falling, and trying to push Charis away from it. He had hurled himself back, and the trunk had hammered into him, smashing him to the earth. His head had struck a rock, and he had been knocked unconscious for the first time in his life.

Now he felt fine, though the earthquake seemed to have caused incredible changes to the landscape.

The sky was uniformly grey, and there were no trees growing anywhere. He sat up. In fact there were no trees at all, either standing or fallen. Puzzled, he looked round. He saw Charis sitting with Skilgannon, and a bigger man just beyond them. There was something familiar about the huge figure. He was wearing a black leather jerkin, with metal plates upon the shoulders, and a round helm. And he was carrying Harad’s axe. None of this made any sense to Harad, and he looked at Skilgannon.

‘What is happening?’ he asked.

Skilgannon glanced back at the silver-bearded axeman, who moved forward and knelt beside Harad.

‘How are you feeling, laddie?’

‘Good.’ Harad looked up into the ice blue eyes. Then at the helm with the axes and skull motif. ‘You are Druss.’

‘Aye, that I am.’

Charis moved alongside him, laying her hand upon his cheek. ‘You should not be here, my love,’ she said.

‘I should be where you are. Always.’ He looked at Skilgannon. The warrior was dressed differently, in leggings and a tunic. There was no sign of his swords, and he looked more like a farm worker than a warrior. ‘I don’t understand any of this. Where is Askari?’ Harad asked him.

‘I do not know any Askari.’

‘Have you gone mad? We are travelling together.’

‘I do not know you either, my friend. My name is Geoval. My home is. . was. . on the coast. Now it is here, in this grey horror.’

‘Then I have gone mad,’ said Harad. ‘Or this is a dream?’

‘Aye, laddie, it is a dream of sorts,’ said Druss. ‘There is no easy way to say this, so I’ll be blunt.

Charis was killed on the mountainside. This is why she is here, in the Void. Why you are here is another matter.’

Suddenly something screeched down from the sky. Harad saw it and surged to his feet. The winged creature swept towards Druss, talons extended. The axeman reared up and hammered Snaga through its ribs. The demon disappeared instantly. ‘Where were we?’ said Druss. ‘Ah, yes. You should not be here, Harad. The life force is strong in you. Trust me, laddie, you cannot stay.’

Harad backed away from the axeman, then moved to Charis’s side. Taking her hand he raised it to his lips and kissed it. ‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘It is all wrong. We will go back together. We will end this dream. Then we will make the life we planned.’

Charis stepped into his embrace, and kissed his bearded cheek. ‘I cannot go back,’ she said. ‘Oh, I so wish I could.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘You don’t remember, do you? Believe me, Harad, my dear, there is no way for me to return. You will understand when you go back.’

‘I’ll not go back without you.’

‘No, Harad. Please don’t say that. You are not dead. You have a life to live.’

‘Without you I might as well be dead. And if I am not dead, then why am I here?’

‘It was love which brought you,’ said Druss. ‘I can understand that. A man should be prepared to face death for the woman he loves. Charis is right, though. This is not the place for you. Charis can feel the Golden Valley reaching out to her. I shall escort her there. And you — you can hear life calling you. I know you are resisting it, Harad. But the call will get stronger.’

Harad’s head dropped, and he kissed Charis tenderly. ‘You are my life,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go on without you. I won’t!’

‘Love doesn’t die, Harad,’ she whispered. ‘And I will be waiting for you in that valley.’

He wanted to answer her, but felt strangely light-headed. A sense of weightlessness flowed through him. ‘Not yet!’ he shouted.

Then his weight returned, and he felt solid earth beneath his back, and mountain air filling his lungs.

Harad opened his eyes. Skilgannon was beside him to the right — the real Skilgannon, an ivory sword hilt jutting above his shoulder. Askari was sitting by his left. ‘Thought we’d lost you,’ said the warrior.

‘Your pulse faded for a while.’

‘Where is Charis?’

‘She died, Harad. I am sorry. Askari and I buried her.’

Harad tried to sit, but pain stabbed through his right side. He swore and sank back. Skilgannon spoke.

‘You are badly bruised, my friend, and may even have snapped a rib or two. You need to rest.’

‘How did she die? I pushed her away from the falling tree.’

‘A falling boulder struck her,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Death was instantaneous.’

Harad looked at the swordsman. ‘I saw your twin in the Void. He was with Druss. His name is Geoval. He lived near the coast.’

‘Druss told me he was protecting someone there.’ Skilgannon sighed. ‘Landis Kan killed him in order to give me his body. We exchanged places in the Void.’ He laid his hand on Harad’s shoulder. ‘Get some sleep. It will be night soon.’

‘It will always be night for me, from now on,’ said Harad.

Skilgannon moved away from the axeman. Askari joined him, and together they walked through the ruined wood. ‘That was a good lie to tell him,’ she said.

‘It was what a friend of mine once called a velvet lie. The truth would have crushed him.’

They paused by the graveside, and Skilgannon lifted Snaga from the ground. One of the blades was smeared with dried blood. He plunged it into the earth, then pulled up a section of long grass and rubbed at the blade until all sign of the stain had vanished. ‘We like to think of life as a constant,’ he said. ‘Yet it can be ended in a heartbeat.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but that was a cruel way to die.’

‘They are all cruel, in their own way. And it wasn’t a complete lie. When the axe flew from Harad’s hand I think it struck the boulder and ricocheted. She would have known nothing. It was a swift, painless death.’

‘Yet pointless.’

‘Most deaths are,’ he said. ‘Even those that seem to have purpose. I died seeking to save a people I had grown to love. Now the nation no longer exists. The Angostin are part of the dust of history.

Ultimately my sacrifice was worth nothing. But then, ultimately, all the works of man are as nothing.’

‘Don’t agree,’ said Askari. ‘When I was a child I remember Kinyon rescuing a little boy from a cliff face. He was trapped on a ledge, a hundred feet above the ground. Kinyon climbed that rock face. It was raining, the holds were slippery. He almost fell several times. Yet he reached the child, swung him to his back, and made the long climb down. The boy died the following spring, of a fever. Does that mean Kinyon’s bravery was for nothing?’

‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘My old swordmaster used to talk about the Now. It is all there is. The past is a memory, the future a dream, the present a reality. All we can ever do is live in the Now, and try to ensure that our deeds are worthy. Kinyon’s deed was worthy.’ He sighed. ‘You are right to chide me.

What counts is how we live now, not whether in a thousand years civilizations will fall.’

‘So what will we do now?’

‘We?’

‘You don’t want me with you?’

‘I don’t want you killed.’

‘If we can end the reign of the Eternal, then I won’t be,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about destiny, and I don’t care about the Eternal and her magic. I never did. All I wanted was to live in the high country, to hunt, to swim, to eat, to laugh. It seems to me, though, that we are here for a reason. You, me, Harad.

Three Reborns, all from the same period in time. So tell me again of the prophecy, and let us try to make sense of it.’

‘There is no sense to any of it,’ he snapped. ‘Whatever Ustarte prophesied has become a piece of doggerel verse. Hero Reborn, torn from the grey, reunited with blades, of Night and of Day. Landis Kan did not tell me the rest of it, save, as I said, that it involved killing a mountain giant with a golden shield, and stealing an egg from a silver eagle.’

‘Perhaps the key to the riddle is in the tale of the eagle,’ she suggested.

‘A magical bird that flies round the sun?’

‘Feeds on the sun,’ she corrected, ‘and flies round the moon.’

‘Granting wishes to wizards,’ he said. ‘I was listening.’

‘Only with part of your mind. All legends have a base in fact. Kinyon told me that. They just get elaborated. They distort as they grow.’

‘There’s truth in that,’ he said. He laughed. ‘When Landis Kan first woke me I went to his library and studied all that was known about my life. I had no memory then, and wanted to learn about myself. Much of what I did was there, but hidden beneath ludicrous tales of flying horses and fire-breathing dragons.

Yes, you are right. We need to examine the fables. Tell me again all you can recall about the eagle.’

He listened as she spoke. ‘Why wizards?’ he said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Why would the bird grant wishes only to wizards? Why not heroes? Why not farmers?’

‘I don’t know. Righteous wizards, so the story goes. What are you thinking?’

‘Wizards understand the nature of magic. They use magic to weave spells. So it is not a question of the bird making a choice to grant wishes. It is the wizards who take magic from the bird.’ He fell silent, thinking it through. ‘The eagle is not alive. It is merely a source of power for the wizards to call upon. It is silver,’ he went on. ‘Created. An artefact, just like the machines in the temple, and back at Landis Kan’s palace.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘What am I saying? A machine which floats in the sky and, somehow, sends power to the earth? It makes no sense. How would they send it into the sky? And why would it not fall back down?’

‘The why is not important now,’ she said. ‘Any more than your winged horse. The eagle is the answer.

And the egg that you must steal.’

‘Or destroy,’ he said. He swore softly. ‘There is something we are missing. Something central. If the eagle was placed in the sky by the ancients, and if all magic began in that moment, why is it only in this time that the artefacts of the ancients can be used again? We had a few Joinings in my day — Jiamads, as you call them. They were created by Nadir shamans. But nothing on the scale we see now.’

He paused by a fallen log and sat down. ‘This is making my head spin,’ he told her. ‘We are building theories about something implausible and impossible. A metal bird that had great power, lost it, and then had it returned. And what of the giants with golden shields?’ He suddenly froze.

‘What is it?’ she asked him.

‘The shield of gold. I have seen it. It is not carried by a mountain giant, but sits upon a giant mountain, above the Temple of the Resurrection. It is huge. The priests called it the Mirror of Heaven. It is coming back to me now. A young man I knew took me to the temple. He talked of it on the way, about abbots in the ancient days, and of the Mirror. They called it a mirror because when it first appeared lights blazed within the darkened halls. Lights with no flame, like captured sunlight. They believed the Mirror somehow reflected sunlight into the mountain. That was when the ancient artefacts had their magic renewed. I think I have it now. The metal bird always had magic, but only when the Mirror appeared did that magic flow freely back from the sky. It also explains the vanity.’

‘Vanity?’ queried Askari. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Landis Kan said the eagle was vain — in love with its own reflection. The eagle gazes at itself in the Mirror of Heaven. Only then does the magic flow.’

‘And it flows into the egg,’ she said.

‘Exactly. And it is from the egg that the artefacts somehow draw their power. If I destroy the egg, the machines will be useless again. No more Reborns. And the Eternal will be human, and face death like the rest of us.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I must find the temple.’

‘ We must find the temple,’ she corrected him. ‘How far is it from here?’

‘That is hard to say. I did not travel to it from this direction. I took a ship from Mellicane, a city on the eastern coast. It journeyed to an estuary on this side of the ocean, on the river Rostrias.’

‘Kinyon would know. Originally he came from the north.’

Another hunt had ended successfully, and Stavut sat contentedly by the fire, cutting slices of roast venison. Shakul and nine of his pack were stretched out on the ground nearby, bellies distended, and sleeping soundly. A second pack of eighteen Jiamads had returned earlier. Led by the small, mottled grey Grava, they had also been successful, though it had taken Stavut a little while to grasp this. Grava’s speech was horribly mangled by his overlong tongue and Stavut had to struggle to understand a word he said. It was no surprise, however, that yet again Grava had returned with two more Jiamads than he had started with. Before long, thought Stavut, every runaway Jem in the high country would be part of Bloodshirt’s pack.

He grinned. His fear of the beasts had long since departed. Indeed, he found he actually enjoyed their company, and had taken to wandering off with them for longer periods. In some ways this was good.

Kinyon and the villagers had become increasingly concerned, and, despite Stavut’s best efforts, remained frightened and wary around the huge creatures. There had even been some talk of returning to their village and taking a chance on the land’s not being invaded. Stavut had soon stopped this line of conversation. ‘Skilgannon says the enemy will come back. I don’t think he’s a man given to exaggeration.

The best way is forward. I am sure Alahir will help us.’

Surprisingly, there had been little argument. People just nodded and wandered away. In fact very few people argued with Stavut now. Probably, he reasoned, because he had proved to be such a good provider and leader.

When Grava returned with the two newcomers he had pushed them to stand before Bloodshirt. Stavut had stood and stared coolly at the Jiamads. It had become a ritual, and Stavut enjoyed the drama of it.

‘You wish to join Bloodshirt’s pack?’ he asked them.

They were a scrawny pair, one heavily round-shouldered, almost hunchbacked, the second tall and thin, his fur almost black. They stared at him, then looked at Grava, who said something unintelligible in a harsh growl.

‘Serve Bloodshirt,’ said the hunchback.

‘Your names?’ asked Stavut.

‘Ironfist,’ the hunchback answered. ‘This Blackrock,’ he added, pointing to his skinny, black-furred companion.

‘You will hunt with us. You will kill no Skins.’

They both nodded.

‘Do not forget it. Now go.’

They shuffled away. Grava said something else, which Stavut did not understand, but it ended in a gargling sound, which Stavut had recognized as laughter, so he had smiled and nodded. Then he had settled down by the fire.

Shakul awoke and stretched. Then he broke wind loudly.

‘Charming,’ said Stavut.

‘Good sleep,’ said Shakul. ‘No dreams.’

‘The best kind.’ Stavut scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. Normally he was clean shaven, but lately he had decided a beard would suit Bloodshirt. ‘Time to be getting back to the villagers,’ he said.

‘They will be glad of the fresh meat.’

Shakul lifted his head and sniffed the air. ‘They have gone,’ he said.

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘Head south.’

‘They wouldn’t do that.’

Shakul shrugged, then leaned down towards the joint of roasted venison. ‘Burned,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘When did they go?’

‘We leave, they leave,’ said Shakul.

‘That was yesterday morning. ‘Why would they do that?’ said Stavut.

‘Fear us,’ said Shakul. ‘Fear Bloodshirt.’ Stavut looked into the beast’s golden eyes, and at the huge fangs in the immense face. Suddenly he realized that the villagers’ lack of argument had had nothing to do with his leadership, but everything to do with their terror of the beasts, and an increased fear of Stavut himself.

‘I would never have harmed them,’ he said.

Shakul’s head came up. The wind was southerly, and he tipped his head, his nostrils quivering.

‘Many Skins,’ he said. ‘Horses. Jems.’

‘Soldiers?’ queried Stavut.

‘They hunt us?’ responded Shakul, his eyes glinting.

‘I wouldn’t think so. Where are they?’

‘South. Your Skins see them soon.’

Stavut swore. ‘We must get to them. If it is an enemy raiding party they will be in danger.’

‘Useless Skins,’ said Shakul. ‘Don’t hunt. Do nothing. Better without them.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Stavut, ‘but, as you say, they are my Skins. We help them.’

Shakul rose and let out a howl which brought the other Jiamads to their feet. ‘Run fast,’ said Shakul.

‘Bloodshirt slow. Shakul carry Bloodshirt.’

The suggestion put Stavut in a quandary. He knew it was the only sensible choice. The Jiamads could move at terrifying speed, and if they waited for him it would be a long, slow, and pointless journey. If the villagers were in danger now that peril would be long past by the time the group reached them. On the other hand there were only two ways Stavut could be carried by Shakul. Either like a babe in arms, or clinging to the fur on his back. The first would be ludicrous, and would — Stavut believed — severely dent his authority among the beasts. The second would be equally risible, for Stavut’s arms were not powerful, and he knew he could not hang on to the fur for a long journey. This left the prospect of falling off a number of times, and then having to revert to the first ghastly option, that of being carried like a babe.

‘Right,’ said Stavut, buying time to think. ‘Let’s be sure of what we are all doing. We are seeking my comrades, who may be in danger. If they are we must rescue them. I want no-one rushing in. We get close enough to see what the situation is, then I shall give orders. Is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ said Shakul. ‘Now leave?’

Stavut gazed round at the pack. There were over forty Jiamads now. Some still carried iron-studded clubs, others heavy swords. A few retained long staffs. Several of them still wore wide baldrics on their shoulders, from which hung empty scabbards. Stavut crossed to two of them, and told them to remove their baldrics. The beasts did so without question, handing them to Stavut. Both had broad brass buckles.

He buckled them together and walked back to Shakul. ‘Bend forward,’ he said. Shakul obeyed instantly.

Stavut slipped the double-size baldric over his head. Shakul was larger than any of the Jiamads, and the leather hung to just above his hips. ‘Stand still,’ said Stavut, lifting his leg and placing it on the lowest part of the loop. Then he stood and took hold of the long fur on Shakul’s massive shoulders. ‘Now we go!’

he said.

Shakul took off at a great pace, and Stavut was briefly thrown back. He clung on grimly, seeking to read the rhythm of the great beast’s running style. Within a very short space of time he began to feel sick.

It was almost as bad as the first time he had gone to sea. With iron resolve he willed his belly to hold on to its contents, and tried to think of other things as the run continued. This was hard, for with each heavy running step Shakul took Stavut’s belly heaved.

Just when he felt he could hold on no longer he saw a sight that took all thoughts of sickness from him.

Shakul ran into the campsite they had left yesterday. Stavut’s wagon was still there, his beloved horses, Longshanks and Brightstar — or what was left of them — still tethered. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. Shakul came to a stop and Stavut leapt down. His legs almost gave way, and the ground seemed to be rocking as he gazed down at the dead beasts. He saw a movement in the trees nearby, and two grey wolves padded back from sight. The villagers had left his wagon behind, not thinking that, with the brake applied, the tethered horses would have no way to escape a wolf pack.

Shakul loomed alongside him. ‘I loved those horses,’ Stavut told him. The great beast looked nonplussed. Stavut sighed. Two Jiamads approached the dead beasts. Shakul snarled at them, ordering them back.

‘Time to move on,’ said Stavut.

This time he felt no sickness. His heart was heavy, and all he wanted was to find the villagers safe.

Then he would turn the pack over to Shakul, seek out new horses and head north.

He realized Shakul was speaking to him, and leaned forward to catch what he was saying.

‘Blood in air,’ said Shakul. ‘Skin blood.’

The trio rested up for most of that day, and the one following. Harad said little. He sat by Charis’s grave, his expression bleak, his eyes distant. Skilgannon did not intrude on his grief, and Askari left the two men, and set off to hunt for food. She returned at dusk on the second day with three hares, which she skinned.

‘The meat is better when left to hang for a while,’ she said, as they ate.

Skilgannon thanked her for the meal, then walked out into the moonlight. His mind flowed back to the dream meeting with Memnon. Now there was a dangerous man. No anger, no hatred; a cold mind and eyes which glittered with intelligence. He was an enemy to fear.

He suddenly laughed aloud. All across this war-torn land there were enemies to fear: armies of Joinings, cavalry, foot soldiers, archers. Memnon was merely one more to add to the list, along with Jianna and Decado — and who knew who else.

He glanced back to where Harad sat by the fire and sighed. The young man had lost the woman he loved, and his world was in ruins. Skilgannon felt for him, recalling the cold day he had heard of Jianna’s death. Would Harad ever be the man he once was, Skilgannon wondered? He had not touched the axe all day. It lay against the cliff wall, forgotten.

Askari strolled out. ‘You want to be alone?’ she asked.

‘No. We must set out tomorrow, and find Kinyon. Or if not Kinyon, then someone who can offer directions to the Rostrias. I am sure that if I find the river, I can locate the temple.’

They heard a horse whinny in the darkness. Askari reached for her bow, and notched a shaft. A figure rode into sight. It was Decado.

His clothing was travel-stained, a layer of dust dulling the black jerkin he wore. He seemed surprised to see them, and drew rein.

Askari drew back on the string, but Skilgannon reached out and touched her arm. ‘Do not kill him yet,’ he said.

‘Nice of you,’ said Decado, lifting his leg over the saddle pommel and jumping lightly to the ground.

His dark eyes stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘So, you are my ancestor. To be honest I see no resemblance.’

‘I do,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘It is in the haunted look, and the fear of the blades.’

‘I fear nothing,’ said Decado. ‘Not you, not the beauty with the bow, not the Shadows. Nothing.’

‘A poor lie,’ Skilgannon replied. ‘You fear losing those blades. You do not like them out of your sight.

When you sit in the evenings you make sure they are beside you. You reach out and touch them endlessly. In the mornings the first action you take is to caress the hilts.’

Decado gave a cold smile. ‘True,’ he said, reaching up and pressing an emerald stud on the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. With one smooth pull the Sword of Fire slid from its scabbard. Skilgannon stepped back and drew his own blades.

‘You have come a long way just to die here, boy,’ said Skilgannon.

Decado’s second blade appeared in his hand. ‘A man has to die somewhere. Keep the bow notched,’

he said to Askari, ‘and move back away from us. Stand as close to the cliff wall as you can.’

Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Decado loosen the muscles of his arms, sweeping the swords back and forth. ‘You see the clouds gathering?’ said Decado.

Skilgannon glanced at the sky. Harad, axe in hand, had moved out into the open.

‘Be ready when they cover the moon,’ said Decado. ‘I don’t know how good you are, kinsman, but death is very close if you are less than superb.’

‘You think you are that good?’

Decado smiled. ‘Oh, I know how good I am, but it is not me you need to concern yourself with at this moment. The Shadows are here.’

Darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon closed his eyes, slipping into the Illusion of Elsewhere. There came a sudden hissing sound, like a breeze blowing through a window crack. Skilgannon spun, the Sword of Night slicing through the air. The blade struck something metallic, which then fell against his shoulder. He heard Askari cry out. Then came a high-pitched screech of pain. The darkness was total. Skilgannon leapt to his right, then spun again, blades extended. He heard the slightest whisper of movement. Instantly he dropped to one knee and slashed out with the Sword of Day. The blade struck something soft, then cut through. The clouds began to clear the moon. Sight returned. Skilgannon blinked. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw a pale form some twenty feet away. Then it was gone — only to appear alongside him. A dark dagger plunged towards his chest. The Sword of Night swept up. The creature ducked and moved with incredible speed. The Sword of Day snaked out, the very tip of the blade slicing across the creature’s throat. It sped away, staggered, then fell.

Moonlight shone down, illuminating the open ground. Harad was down, as was Askari. Decado looked at Skilgannon and smiled. ‘Quick, aren’t they?’

There were three skeletal bodies lying on the earth. Snaga was embedded in one, a second lay close to Decado, and the third was the one slain by Skilgannon. ‘And now do we fight?’ he asked Decado.

‘If you really want to,’ replied the swordsman. ‘For myself I would like to sit beside a fire and relax.

Perhaps stroke my sword hilts for a while.’

‘How many more of these creatures are there?’

‘None close, I think. They travel in threes. More will come, though.’

Skilgannon moved alongside Askari and knelt down. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes open.

Reaching out he touched her throat. There was a faint pulse. ‘She is not dead,’ said Decado. ‘The venom in their darts and daggers merely paralyses. Close her eyes for her, and let her sleep. She will awake in an hour or so, with a ghastly headache.’

He stepped to where Harad lay. ‘Now that is a strange sight,’ he said. ‘I would have wagered all I have that a huge clod with an axe would not have been able to kill a Shadow.’ Placing a booted foot under Harad he flipped the axeman to his back. Sheathing his swords, he dropped to one knee and closed Harad’s eyes. Then, ignoring the fallen man, he walked over to the dying fire and added a few sticks. Skilgannon joined him.

‘Why did you aid us?’ he asked.

‘Actually, kinsman, it was the other way round. The Shadows were hunting me. So, how does it feel to be alive again, after all these centuries?’

‘Why were they hunting you?’

‘I fell out of favour with the Eternal. She ordered my death. Strange, really. She only had to ask me and I would have killed myself for her.’ Decado sighed. ‘According to legend you loved her too, so you’ll know what I mean.’

‘What do you intend to do now?’ said Skilgannon, ignoring the comment.

‘Well,’ said Decado, ‘I could follow your historic example and join a monastery. I don’t think so, though. My namesake did that too, you know. He was after your time. He became a warrior of the Thirty, in the days of Tenaka Khan. He was known as the Ice Killer — the greatest swordsman of his age.

Of any age. I suppose he would have been your. . what. . great-great-grandson. Something like that.

Nice to know blood can run true, don’t you think?’

‘You have merely said what you are not going to do,’ pointed out Skilgannon.

‘I have not made up my mind.’

‘Let me know when you do.’

‘You’ll be the first, kinsman.’

Skilgannon cleaned his blades then sheathed them.

‘Our swords are very similar,’ said Decado. ‘Is that how you knew of my obsession?’

‘Yes. It is the same for me. These blades are possessed, Decado. They make us more violent. They have the capacity to unhinge us, turn us into madmen. They call for blood and death. It is hard to resist them. Yours are more dangerous than mine. The Swords of Night and Day were created by a witch named Hewla. She was extraordinarily talented, but the blades she made were merely copies of a more ancient and deadly pair. You carry those. The Swords of Blood and Fire.’

‘I was a killer before I carried them,’ said Decado sadly. ‘I cannot blame the swords for what I became.’ He looked up at Skilgannon. ‘Jianna told me you killed the last man to carry these. She talked of you often. I found myself growing jealous of a man long dead. I used to hope that someone would bring you back — just so that I could kill you, and show the world you were not as great as they believed.’

‘And now?’

‘Pretty much the same,’ said Decado, with a smile.

Askari felt a tingling sensation in her fingers. Then feeling returned. Slowly she opened her right hand, pressing the tip of her index finger against the thumb. The tingling swept up along her right forearm. She lay quietly, her head throbbing, as slowly her body came once more under her control. With a groan she sat up. Skilgannon moved to her side. ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘What were they?’

‘Decado called them Shadows. A different form of Jiamad.’

‘I have never seen anything move so fast. One moment it was yards away, the next. .’ She glanced down at her green shirt. There was a small hole in the shoulder, drying blood upon it.’. . it bit me. As I fell I saw it spin and fly at Harad. Is he all right?’

‘He killed it, but it stunned him also. He is still sleeping.’

‘Oh, it is not sleep,’ she said, with a sudden shiver. ‘I heard everything. Your conversation with Decado, the crackling of wood upon the fire. I just could not move.’

By the fire Decado stirred. Rolling smoothly to his feet he swung his black scabbard over his shoulders and moved alongside Skilgannon and Askari. She found the intensity of his gaze disturbing. ‘Stop staring at me,’ she said.

Decado laughed. ‘Hard not to. The resemblance is. . uncanny.’

‘And that is all it is,’ she snapped. ‘I am not like her.’ On the far side of the fire Harad sat up. Then he pushed himself to his feet, staggered, and walked out into the open. Skilgannon rose and followed him.

Askari remained with Decado. ‘Now it is you staring at me,’ he said.

‘I have heard tales of you. None of them good. You must be a very sad and bitter man.’

‘Nonsense. I am as happy as anyone else.’

‘I cannot believe that.’

‘It is true. My childhood was a time of great joy and laughter. I was the most popular child in my village. And now I am known for my wit and my charm. You have any food here?’

‘No.’

‘Ah well, no matter.’

‘How did those creatures move so fast?’ she asked him.

‘It is mostly beyond my understanding. They are fashioned, I understand, from creatures with hollow bones, very light. Bats, birds, something like that. Terrifying, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘They do what they are bred to do. They are merely dangerous. You are terrifying.’

She struggled to stand. Instantly Decado reached out a hand to support her. She brushed it away angrily.

‘Do not touch me!’

‘Are you afraid you might be more like her than you think?’

‘Meaning?’

‘She enjoyed my touch.’

‘Perhaps that is because you are so alike,’ said Askari. ‘You are both monsters.’

‘There is that,’ he agreed amiably.

‘And if she enjoyed your touch so greatly, why does she now want you dead?’

‘A lovers’ spat,’ he said. ‘You know how it is. Boy meets girl, girl wants boy dead. An everyday story, really.’

Despite the lightness of tone she saw the pain in his eyes. For a moment she felt sympathy, but the feeling was quickly replaced by a burst of anger. ‘Well, for once I hope she gets what she wants. You are evil, and the world would be better off without you in it.’

‘True enough,’ he answered. Walking away from her he went to his horse, and stepped into the saddle. Askari followed him out. Skilgannon and Harad were standing close by.

‘I expect we shall meet again,’ said Decado.

‘As enemies or friends?’ Skilgannon asked him.

‘Who knows? If you are heading north be aware that a large company of soldiers and Jems is ahead of you. Advance column for the main army. The last battle against Agrias is close now. Jianna wants to end the war this side of the ocean.’ With that he turned his mount and rode off.

‘I don’t like him,’ said Harad.

‘He doesn’t like himself,’ Askari told him. ‘Which shows he is capable of good judgement.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘Even so, I am glad he was here when the Shadows attacked. What did you talk about?’

‘Jianna. I told him I was not like her.’ She looked into his sapphire eyes. ‘I am not, am I?’

‘I cannot give you the answer you want to hear,’ he said. ‘When I first knew her she was just like you.

Brave — indeed fearless — and loyal and beautiful. She was her own woman, with a strong, independent mind. We used to talk about how we would change the world. When she became Queen of Naashan she would make the land like a garden, and every citizen would live in peace and prosperity. Those were her dreams.’

‘So why did she change?’

‘She became Queen of Naashan,’ he said simply.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It took me a while,’ he told her. ‘Mostly people obey the laws of their respective lands for one simple reason. If they break them they will suffer for it. The thought of suffering deters them from wrongdoing. It is an age-old principle. Kill someone, and you yourself will be killed. Rob someone and you will be punished. You might lose a hand, or be branded upon the brow, or indeed hanged. The question is, what happens when you are the law, when your actions are unchallenged, your decisions final and beyond appeal? When you are surrounded by people who agree with your every word and every deed? You become like a god, Askari. It is but a small step from that to tyranny.’

‘I would not be like that. I know the difference between right and wrong.’

‘I believe you. I also believe that if Jianna had been born in the high mountains, and grown to womanhood here, she would have said the same. That is beside the point, though. You are not Jianna.

You were not raised in a duplicitous court. You did not see your parents murdered by traitors. You did not have to fight huge battles in order to win back a kingdom. I do not defend what she became. I will not simplify it, either, by holding to the view that she was merely a devil in human flesh, or a monster.’

‘That is because you love her!’ she said, anger flaring again.

‘Perhaps so. But I will do all in my power to end her reign, even if by doing so I condemn her to death. I can do no more than that.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘No-one could ask more than that.’

Stavut sat apart, the horror of the day clinging to him like the blood-drenched shirt he wore. He had wandered away from the pack, needing to be alone. The sun was setting in a blood red sky, and Stavut thought how apt it was, that such a day should end with a crimson sky. The colour of rage.

Tears formed, flowing down his bearded cheek. He brushed them away, and his hand came away stained red. For however long he lived, this would be the Day of the Beast in his memory. He would never forget it, not one dreadful part of it.

The pack had run for hours, eating up the miles in a steady fast lope. Then they had come to a line of wooded hills, and Shakul had paused. ‘What is it?’ asked Stavut.

‘Fight finished,’ said Shakul. Stavut glanced at the other beasts. They all had their heads high, sniffing the air. ‘Much blood,’ added Shakul.

‘Show me,’ Stavut ordered him.

Shakul ran on, up the slope and through the trees, the pack following. They came to a stretch of open ground. Bodies were everywhere. Stavut stepped down from Shakul’s back and walked among the corpses. He saw Kinyon first, his head crushed. Arin, the logger from Harad’s settlement, was pinned against a tree, a broken lance impaling him to the trunk. His wife, Kerena, was close by. Her throat had been cut, but not before she had been brutally raped by the soldiers. She was lying on her back, her skirt over her breast, her legs splayed. Other women had been similarly abused before being slain. There was no point checking for survivors. All of the men had been hacked to death, save Arin.

Shakul loomed alongside him. ‘Four Jems,’ he said. ‘Stood by trees.’

‘What?’

‘We go now?’

‘Go? Yes, we go. We find the soldiers responsible for this.’ A cold anger began in the pit of Stavut’s belly, a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. ‘We find them. We kill them. Every one.’

‘As Bloodshirt says,’ muttered Shakul.

‘How far away are they?’

‘Not far. Catch soon.’

‘Then let’s be going.’ Stavut reached up and took hold of the baldric. Shakul crouched down, allowing Stavut to place his foot in the loop. Then the great beast reared up, Stavut on his back, and let out a howl. He began to run. As he did so his right arm swept out, and he called an order. Some fifteen of the pack veered off to the right. Shakul barked out a second order, and another group headed towards the left. The rest of the pack ran on silently.

Stavut ducked down as Shakul ploughed through thick undergrowth and low-hanging branches. Then the Jiamad slowed and pointed forward. A column of men were marching over the brow of a hill, some quarter of a mile ahead. ‘How many?’ asked Stavut.

Shakul lifted up his huge, taloned hands, opening and closing them three times. ‘Few more, few less,’

he said.

Then they ran again, pounding up the hillside. As they crested the hill they saw the troop still marching ahead of them, oblivious of the danger. Then one of the soldiers swung round, and shouted a warning.

The troop drew their weapons, and tried to form a defensive wall. There was no time. The Jiamads tore into them. Stavut was thrown clear of Shakul. He hit the ground hard, and rolled. A swordsman loomed over him. Shakul’s talons tore the man’s face away. Blood bubbled from his ruined throat, and he fell.

Stavut grabbed the man’s sword and ran into the fray, hacking and stabbing. An officer on a tall horse was leading the men. When he saw the carnage he tried to flee. Grava hurtled across the grass, and leapt at the man’s mount, ripping its neck open. The horse reared, hurling the rider to the earth. Stavut ran across the killing ground, slashing his sword into the bodies of men trying to flee. Not one escaped. Their skulls were crushed or bitten through, or their backbones shattered by iron-shod clubs. Stavut paused and looked around. A few men were still moving, trying to crawl. The beasts leapt upon them, long fangs slicing into vulnerable necks.

Then Stavut saw the leader, lying very still. Grava was close by, his long, curved fangs tearing chunks of flesh from the body of the dead horse. Stavut walked to the officer, a young man, slim and handsome, his beard carefully shaped and trimmed. ‘I have information,’ said the man. ‘Agrias will find it very useful, if you take me to him.’

‘I don’t serve Agrias,’ said Stavut.

‘I. . don’t understand. Who do you serve?’

‘A man named Kinyon, and a young girl called Kerena. And others whose names I don’t recall now. I don’t suppose you asked their names before you killed them and raped their women.’ Stavut raised the bloody sword.

‘No, wait!’ shrieked the officer, lifting his arm high. Stavut’s blade slashed down smashing the forearm, and cutting deeply through muscle and sinew. The man screamed. ‘Mercy! I beg you!’

‘Mercy? You’ll get what you gave, you whoreson!’ The sword slashed down again, clanging against the man’s breastplate, then ricocheting down to slice into his thigh. He began to scramble backwards.

Stavut followed him, the sword hammering again and again, sometimes striking the metal armour, but more often cutting into flesh and bone. A massive blow caught the young officer on the side of the face, shattering several teeth and opening up a long cut down to the chin. The man rolled to his side, curling his legs up in a foetal position, and began to sob. Stavut hacked at him. Then Shakul grabbed his arm, pulling him back, and pushing him to the ground. The huge beast crouched over the mewing man and slashed his throat swiftly. The officer sank to the ground. Shakul moved away. Stavut sat very still, suddenly weary.

He had avenged the villagers. Only it didn’t help. They were still dead, their dreams soaking into the earth with their blood. Kinyon, a big man who only wanted to cook for others, to have them visit his little kitchen, and tell him his pies were delicious. Kerena, who wanted five children, and a little house on the high hills overlooking Petar. Their deaths had been cruel and meaningless. Stavut sighed. As had the deaths of these soldiers.

Pushing himself to his feet he saw Shakul standing with the four Jiamads who had marched with the troop. ‘Why are they still alive?’ he asked, moving alongside Shakul.

‘You want dead? I kill.’

‘Why did you not kill them already?’

‘Bigger pack, better hunt.’

‘They killed my people.’

‘No, Bloodshirt. Stood by trees.’ Stavut recalled the scene of the horror, and realized there were no fang or talon marks on the dead. ‘I kill now?’ asked Shakul. The four Jiamads backed away, raising their clubs.

‘No,’ said Stavut wearily. Then he sighed. ‘Why do they want to join us?’

‘Be free,’ said Shakul. ‘Run. Hunt. Feast. Sleep. No Skins.’

‘I am a Skin.’

Shakul gave the low, rumbling, broken series of grunts that Stavut had discovered was his version of laughter. ‘You Bloodshirt.’

Stavut realized it was a compliment. He was about to reply when he saw blood on Shakul’s side.

‘You are wounded,’ he said.

‘Not wound,’ said Shakul. ‘Boot.’ He pointed to Stavut’s feet. The fur had been ripped away and the skin rubbed raw by Stavut’s boot during the long run. Yet the beast had said nothing.

‘I am sorry, my friend,’ said Stavut. Then he took a deep breath and walked to stand before the towering enemy Jiamads. ‘You wish to run with Bloodshirt’s pack? To be free in the mountains?’

They stared at him with cold, golden eyes. ‘Run free,’ said one. ‘Yes.’

‘Then join us. There will be no killing of Skins. . unless I order it. There will be no fighting amongst us. You understand? We are all brothers. Family,’ he said. He recognized the look of non-comprehension on their faces. ‘You will not stand alone. Your enemies are my enemies. They are Shakul’s enemies and Grava’s enemies. We are friends. We are. .’ He swung to Shakul. ‘How can I make this clear to them?’

‘We are pack!’ said Shakul. ‘Bloodshirt’s pack.’

The Jiamads nodded vigorously. ‘We are pack!’ they echoed. Then all of the beasts began to howl and stamp their feet. The sound went on for some time, then faded away. Shakul approached Stavut.

‘Where now, Bloodshirt?’

‘Back to where we camped. We’ll rest up for a day or two.’

The journey back was slower for Stavut. Shakul sent some of the others on ahead, but he and Grava walked alongside the human. Stavut felt wearier than at any point in his life, but he refused all their offers to carry him.

Back at the campsite the Jiamads retrieved the meat they had hung in the high tree branches, and began to eat. Stavut had no appetite. He sat alone, the events of the day going round and round in his head.

I am an educated man, he thought. Civilized. And yet it was not the Jiamads who tortured and killed the villagers, and not the Jiamads who hacked and cut at a defenceless man on the ground. In fact it was a Jiamad who stopped me, and put an end to the officer’s misery.

This would always be the Day of the Beast to Stavut. And shame burned in him that he had been the beast.