The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Seventeen

Gilden eased his mount up a steep slope, and halted just below the crest of the hill. He had no wish to be skylined and seen, so he dismounted and removed his helm before creeping up to the crest. When he looked over his breath caught in his throat. Stavut had been right.

On the plain below were thousands of marching men and columns of horses. Bringing up the rear were two regiments of Jiamads. The army stretched all the way back to a distant line of hills. Gilden hunkered down and tried to gauge the numbers of the enemy. He estimated there to be at least twenty thousand fighting men, plus the two thousand Jiamads. In the vanguard he saw the riders of the Eternal Guard, in their armour of black and silver. Like the Legend Riders they wore elaborate chain-mail hauberks, coifs and gorgets. They also carried sabres and lances, and round bucklers on their left forearms. The thousand men of the Eternal Guard were the elite of the Eternal’s army, hand picked for their valour in other regiments.

Then he saw the Eternal herself, dressed in armour of bright silver, riding a white horse. Narrowing his eyes he sought to focus more sharply. It seemed the horse had horns curling over its ears. Gilden eased himself back from the slope and mounted his own chestnut. Swinging the beast he set off slowly towards the north.

He would have preferred to ride at speed, but was wary of the dust his horse would stir up on the dry hillside. When he reached lower ground he eased the beast into a run.

There was no doubt now that the last battle was approaching. Agrias would be hard pressed to hold off such a force. Especially without the Legend Riders. Alahir had sent Bagalan back to gather the other two hundred fighting men, ordering him to rendezvous in three days at the small town of Corisle, eighty miles north. The town’s income derived from its situation, close to the merging of three rivers. Due north, along the ancient canal, lay the Rostrias; west was the narrow, silt-heavy waterway that once flowed freely down to Siccus on the coast. East was another ancient canal that had been created in the far past to ferry supplies to the copper mines in the old Sathuli territories. From Corisle the plan was to commandeer barges that would carry the riders to the Rostrias, and along the river towards the site of the mysterious temple Skilgannon spoke of. The journey — if all went smoothly — would take many days.

Gilden was unhappy with the plan. More so now that he had seen the Eternal’s army. The battles would rage into Drenai land, and, as far as Gilden was concerned, that was where the Legend Riders should meet the foe. Others agreed with him, and the conversation had become heated.

Then Skilgannon had spoken. ‘I understand your concerns,’ he told them. ‘I also understand the desire to protect the homeland. It does you credit. We could ride for Siccus, and fight, seeking to hold off the Eternal. We might even succeed in turning back one of her armies. One of her ten armies.

However, we would ultimately fail, because her resources are so much greater than those of your people.

She can summon thousands of Jiamads, scores of regiments. If Ustarte’s prophecy is true, then we can win the war only by destroying the source of all her power. It is my belief the answer lies at the temple.’

‘A temple you say is no longer there,’ put in Gilden.

‘That is so,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘However, since the artefacts of the Elders still generate magic the power source must still be operating. The first time I visited the temple it could not be seen. I had already ridden past it many times in my search. A ward spell had been placed over it, which fooled the eye. I cannot say to you, Gilden, that we will succeed. This may be a fool’s errand. But I trust Ustarte. I believe it was she who spoke to Alahir, leading him to the Armour. It was she who urged him to follow me.’

‘Prophecies be damned,’ said Gilden. ‘Why could she not just have told us what to do?’

‘Not an easy question to answer,’ said Skilgannon. ‘When I spoke to her she talked of there being many futures. Each decision we make changes those futures. We could go to the temple. We could travel to Siccus. We could stay here and do nothing. Some could go, some could stay. Each decision would result in scores of possible outcomes. Nothing is certain. My guess is that Ustarte saw a great number of possibilities for us. She dared not push us in any one direction, for fear of inadvertently sending us on the wrong path. The decisions are ours to make, for that is our destiny.’

‘Well, that just shot over my head like an arrow,’ said Gilden. ‘Perhaps there is a future where the Eternal vanishes in a puff of dust.’ The comment eased the tension, and the men chuckled.

‘The key,’ said Skilgannon, as the laughter died down, ‘has to be in the source of the magic. Destroy that and there will be no more Jiamads, no more Reborns, and — ultimately — no more Eternal. This will become once more a world of men. Think of it this way. If a bear is savaging your cattle you do not wait in the pastures for his next attack. You seek out his lair and you kill him. The temple is the lair. That is where the war will be won.’

‘Much as I appreciate discussion,’ said Alahir, ‘I know of only one certain fact. The voice told me to follow where Skilgannon led. She said the hope of the Drenai rested on me. I will ride to the temple.

Alone if need be.’

‘Damn it, man, you won’t be alone!’ said Gilden. ‘It hurts me you would say such a thing. We’re all with you. I’d ride into a lake of hellfire if you ordered it.’

Bagalan laughed. ‘You didn’t follow him into the pleasure den last week. Left him alone, I recall, with a goat-faced whore.’

‘Ah well,’ replied Gilden, smiling broadly, ‘he wasn’t the Earl of Bronze then.’

The conversation had moved on to more prosaic matters, like provisions for the journey, and how they would pay for passage on the long barges that ferried supplies and men along the coast. The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a scout, followed by a dark-haired swordsman on a tall chestnut.

‘This man claims to know Skilgannon,’ said the scout.

Skilgannon rose. ‘What do you want here, Decado?’

At the mention of the name a sudden silence fell over the warriors. Every rider had heard of the famous killer.

‘I came to join you, kinsman, and to tell you that Askari is currently in the camp of the beast master.

She called him Stavi, I recall.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Her friend. A merchant, I think she said.’

‘Stavut is with beasts?’

Gilden stepped in and explained what had passed between him and Stavut the previous day.

‘How many Jiamads does he have?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘I’d say around fifty,’ Decado told him.

‘They could be useful.’

‘We don’t need animals,’ said Gilden. ‘We are warriors. We fight as men.’

Skilgannon shook his head. ‘We don’t yet know what we need. Successful war involves using all the weapons at one’s disposal. That is how we came to train horses, Gilden. We saw they would make us faster and more mobile. The Eternal will have sent a force to stop us. You think they will all be men?

These are strange days. The Armour of Bronze has returned, and the axe of Druss the Legend. I am here

— and I died a thousand years ago. Now, a gentle merchant has somehow gathered an army of beasts, who could aid us in any battle. If I can use them, I will.’

With that, Skilgannon had walked to the white stallion and saddled it. Then he mounted and rode back to Decado. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.

‘About ten miles due east and a little north. You’ll see a ridge, and just beyond it a line of trees. They are camped there.’

Skilgannon swung to Alahir. ‘Head towards the town you spoke of. I will catch up with you. The Eternal’s army is marching through the mountains, so make sure you keep scouts ahead.’

Without another word he rode from the campsite. Decado dismounted. ‘A little food would not go amiss,’ he said. No-one spoke to him, though at the orders of Alahir a warrior fetched him a bowl of broth and some dried beef. Decado took it a little way from the others and sat down to eat.

‘They say he is a maniac,’ Gilden told Alahir, keeping his voice low.

‘A maniac with excellent hearing,’ called out Decado. ‘Move further away if you wish to discuss my merits. Better still wait for a few moments, for I shall be asleep by then.’ Finishing his meal, the swordsman stretched out on the ground.

Gilden and Alahir walked to the far side of the campsite. ‘I have heard the tales of him,’ said Alahir.

‘Cold and deadly, and utterly without mercy. However, he is a swordsman and a warrior. He could be useful.’

‘Beasts and madmen. Not very glorious, Alahir, my friend.’

‘I am not interested in glory,’ said Alahir, with a sigh. ‘I just want the Drenai to survive.’

Gilden recalled the conversation as he rode. There had been a weight of sadness in Alahir’s voice, and more than a little fear. As a Legend Rider Alahir was expected to fight for his homeland.

As the Earl of Bronze he would be expected to perform miracles.

As he rode away into the night Skilgannon’s mood was sombre. The young Legend Riders were fine men; brave. Bright-eyed and eager to fight for their homeland. Such was always the way with the young.

They had looked at him and seen someone of their own age, believed him to be filled with the same aspirations and ambitions. For the first time Skilgannon felt like a fraud. He wondered then about what was lost and what — if anything — was gained by the passage of the years. He was an old man in a young man’s body, and his thoughts of the world were sullied by his deeds in a previous lifetime. He had promised the Legend Riders that if they won it would once more become a world of men. He had made it sound as if this was something to be desired; some noble cause worth dying for.

He rode now under stars a thousand years older than when first he had seen them. And what had changed in this wondrous world of men? The strong still sought to dominate the weak. Armies still raged across the lands, killing and burning. What will truly change if we win, he wondered? The wheel of good and evil would spin on. Sometimes good would triumph for a while, but then the wheel would spin again.

The cold reality was that, even if he destroyed the current source of magic, one day another would be found.

By that token, he told himself, a man would never seek to counter the evils in his day. He would shrug and talk of spinning wheels. Perhaps, he thought, the experience of the old inevitably leads to a philosophy of despair and acquiescence.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind he rode on, enjoying the power and the grace of the stallion.

Moonlight gleamed on its bright flanks. Not the best horse on which to pass unnoticed, he thought, with a grin. His spirits lifted. In life a man could do no more than fight for what he believed to be right, without thought to future generations, or the ultimate folly of man’s dreams.

His thoughts swung to Decado. The man was a disturbing presence, and Skilgannon was unsure about trusting him. His story about being hunted by the Eternal might have been false. He could have been sent as a spy, or as an assassin. Skilgannon did not want to have to fight him. With two swordsmen of such skill it was unlikely that even the victor would escape unscathed.

Ahead he saw the ridge Decado had mentioned, and headed the stallion towards the trees.

As he rode up the hill a huge Jiamad came into sight. It stood and watched him. Controlling the urge to draw his swords Skilgannon guided the stallion closer. The horse was nervous, and began to stamp its foot and edge sideways. ‘Steady now, Greatheart,’ he said. As he came closer he recognized the Jiamad as the leader of the attack in the cave.

‘Well met, Shakul,’ he said. ‘How are you faring?’

‘Run free. It is good.’

‘I have come to see my friend Stavut.’

‘Bloodshirt with woman.’

Skilgannon dismounted. It was hard to tell from the growling delivery whether Shakul was pleased or irritated by Askari’s arrival.

‘Am I welcome in your camp?’

Shakul did not respond. Instead he turned and lumbered back into the trees. Holding firm to the reins of his mount Skilgannon walked after him. Some fifty paces beyond the tree line he came to the site.

Many of the Jiamads were asleep. Others were sitting close to one another, and speaking in low grunts.

Stavut was sitting by a campfire, Askari beside him. Skilgannon tethered his horse and walked across to them. He noted that Stavut was holding Askari’s hand, and surmised that their meeting had been a joyful one. A touch of jealousy stung him. Moving to the fire he sat down. ‘Good to see you, Stavut.’

The young merchant looked at him without warmth. ‘I’ll not take my lads into your battles,’ he said.

‘Know that straight from the outset.’

‘What he meant,’ said Askari dryly, ‘was that it is good to see you too.’

Stavut blushed. ‘It is good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded brusque, but Askari has been telling me of your plan to find the temple. I don’t want my lads put in any danger.’

Skilgannon nodded. ‘Can we take this one step at a time? When last I saw you it was in the company of Kinyon and the villagers. Now you are being called the Beastmaster. I would be fascinated to know how all this occurred.’

Stavut sighed, and launched into his tale. It was told starkly and simply. Skilgannon listened, then leaned back. ‘I am sorry about the villagers,’ he said. ‘But it was their choice to return home. You have nothing to blame yourself for.’

‘Nice of you to say so, but I do blame myself. I should have realized they were fearful of the lads -

and of me. I should have taken steps to put them at their ease.’

‘I cannot fault you for that,’ said Skilgannon. ‘We all carry our guilts. So what will you do now?’

‘I. . we. . haven’t made any plans.’

‘Is that true?’ Skilgannon asked Askari. ‘No plans?’

‘I shall go with you to the temple, as I said,’ she told him.

‘What?’ burst out Stavut. ‘You can’t!’

‘I can’t?’ Her voice was cold, her expression icy.

Stavut looked crestfallen. ‘What I meant. . oh, never mind! Why do you have to go?’

‘Because her life is at risk as long the Eternal holds power. She is a Reborn, Stavut, like me. Askari was created from the bones of the Eternal herself. That is why she is the Eternal. She steals fresh bodies as her own decays. My purpose in this world is to stop her. To end the magic. If I succeed then Askari is safe from her.’

‘Then of course I’ll come with you. I’ll leave the lads with Shakul. He can lead the pack. They will be safe here. There is plenty of game, and no reason for soldiers to hunt them.’

From all about them the beasts began to move forward, squatting in a circle round the fire. Shakul leaned towards Stavut. ‘Bloodshirt leave?’ he asked.

‘You will be pack leader, Shakul. I have to go.’

‘We are pack,’ Shakul reminded him.

‘Yes, we are. But where I go there will be danger, and fighting, and death. This is my fight. Mine, Askari’s, Skilgannon’s. It is a fight for. . for Skins. It is not your fight. I don’t want to see any of you hurt. You understand?’

‘Not hurt,’ said Shakul, his great head swaying. Easing his huge bulk forward he peered at Skilgannon.

‘Not take Bloodshirt,’ he said.

‘He is not taking me,’ said Stavut. ‘I am going willingly. I don’t want to leave you lads. Truly I don’t.

You are the best friends I ever had. I am fond of all of you. But I must go.’

Shakul stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘Big fight?’ he said.

‘I think so, Shakul.’

The beast lifted its head and sniffed the air. ‘Many soldiers. Jems. Horses.’

‘There is an army moving south of us,’ said Skilgannon.

Shakul heaved himself upright and moved back from the fire. The other beasts crowded round him.

Skilgannon looked at Stavut. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Making a decision,’ said Stavut, ‘and — if it is what I think it will be — I am going to hate you, Skilgannon.’

They sat in silence for a while, as the beasts continued to speak in low, incomprehensible grunts. Then Shakul came back to the fire. All the other Jiamads formed a circle round the humans.

‘Make choice,’ said Shakul. ‘Go with Bloodshirt.’

Stavut’s head dropped. ‘I don’t want you to be in danger,’ he said.

‘We are pack!’ said Shakul, stamping his foot. One by one the others joined in, and Skilgannon felt the earth tremble beneath him.

It was close to midnight, and Skilgannon was sitting with his back against a tree. He had tried to sleep, but Stavut’s words continued to haunt him. It was obvious that he felt strongly about the Jiamads — his lads — but it was not just that affection which concerned Skilgannon. It was the deceit he himself had perpetrated on the merchant. In making their decision to travel with Stavut the Jiamads had surprised the swordsman. They had shown loyalty and friendship — virtues Gamal had informed him were not natural to the beasts. Stavut had talked of watching them develop, forming bonds, playing practical jokes, laughing.

This was a far cry from the savage, soulless creatures Skilgannon had believed them to be. He thought then of Longbear. According to Charis Gamal had sent him away, but he had charged back and died to defend his human comrades.

It made the deceit even harder to bear.

Skilgannon had talked of ending the magic, and thereby the reign of the Eternal. What he had not said was that, in doing so, it was possible that the Jiamads, melded by magic, would die in their thousands.

This meant that Shakul and his pack might unknowingly be fighting for their own doom.

Guilt nagged at the man Skilgannon, but the strategist Skilgannon knew that the Jiamads could mean the difference between success and failure. In war, he told himself, hard decisions had to be made.

And how does this make you different from the Eternal, he wondered?

Sadness touched him, merging with the guilt. He thought of the elderly abbot, Cethelin, a man who believed love was the way to change the world. The man had been prepared to die, cut down by a vengeful mob, rather than compromise his beliefs. Skilgannon had not allowed his sacrifice — and had butchered the ringleaders. Those moments of horrifying violence had ended his own attempts to become a monk, and had left Cethelin alive, but heartbroken.

Skilgannon had promised the Legend Riders he would help them change the world. It was a lie. The world would not be changed by swords. In theory Cethelin was right. The greatest change could only occur when all men refused to take up swords; when war was seen not as glorious, but as obscene.

It would never happen, he knew. He glanced round the campsite at the sleeping beasts. We are pack, Shakul had said. It was not only wolves and Jiamads that followed this hierarchical pattern. Man was the same. The strongest male would fight to rise in the pack, to dominate lesser males. It could be seen endlessly in the natural play of children. The weak and the sensitive were brushed aside by the brutish and the powerful.

Just then, in the far distance, he heard a high-pitched series of unnatural cries. On the far side of the camp Shakul stirred and sat up. Skilgannon rose to his feet and walked to his horse. Askari rolled from her bed and called out to him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘The Shadows are abroad,’ he said. ‘There is no room to fight here.’

Askari rose and stood by as he hefted the saddle onto the stallion’s back. Tightening the cinch he looked at Askari and smiled. ‘Do not look so concerned. I shall ride out to open ground and deal with them.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No.’

‘You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon. Those creatures move with terrifying speed. You are not a god, you know.’

‘No, I am not. But I am a killer.’ Stepping into the saddle he touched heels to the stallion’s flanks.

Skilgannon rode out of the woods, and down the hill to the flat-land, constantly scanning the surrounding countryside. A quarter of a mile to the west there was a rounded hillock. From its summit he would have a clear field of vision. Against creatures of such speed he needed to be able to see them coming. Skilgannon dismounted at the top, and tethered the stallion. Then he eased himself through a series of exercises, loosening his muscles and preparing his mind. The moon was low in the sky, and there was little breeze. Drawing his swords, he waited.

‘ You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.’

This was true. The Shadows may not even be coming for you, he realized. They could be looking for Decado, or Alahir, or even Askari. The thought was an uncomfortable one. If the last was true, then he had left her unprotected. The Jiamads may be huge and powerful, but they were cumbersome, and could not prevent an attack. On the other hand, even if they paralysed her, the Shadows would not have the strength to carry Askari away from the likes of Shakul. The reasoning calmed him. She would be safe with them.

And if it was Decado they were hunting? Well, in many ways that would be a problem solved.

His exercises complete, he continued to cast his gaze over the grassland, seeking not to focus on any one spot, but allowing his peripheral vision to pick up movement. Slowly the moonlight began to fade. He glanced at the sky. There were few clouds and the stars were bright, but the moon itself would soon be behind the distant peaks.

The stallion suddenly reared, its tethered front feet thumping down on the hillock. ‘I know, Greatheart,’ he said softly. ‘They are coming.’

Yet still there was nothing to be seen on the swaying grassland.

As Malanek had taught him so many centuries before, he slipped into the Illusion of Elsewhere, freeing his body to act and react instantly, without need for conscious thought. This simple mind trick enabled him to cut down reaction time. His eyes continued to watch the land, but his mind concentrated on a single memory from the past. He saw himself standing with Druss the Legend on the high parapet of Boranius’s tower, after the rescue of the child, Elanin. Druss had been fifty years old, his beard more grey than black, his eyes a piercing winter blue. The golden-haired little girl had been standing beside him, her small hand engulfed by his own huge fist. He had talked of returning to his cabin in the mountains, and retiring from wars and battles. Skilgannon had laughed.

‘I am serious, laddie. I’ll hang Snaga on the wall and put my helm and jerkin and gauntlets into a chest.

By Heaven, I’ll even padlock it and throw away the key.’

‘So,’ said Skilgannon, ‘I have witnessed the last battle of Druss the Legend?’

‘Druss the Legend? You know I have always hated to be called that.’

I’m hungry, Uncle Druss,’ said Elanin, tugging on his arm.

‘Now that is a title I do like,’ said the old warrior, lifting the child into his arms. ‘That is who I will be.

Druss the Uncle. Druss the Farmer. And a pox on prophecies!’

‘What prophecy?’

Druss had grinned. ‘A long time ago a seer told me I would die in battle at Dros Delnoch. It was always a nonsense. Delnoch is the greatest fortress ever built, six massive walls and a keep. There’s not an army in the world could take it — and not a leader insane enough to try.’

The grassland still seemed empty, and Druss’s last words echoed through his mind. ‘A pox on prophecies,’ he had said. And yet, ten years later, the sixty-year-old Druss had stood on the walls of Dros Delnoch, defying one of the largest armies ever seen in the world.

Skilgannon had been in a tavern in Gulgothir when he had heard Druss was back, training the recruits at Delnoch. He had seen the Great Khan, riding out with his army two days before, and had known the fortress would fall. Ulric was a brilliant strategist and a charismatic leader. The armies of the Drenai had been largely dismantled by a political leadership who believed that was the best way to avoid war. It was a reasonable theory. Lessen the strength of your army and you gave the clearest indication to neighbouring countries that you were not planning to invade them. The problem with the theory was that it required potential enemies to be equally reasonable. For all his great skills and his enormous courage Ulric was not a reasonable man. And his problems were diametrically different from those of the rich Drenai southerners. Ulric had a vast army. Armies need to be fed and paid. The larger the force, the greater the drain on the treasury. Huge armies needed plunder. Ulric had already destroyed the Gothir.

The Drenai, by reducing their fighting forces, were now virtually defenceless against him. One decrepit fortress, manned by raw recruits, farmers and peasants, against a horde of Nadir warriors, fearless and valiant. There could be only one outcome.

Skilgannon had been emotionally torn when he heard Druss was among those defenders. He loved the old man, but he also owed Ulric his life. The latter had risked everything to save him, when they had fought together. Two friends on opposite sides. Skilgannon could not help them both, save by staying clear of the conflict.

The decision was a heavy burden to bear.

A flicker of movement on the grassland caused his head to turn. There was nothing to be seen. He glanced at the stallion. Its ears were flat back against its skull now, and it was tense and nervous.

Returning his gaze to the darkening grassland he saw a small, dark patch of earth some two hundred paces from him. Movement flickered again to his left, but he kept his eyes on the dark patch. Suddenly it moved, with blistering speed. Skilgannon saw then that it was a slender figure, in a hooded dark robe.

Another movement to his right. They moved so fast it seemed they disappeared from one place only to appear in another, as if they were moving through invisible gateways.

Skilgannon walked several steps away from his horse, giving himself room to swing his blades. He could not beat these creatures for speed, so he watched them move across the flatland, heading inexorably for the hillock, and gauged their style of movement. Their attack was designed to confound the eye. One would move and drop to the ground. Another would move fractions of a heartbeat after the first. The victim would continue to seek out movement, and never quite be able to focus on any one Shadow. By now Skilgannon knew there were three of the creatures. He felt his heartbeat quicken with the thought of battle, and quelled the rising excitement. If they were to pierce him with the paralysing darts, or get close enough to bite, then he didn’t want the venom to be pumped swiftly through his system by a fast heartbeat. Many years ago, when his father’s retainer, Sperian, had been bitten by a snake, he had lain very still while his wife Molaire ran for the local apothecary. The nine-year-old Skilgannon had sat beside Sperian, who closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. Later, after the apothecary had administered an antidote, Skilgannon asked him how he could have stayed so calm. ‘Only way to stay alive, boy. Fear causes the heart to beat faster, and that pushes the poison round the blood faster. Don’t want that. Too much of it in the heart itself and that’s it. Life’s over.’

Moonlight had almost gone now and Skilgannon calmly awaited the attack.

It came suddenly. Something bright flashed before his eyes. The Sword of Day swept up. A dart cannoned from the blade, spinning off across the hillock. Skilgannon dived to his left. A second dart missed his face by inches. Rolling to his feet he lunged — the sword cutting into a dark robe, and slicing through it. Skilgannon rolled again, coming up fast. The Sword of Night swept out, biting through flesh and bone. Skilgannon had not even seen the creature’s approach. The cut had been an automatic response. The Shadow fell writhing to the ground. Something sharp bit into Skilgannon’s shoulder. He staggered back, feeling the venom in his system. He stood very still, then toppled to his knees, his arms outstretched, his sword tips resting on the earth. Staying calm he slowed his heartbeat once more, concentrating deeply. He did not blink or move. The remaining two creatures came into sight, no longer darting. They watched him. Then they moved forward, lips drawn back. One had a thick, single curved fang, which jutted over his lower lip, while the other boasted two slender fangs. Their mouths widened as they approached him, squatting down. The Swords of Night and Day swept up. One sliced through the first creature’s throat, the second almost missed, as the Shadow hurled itself backwards. But the Sword of Night cut through its ribs and across its stomach, disembowelling it. The creature tried to run, then stumbled and fell, twitching, to the earth.

Skilgannon’s limbs were getting heavy now. The swords dropped from his fingers. Numbness crept through him. Slowly he toppled sideways, not able to feel the cold grass against his cheek. Despite the paralysis he felt a sense of exultation. The three Shadows were dead, and he had won again!

And then he saw a fourth Shadow moving up the hillside.

‘ You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.’

Oh, how true it felt at that precise moment.

The Shadow approached him and squatted down, staring at him with baleful eyes. Then it drew a wickedly curved dagger. ‘Eat your heart,’ it said.

Skilgannon could not reply. In a bewildering instant the creature was suddenly looming over him, the dagger resting on Skilgannon’s chest. He could see the dagger, but could no longer see the creature above him. He heard it grunt, though, as it slumped across him. He wondered what was happening. Was it biting through his paralysed, unfeeling neck?

Then its body was hauled away, and dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Skilgannon could see that a long shaft had shattered its temple, the point emerging on the other side.

Askari sat down beside him. ‘Well, well,’ she said, brightly, ‘what have we here? It cannot be the legendary, invincible warrior. The man who fights alone and never loses. The man who needs no help.

Must be someone who looks like him.’

The ground drifted away from him, and Skilgannon became aware he was being lifted. His body was hauled up, his head falling against Shakul’s chest.

‘You are going to have the worst headache of your life when you awake, Skilgannon. However, you deserve it,’ said Askari, leaning towards him and closing his eyes.

Once back in his apartments Memnon removed his clothes and washed the blood from his hands and arms. His satin shirt was ruined. Bloodstains rarely completely vanished from the fragile cloth. It was a shame, for the shirt was one of his favourites, dark blue, with gold trim. Once he had cleaned himself and donned fresh clothing he called for a servant to summon Oranin.

The young man arrived an hour later, bowing deeply and offering profuse apologies. ‘I was not in my room, lord, so it took them some time to find me.’

‘No matter,’ said Memnon. ‘You will be working alone for a while. I require you to search through the journals, looking for any reference to the technique Landis Kan used to create me. You understand?’

‘Of course, lord. Is Patiacus returning to Diranan?’

‘Patiacus is dead. He betrayed me. Parts of him are still littering the laboratory floor. Clean them up yourself. The sight of his remains would disturb the servants. I shall be leaving tomorrow, to join the Eternal. You will work diligently while I am gone. I expect to see a successful conclusion to your studies.’

‘And you shall, lord,’ said Oranin, bowing once more. ‘Might I ask how Patiacus betrayed you?’

‘Why?’

‘So that I do not make the same mistake,’ replied the man, with transparent honesty.

Memnon sighed. ‘It was not a small oversight, Oranin. I did not kill him out of pique. He poisoned my Reborns. I should have expected something of the kind. Always been a problem of mine, to see the best in people.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ asked Oranin, appalled.

‘On the orders of the Eternal. It is so obvious, really. As a mortal I could serve her diligently. As an immortal I might have become a threat. Understandable. I don’t doubt, had the situation been reversed, that I, too, might have come to the same conclusion.’

‘You are not angry with her, lord?’

‘I do not become angry, Oranin. She is the Eternal. It is not for me to question her on grounds of loyalty, or treachery. The virtues of the one are ephemeral, the vices of the other debatable. It is merely the nature of politics, Oranin. Go now, and do as I have bid.’

Alone once more Memnon stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. It took him time to release his spirit, but once he had done so he soared up over the palace and sped north. He hovered for a while over the tent of the Eternal. Guards patrolled outside, while inside she slept. He gazed at her face, enjoying the exquisite beauty of her. Then he moved on.

Some twenty miles north of the encamped army he found Decado, asleep in the midst of a group of soldiers. There was no sign of Skilgannon. Memnon circled the area, at last heading east, over wide grassland. He almost missed the dead Shadows, only seeing the bodies at the last moment. Memnon floated down above them. Four bodies there were — one with an arrow through the skull, another with its skinny legs drawn up, its clawed, blood-covered hands placed as if seeking to stem the flow of blood from its gutted belly.

It was unheard of. Four Shadows killed in a single night. He floated closer. Three had been killed by a sharp blade, the last by a shaft. They would not have attacked had the victim not been alone, or vulnerable. Far off to the right Memnon saw a twinkling campfire. His spirit sped to it.

There were Jiamads there, and several humans. One was the Eternal’s Reborn, the other a bearded man in clothes of bright crimson. Memnon admired the tunic shirt, which was beautifully cut, though the cloth was not of the highest quality. The third human was Skilgannon, who was lying down, apparently asleep.

‘Might have been better had they killed him,’ said the man in the red shirt.

‘Don’t say that, Stavi!’

‘I didn’t mean it. Well. . not entirely. Because of him my lads are going into danger.’

‘That is not fair. They are going because of you. You could always stay here. After we succeed I will come back and find you.’

‘I love the optimism. You are going to find a temple that no longer exists and destroy the source of a magic you don’t understand. What does it really look like, this thing you call an egg? How will you know it when you see it? Silver eagles, magic shields! None of it makes any sense.’

‘It does, as Skilgannon explained it to me. The ancients could and did work miracles that we no longer understand. They created the magic. It doesn’t matter how it works, the fact is that it does. Now bear with me. The artefacts of the Elders were just that, for a long while. Empty and dead. Suddenly they had life. Something woke them, powered them. Something at the temple. The legends say that all this power comes from the silver eagle in the sky.’

‘Metal birds,’ muttered the man scornfully.

‘Forget birds. Something metal was raised into the sky by the ancients. Whatever it was gave them the power to work magic. Now somewhere, way back in the olden days, that power suddenly stopped. It no longer reached the artefacts. They all stopped. They. . slept. . would be the best way to describe it. Then something happened, and the power returned. You understand?’

‘I understand this is making my head hurt.’

‘Think of it this way. There is a cup which is empty. It does nothing. It sits. It has no uses. Then someone goes to a well and fills the cup with water. Now it is useful again. You can drink from it.’

‘The power source is someone with a jug?’

‘No, it is the water, stupid. The water makes the cup useful. Inside the temple there is something that fills the artefacts. We will destroy it. The artefacts will become useless. No more Reborns. No more Jiamads. No more Eternal. She will age and die like the rest of us.’

‘All right,’ said the man in the red shirt. ‘Suppose all you say is true. You still have to find a temple that is no longer there.’

‘It must be there, Stavi. It is the source of the power. And the power still operates. If it was truly gone the artefacts would already have become useless.’

‘This is all very well,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘But I would think more clearly if you were to take a little walk in the woods with me.’

‘You would not think more clearly,’ she said. ‘You would fall asleep with a smile on your face.’

‘So would you,’ he countered.

‘That is true.’

Hand in hand they crept through the sleeping Jiamads and away into the woods.

Memnon did not follow. He had seen people rut before.

Instead he flew back to the palace. There was so much to think on, and so many plans to initiate.

There were times in Jianna’s long life when she considered boredom to be almost terminal. Intrigue had long since lost the fascination it had held for her when young, and the new Queen of Naashan.

Manipulation, coercion, seduction had been exciting then, and each small victory had been something to celebrate. This last hundred years particularly had seen those skills honed to a perfection she felt she should have been proud of. Instead the practice of them had become a chore. There was a time when she had found men fascinating and intricate. Now they were — at best — merely diverting. Their needs and their values were always the same, their strengths and their weaknesses so easy to manipulate. It was one reason her heart yearned for Skilgannon; why she had sought his body for so many centuries. The prophecy did not weigh with her. She had lost count of the number of prophecies concerning her that had come to nothing over the centuries. It was not that some of the seers did not possess genuine talent. It was merely that a level of wish fulfilment entered their heads, colouring the visions they had. No, Skilgannon was unique among the men she had known. He had loved her fully and completely — loved her enough, indeed, to walk away from her. Even after all these years the shock of his departure remained a jagged wound in her heart.

He would have enjoyed this victory.

Agrias, apparently outnumbered and outmatched, had pulled back his army towards the ruins of an ancient city. Jianna’s forces had swept forward, through a valley between a line of wooded hills, pursuing the fleeing enemy. It had been a trap, and beautifully worked. Agrias had sent out three regiments, two of men, one of Jiamads. The beasts had attacked from the high woods to the west, the enemy infantry sweeping down from the east. The third regiment of lancers had emerged at the rear of Jianna’s forces, completing the circle. It was a splendid ploy, which she had much enjoyed. Sadly for Agrias she had also anticipated the manoeuvre, and had held back the regiment of Eternal Guards, the finest fighting men on the planet. Highly trained and superbly disciplined, they had fallen on the enemy rear, scattering the lancers. Jianna’s own Jiamads had torn into the enemy ranks. The encircling manoeuvre had been the only potent weapon in Agrias’s arsenal. When it failed the spirit of his troops was broken. They had fought well for a little while, but then panic set in, and they fled the field. In the rout that followed thousands were slain.

Agrias himself was taken, and the war in the north was over in just under twelve days. There were still pockets of resistance to overcome, mainly in the Drenai lands to the west. This, however, was a relatively simple matter. The Legend Riders had a few thousand doughty fighters, but no Jiamads, and no reserves to call upon.

Jianna opened the flaps of her tent and stepped out into the moonlight. The two guardsmen saluted.

Several of her generals were waiting outside, and she saw Unwallis walking across the campsite towards her tent. He had been hurt by her rejection of him. It amazed her that he could have considered becoming a regular lover again. The man was old, and lacked the stamina she had once enjoyed in him. Bedding him was not a mistake she would make again.

Agrippon, the Senior General of her Eternals, bowed as her gaze fell upon him. Jianna liked him. She had tried to seduce him several years ago, but he was a married man, and ferociously loyal to his wife.

She felt that with a little extra effort she could have broken down this resistance, for he was obviously besotted with her, but she rather liked his stolid honesty and his attempt to be true. So she had drawn back, and now treated him with sisterly affection. Summoning him to her tent she told the guards to admit no-one else until she ordered it.

‘Sit down, Agrippon,’ she bade him. ‘What are the figures?’

‘Just over a thousand dead. Eleven thousand enemy corpses — not counting their beasts.’

‘And my guards?’

‘We lost only sixty-seven men, with another three hundred bearing light wounds.’

‘Excellent.’

‘As indeed was your battle plan, Highness.’ The compliment was clumsily made, but she sensed his sincerity. Agrippon was not a man given to compliments.

She gazed at the black-bearded soldier, and wondered if she should reconsider her sisterly demeanour. The battle had been exciting and Jianna felt the need to have the tension relieved. He grew uncomfortable under her direct gaze and rose from his seat.

‘Will that be all, Highness?’

‘Yes, thank you, Agrippon. Convey my congratulations to your officers. Will you have Unwallis attend me?’

‘Of course, Highness,’ he said, bowing.

After the general had left the statesman ducked under the tent flap. He too bowed.

‘How did you enjoy your first battle?’ she asked him. He had ridden alongside her at the centre of the army, looking faintly ludicrous in a gilded breastplate and overlarge helm.

‘It was terrifying, Highness, but having survived it, I wouldn’t have missed it for all the wine in Lentria.

I thought we were trapped.’

She laughed. ‘It would take someone with more skill than Agrias to trap me.’

‘Yes, Highness. Might I ask what your plans are for him? I thought. .’

‘You thought I would have had him killed immediately.’

‘Indeed, Highness. He has been a thorn in our sides for many years now.’

‘I expect he is contemplating his situation even as we speak. We will allow that contemplation to continue.’

‘Exquisitely cruel, Highness,’ he said with a sigh. ‘He is an imaginative man, and will be considering all the horrors that could come his way.’

‘Indeed so. You wanted to see me. Do you have news?’

‘We have been questioning some of the captured officers. It seems that the Legend Riders attached to Agrias — some three hundred of them — left his service two weeks ago. One of the riders is fond of a local whore. She was, in turn, fond of the particular officer we questioned.’

‘For the sake of my sanity,’ said Jianna sharply, ‘can we cease talking of fondness. I am not a temple maiden. The whore was humping both men, and probably a score of others. What did she say?’

‘That the leader of the Legend Riders had found some mysterious armour, important to them. In bronze. And that a mystic voice had compelled him to leave Agrias’s service and follow a man with two swords.’

‘The Armour of Bronze,’ said Jianna. ‘It was a legend even in my own time.’ She shivered suddenly.

‘I do not like this, Unwallis. Too many damned portents. A Reborn Druss the Legend, carrying his axe, Skilgannon rediscovered, and now the Armour of Bronze. Perhaps that cursed prophecy is not so far-fetched.’

‘The Eternal Guards you sent should be close to the temple site by now. And there are two hundred Jiamads with them. Some of the latest and most powerful. Even with a few hundred Legend Riders Skilgannon will lose.’

‘That would be a first,’ said Jianna. ‘Leave me now, Unwallis. I need to think.’

‘Yes, Highness,’ he said, with a deep bow. He looked at her and suddenly smiled. ‘May I say something?’

She sighed. ‘Make it brief.’

‘My thoughts are clearer now, and I apologize that my behaviour has been. . foolish. Your gift to me at the palace was exquisite, and I am very grateful. I feel, though, that my attitude since has caused a breach between us. I would like that breach to be sealed. I am, once more, merely Unwallis. And your friend, Highness.’

Jianna was touched, and felt herself relax. ‘You are a good friend.’ Stepping forward she kissed his cheek.

He reddened, bowed once more, and departed. Jianna walked to the rear of her tent, and opened a small, ornate box of carved ebony. From it she took an ancient bronze amulet, covered now in green verdigris. Holding tightly to it she whispered Memnon’s name.

At first there was no response, then it was as if a breeze whispered into the tent, though none of the lanterns flickered. Jianna felt cold and shivered once more. By the far wall an image formed, at first like a shadow against the white, silk-covered canvas. Then it shimmered and Memnon’s image appeared, pale and translucent.

‘There is a problem, Highness?’ he asked.

‘Skilgannon is close to the temple site. He has a small force with him.’

‘I know this, Highness. Legend Riders, and a troop of Jiamads. Be not concerned.’

‘Can we not bring the plan forward?’

‘No, Highness. Timing is essential. Vital, in fact. All will be as you wish it to be. When my messenger comes to you, leave the camp and follow him. I will appear to you then, and ensure that all is well.’

‘The Eternal Guard will not attack until the time is right.’

‘I am with the general. He understands fully what we intend. Be at ease, Highness. Enjoy your victory.

There will be another for you to savour very shortly.’