The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Eighteen

For Harad the long, slow trip on the barges was a time for quiet grief. He sat on the narrow deck, surrounded by Jiamads, and watched the land drift slowly by.

Harad had chosen to travel with the beasts because they didn’t talk much, and he found the lightness and banter of the Legend Riders hard to bear. Almost everything had been hard to bear since Charis’s death.

Harad even felt surprise when he heard birdsong coming from the rushes on the eastern bank. It seemed somehow inconceivable that birds should still be singing, or that the sun still shone from a clear blue sky.

The weight of his grief was colossal. But he did not share it, even with Askari, who would occasionally join him, and sit in merciful silence.

They had hired five barges, each pulled by oxen for the first forty miles of the journey. After that, so Skilgannon had been told by the merchant, they would leave the oxen behind and navigate the wider waterways through the mountains until they met the river Rostrias. The soldiers had surrendered all their coin, and Stavut had sold his wagon and contents. Even so they had been far short of the hiring charge, and the cost of the provisions necessary for the trip.

Stavut had haggled with the Master Merchant for some hours, while Decado steadily lost patience. He was all for commandeering the vessels. Skilgannon urged him to stay calm. The Master Merchant was also the local commander of the Corisle militia, and though it would not have been difficult to overcome them Skilgannon wanted to avoid unnecessary deaths. Harad had looked closely at Decado. He seemed paler than usual, and kept rubbing his eyes.

Stavut left the merchant and walked back to where Skilgannon was waiting with Decado, Alahir and the others at the flimsy dock. ‘He says he would be prepared to take your stallion to conclude payment for the trip and the provisions,’ he told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon stood silently for a moment, then approached the merchant. The man was tall and slim, his eyes deep set. He wore a shirt of embroidered blue satin, and his long, grey hair was held back from his face by an ornate headband of filigree silver. ‘You are a man who knows horses,’ said Skilgannon.

‘I breed them for the Eternal Guard,’ said the merchant. ‘They are fastidious about the quality of their mounts. Do we have an agreement?’

‘We do not,’ said Skilgannon. ‘The horse is worth more than your barges.’

‘Then, sadly, I do not see how we can accommodate you.’

Skilgannon chuckled. ‘The Eternal’s army is marching on Agrias. Soon there will be a major battle to the west. Knowing the Eternal as I do, I am sure she will not lose this battle. You are a servant of Agrias.

Your position here will soon become perilous. And yet you quibble over a few coins?’

‘It is a merchant’s nature to quibble over coins. It is how we become rich and buy satin shirts. The problem of who governs this area is one for another day. For today I have five barges, ready to carry you to the Rostrias. I have already offered my best price.’

Decado, who had been listening, stepped forward. ‘Let me cut his miserable throat, then we can take the damned barges.’ Even as he spoke he drew one of his swords and moved towards the merchant.

The Sword of Night swept into Skilgannon’s hand, the blade flashing out to bar Decado’s path.

‘Let us not be hasty, kinsman,’ said Skilgannon softly. For a moment Harad thought Decado was going to attack Skilgannon. Instead he stepped back, his eyes wide and glittering strangely.

‘Why do you want him to live?’ asked Decado. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I like him.’ Decado shook his head in disbelief and stalked away.

‘Reassuring to be liked, I am sure,’ said the merchant. ‘But the price remains the same.’

‘I will rent you the stallion,’ said Skilgannon. ‘You will loan me one of your own mounts. I would prefer a gelding. You can use the stallion as a stud until my return. Then I shall claim him.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Some weeks at the least.’

‘A dangerous mission?’

Skilgannon laughed aloud. ‘Indeed it is, Master Merchant. I might not survive.’

‘Oh, perish the thought,’ said the man, rising and holding out his hand. ‘It will be as you say. I shall have a gelding brought over immediately. The barges will leave at first light. If your beasts cause any damage to my vessels I shall seek redress upon your return.’

On the evening of the second day of travel, with the sun sinking, Harad went to his usual spot at the rear of the barge to find Decado sitting there. Askari was behind him, gently rubbing his temples. Stavut was close by. Harad eased himself past them without a word and found a place to sit, his back against a sack of grain. Decado was deathly pale.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Harad asked Askari.

‘I don’t know. It was the same when first I found him.’

Decado sighed. ‘The two of you do know I am here, do you?’

Askari laughed. ‘You are feeling a little better.’

‘Yes, the pain is fading a little.’

‘You should eat something,’ said Stavut.

‘A waste of time and energy. I might just as well get the food and throw it over the side. No, my stomach will hold nothing until the pain passes. I will be all right. I know the rhythms of these attacks.

This was not so bad. It will soon be gone.’

‘You get them often?’ asked Stavut.

‘They come and go.’ He looked up at Askari, and there was adoration in his gaze. It made Harad uncomfortable and he glanced at Stavut. The red-garbed merchant looked away, then rose.

‘We should go and get some food,’ he said, reaching out and taking Askari’s hand.

After they had gone Harad leaned his head back on the grain sack and closed his eyes.

‘I hear your woman died,’ said Decado.

Harad’s eyes snapped open. The last person he wanted to talk to about Charis was this demented swordsman.

‘Nice-looking girl. Beautiful eyes,’ said Decado. ‘I remember thinking how lucky you were. Brave too. Had she not rescued Gamal from the palace I would have killed him that first night. Took nerve.’ He glanced at Snaga. ‘I am surprised you still want to handle that weapon.’

‘Why would I not?’

Decado did not reply for a moment. ‘You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?’ he said at last.

‘No.’

‘Askari told me that when the tree struck you the axe flew from your hand. It was the axe that killed Charis. Now that is what you call bad luck.’ Decado stretched himself out on the deck and drew his cloak over his shoulders.

Harad sat very still, his grief now redoubled. If he had kept hold of the weapon Charis would still be alive.

It was as if he had killed her himself.

Skilgannon stood at the prow of the lead barge, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face. It had been a long time since he had led an army, and the weight of responsibility sat heavily on him. Most of the problems he faced were familiar to him. Men with no military experience believed that an army needed only courage and discipline to win a battle. Those with a little more insight might add that the quality of training, weapons and armour would be important. Both views were correct in part. Without those assets no army would survive for long. Yet in his long life Skilgannon had seen armies with fine weapons, good training, and strong leadership fall apart on a battlefield when faced by troops less well armed. Morale was the real key to success. Low morale would strip away the confidence of the best fighter, and, more often than not, good morale resulted from good provisions. Hunger caused discontent. The food he had purchased from the merchant would feed the force for some ten days. After that it would be down to foraging. Not a simple exercise in the desert environment they were heading for. The horses would need good water, the men full bellies. This problem was even more pressing for the Jiamads. Their appetites were prodigious.

A secondary morale problem was also worrying him. The Legend Riders loathed the Jiamads, and the beasts, in turn, sensing the hatred, were nervous and ill at ease. At the moment the problem was not serious, for the beasts travelled in separate barges. At night, when the Legend Riders took their mounts ashore for exercise and grazing, the Jiamads stayed well clear of them. Skilgannon had tried to talk to Alahir about the hostility, but he too was locked into age-old prejudices. Jiamads were demon spawn.

Jiamads were evil. Jiamads frightened the horses. It was equally difficult with Stavut, who seemed to consider his ‘lads’ as merely large puppies. And then there was Harad. Skilgannon had not known Druss as a young man, nor had he spoken to him at any length about the death of his wife. He had no idea how it had affected the Drenai hero. Had he too become unhinged when the tragedy struck? Harad spoke little to anyone now, save perhaps Askari.

Skilgannon wandered along the now empty deck and down the wide gangplank to the shore. The Legend Riders had gathered some hundred or so paces east, and were sitting round campfires, laughing and talking. The Jiamads had wandered off with Stavut. The countryside was still lush, and Skilgannon had seen game in the hills. Askari was sitting with Decado on the river bank. The swordsman was yet another concern for Skilgannon. Back at the merchant’s office Skilgannon had seen a look in the young man’s eyes that was disturbing. There had been a need in Decado to kill. For a brief moment Skilgannon had believed he would have to fight him. Then the moment had passed.

It might come again.

Skilgannon strolled towards the campfires. As he did so Stavut and a group of Joinings emerged from the woods some little way to the west. The grazing horses picked up the scent of the Jiamads and immediately began to run. Legend Riders surged up and rushed out into the meadow, seeking to calm them.

In the confusion that followed three Legend Riders approached Stavut, and a heated argument broke out. Skilgannon moved swiftly towards them, as other riders gathered. ‘Are you a complete idiot?’

shouted one of them. ‘Your vermin scare horses. How could you be so stupid?’ He leaned in towards Stavut, his manner threatening. A huge beast snarled and rushed at him, hurling the man from his feet. A great roar went up from the Jiamads. Legend Riders grabbed their bows. Others drew swords and rushed forward.

Skilgannon raced in. ‘Stand fast!’ he yelled.

The moment was tense. Many of the riders now had their bows bent. Skilgannon walked out to stand between them and the beasts. ‘This has gone far enough,’ he said, his voice ringing out. ‘And I am becoming sick of the stupidity around me. Yes, Stavut should have known better than to bring his pack so close to the horses. But you,’ he said, pointing to the man hurled to the ground, ‘demonstrated even greater stupidity. Worse, it showed a complete lack of judgement. How dare you use the word vermin?

Stavut’s pack chose to come on this quest. You understand the meaning of the word? Choice? He told them to stay behind, because this was not their fight. They chose to support you, to fight alongside you.

To die in your war. And this is how you repay them? Calling them vermin? You should be ashamed of yourself.’ One by one the bows were put down, the arrows returned to their quivers. ‘I’ll tell you something else. I lived during the time you are all so desperate to bring back. I walked with Druss the Legend. I fought alongside him. At a citadel, full of Nadir warriors and renegade Naashanites. There were not many of us. There were two brothers, a Drenai warrior named Diagoras, and a woman with a crossbow. There was Druss. There was me. And there was a Jiamad. We all fought together. Druss the Legend did not call the Jiamad vermin. He did not shy away from him. He did not look at him with disgust. Druss judged all creatures by their deeds. If he was here when the word vermin was used it would have been Druss who downed the idiot who spoke the word.’ He paused for a moment and looked at the still angry men. ‘I don’t want to hear how many of your friends have been killed by Jiamads, or how your grandfathers made blood oaths to keep them from the sacred lands of the Drenai.

This world is ancient. It has always had its share of evil. Evil, I think, was born in the heart of the first man. You don’t find evil in a leopard, or a bear, or a sparrow, or a hawk. We carry it. Men carry it. Out there,’ he said, gesturing towards the north, ‘is a place of magic. If we can find it, and locate the source of it, we can prevent the Eternal — or anyone else — from ever creating another man-beast. That is what we need to focus upon.’ He could see from their faces that his words had failed to sway them. And there was nothing more to say.

Alahir walked out from his riders and approached the towering Shakul. ‘I am Alahir, of the Legend Riders,’ he said. Shakul’s head swayed from side to side.

‘This is my friend, Shakul,’ said Stavut. The beasts milled around, uncertain and nervous. Stavut took Alahir to one side and spoke to him in a low whisper. Alahir suddenly laughed and turned to his men.

‘Follow our lead,’ he said. Then he and Stavut began to stamp their feet rhythmically on the ground.

With looks of bemusement, the Legend Riders copied the movement. Then Alahir called out: ‘We are pack! All of you say it! Together now!’

The response was at first weak and sporadic. ‘Louder, you whoresons!’ shouted Alahir, laughing as he gave the order.

‘We are pack! We are pack!’ The chant boomed out over the meadows.

‘Shakul!’ yelled Stavut. ‘What are we?’

Shakul began to stamp his foot. One by one the beasts copied him. ‘We are pack!’ roared Shakul, then let out a ferocious howl. The Jiamads raised their heads and howled with him.

‘Let’s hear some Drenai howls!’ shouted Alahir. Cupping his hands over his mouth he let out a piercing wolf call. Laughing now, the Legend Riders began to whoop and yell. The horses scattered once more, but no-one seemed to care.

Skilgannon looked round and smiled. For the first time in days he felt the tension ease from his body.

As Skilgannon walked back to where the barges were moored Alahir joined him. ‘What you said back there, was it true?’ he asked.

‘I do not lie, Alahir.’

‘Druss fought alongside a Jiamad?’

‘We called them Joinings back then, but they were the same. A Nadir shaman had performed a melding on one of Druss’s oldest friends, a man named Orastes.’

‘Ah well,’ said Alahir, ‘that is different then.’

‘What is?’

‘The Jiamad was once a man Druss knew.’

Skilgannon took a deep, calming breath. ‘Where is the difference, Alahir? Shakul was once a man. All of them were.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Alahir, ‘but criminals and such like. Theirs is a punishment for crimes committed.’

Skilgannon paused. He had no wish to insult the man, and he was grateful for the action he had taken.

He looked at the young warrior. ‘I know you are not a stupid man, Alahir. But what you just said shows a remarkable naivete. Do you believe the Eternal is evil?’

‘Of course. Her actions prove it.’

‘Exactly. Why then do you suppose that an evil leader would use only criminals for melding? Shakul was melded for the Eternal’s army. Yes, he might have been a thief, or a murderer. Or simply a good man who spoke against the Eternal.’

‘I see where you are going. Yes, forgive me, Skilgannon. I am a stupid man.’

Skilgannon laughed. ‘When you consider this venture, I think we both qualify for an award in stupidity.

Do not be so hard on yourself. We all get locked into prejudices. In my time and my country the Drenai were considered to be arrogant, selfish conquerors, who needed to be taught a lesson in humility. Had I been a little older I too might have been part of Gorben’s army, taking on the Drenai at Skein Pass. You look at the beasts, their awesome power and their ferocious ugliness, and you wonder just what they could have done to deserve such a fate. For surely, if there is a Source watching us all, they must have done something. I don’t doubt the first Jiamads might have been criminals. After that, with the need for more and more to fill her armies, I expect they were mostly peasants, rounded up in villages. I tell you, Alahir, I was moved when I saw the pack volunteer to travel with Stavut. It made me think there just may be a chance for humanity to change one day. That a group of beasts could show such loyalty and affection inspired me.’

‘Ah well, everybody likes Stavut. He has a rare gift for comradeship.’

Once back at the barges Skilgannon bade Alahir goodnight, and wandered down to the last barge. He found Harad sitting at the stern, Snaga in his hands. He looked up as Skilgannon climbed to the deck.

‘You should have told me,’ said Harad, tossing the axe to the deck. The points of the butterfly blades bit into the wood and the haft stood upright, quivering with the impact.

‘What difference would it have made?’ said Skilgannon, sensing what he spoke of. ‘She died in an earthquake. She died instantly.’

‘Aye, but by my axe!’ The anguish in his words was painful to hear.

‘I knew a man once who was killed by a pebble, flicked up from the hoof of a passing horse. The man was a tough warrior, who had survived a dozen battles. The stone struck him in the temple.’

‘There is a point to this?’ demanded Harad.

‘We rarely get to choose the manner of our passing. You did not kill Charis. The earthquake killed her. Listen to me, Harad. Guilt always follows bereavement. It is a natural part of the process. Someone we love dies and the first question we ask ourselves is: could we have done anything to prevent it? And even if we couldn’t the guilt remains. Did we love them enough? Did we give them enough of our time?

We remember arguments or rows, or tears or misunderstandings. And every one of them comes back to us like a knife in the heart. You are not alone in your suffering. Every man or woman old enough to know someone who has died feels the same. For me it was my wife. She was pregnant and happy. Then the plague struck. For years I suffered, knowing that I had not loved her enough. I travelled the world with a shard of her bone and a lock of her hair, seeking the very place we are now trying to find. I wanted to bring her back, to repay her for the days of love she had given me. Charis loved you, Harad. The gift of love is priceless. You are a better man for having loved her, and for having been loved by her. Let the grief flow by all means. But rid yourself of the guilt. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’

Harad sat silently for a moment, then he let out a sigh. ‘I will think on what you have said,’ he told Skilgannon. Leaning forward, he wrenched the axe from the deck. ‘Why are we in these damned barges?’ he asked. ‘I could walk to the desert faster than this.’

‘Tomorrow you will see. Alahir says the waterway opens out into a great submerged canyon. We will have to leave the oxen behind, for there is no land for them to walk on. There are sheer mountains all round. Alahir claims it is the fastest way to the Rostrias. If we had to ride it would take another two weeks to skirt the mountains.’

‘I have another question,’ said Harad.

‘Ask it.’

‘What happens if we do stop the source of the magic?’

Skilgannon was puzzled. ‘The Eternal will be able to create no more Jiamads or Reborns. Have I not said this before?’

‘Yes, you have. I meant what happens to the Jiamads?’

‘I really don’t know. They are melded by magic. It could be that removing it would cause the meld to come apart. Or it could be that nothing will happen to them. You are concerned about the welfare of the beasts?’

‘As a matter of fact I am,’ said Harad. ‘But I was thinking more about you, and me, and Askari.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Were we not also created by magic? Are we not, in our own way, just as unnatural as the Jems?

Perhaps destroying the source will kill us too.’

‘That is a thought I could have done without,’ admitted Skilgannon. He looked at Harad. ‘Does it make a difference?’

‘No,’ said the axeman. ‘We are doing this to protect the weak from the evil strong. We are following the code. Have you any idea of how to find this temple?’

‘I know where it was,’ said Skilgannon. ‘We’ll start from there.’

Seventy years before, when Unwallis had first travelled to Diranan, one of the first important people he had met had been Agrias. His position as the Queen’s favourite, and Chief Councillor, had seemed unassailable. Fiercely intelligent, handsome and multi-talented, Agrias had radiated power and authority.

Unwallis had stammered foolishly upon being introduced, muttered some dreadful banality, and then had stood like a country bumpkin as Agrias and his entourage swept on through the palace.

Physically Agrias had not changed. He still looked young. He was still handsome and tall. But now he radiated nothing but fear, as he was dragged before the Eternal. For five days he had been kept tied in a covered pit amid the ruins. He was hauled out on the fifth morning, blinking and squinting against the sunlight, his long pale robe soiled with his own excrement. Unwallis wanted to look away, but there was something magnetic about the man’s disintegration.

When he saw the Eternal, sitting on a high-backed chair, and flanked by the senior officers of her Eternal Guard, Agrias struggled to find some last shreds of dignity. As the guards released their hold on his bound arms he drew himself upright.

‘No pretty compliments for me, Agrias?’ said the Eternal. ‘Are you not going to tell me how my hair gleams in the sunshine in raven beauty? Or that to gaze upon my face fills your heart with light?’

‘You, my dear,’ said Agrias, rediscovering his manhood, ‘may look beautiful on the surface, but beneath the smooth skin there are the rotting bones of the long dead, and a stench of corruption.’

A guard struck him violently on the side of the head. Agrias staggered but did not fall. A trickle of blood seeped from a cut in his temple. He suddenly laughed.

‘Oh, do share your good humour,’ said the Eternal. ‘Amuse us while you still can.’

‘When I was a young priest,’ said Agrias, ‘I was gifted with visions. These faded as I grew older, and became enamoured of power and material wealth.’

‘Wonderful,’ said the Eternal. ‘I do so love a morality tale. Does it have a happy ending?’

‘There are no happy endings for the likes of you and me, gorgeous one.’

‘Ah! That compliment brings back happy memories. You have won a few extra moments of life, Agrias. Pray continue.’

‘As I said, I once had a talent for prophecy. Last night, as I sat in the charming apartments you set aside for me, I had another vision. I cannot say that it entirely lifted rny spirits, for my own death was part of it. Doom is upon you, Jianna. The world is about to change. The Armour of Bronze is once more gleaming in the sunshine. And heroes long dead will consign your empire to dust. You are about to become a legend, a creature of the past. Future generations will listen in horror to your tale. They will shiver and reach for talismans at the mention of your name.’

Jianna clapped her hands. ‘I already know that Alahir and his Legend Riders deserted you when they found an ancient relic. The story you have built around their desertion is diverting, but not as fascinating as I had hoped.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I am glad you liked the apartments I chose for you. Even now bricks and mortar are being brought so that we can give you a more permanent roof. You will have no need of doorways or windows. You can spend your last days, or perhaps weeks, in quiet, lonely contemplation of your treachery.’

Unwallis shivered at the sentence. The man was to be buried alive. Now he looked away, not wishing to dwell on the stricken expression of the former councillor. As Agrias was dragged away his courage broke. ‘Kill me now!’ he screamed. ‘For mercy’s sake!’ He was cuffed to silence. Unwallis eased himself back through the watching crowd of soldiers.

There had been two great men serving the Eternal, Landis Kan and Agrias, seventy years ago. Both had now been dealt with. Landis was dead, his body burnt, his ashes scattered. Now Agrias would die in a filthy pit amid the ruins of an ancient city. There had been others, who had not scaled the heights of Agrias and Landis, but nevertheless were great men. Gamal, hunted down and murdered; Perisis, poisoned after he quit the Eternal’s service; Joran, killed by Memnon’s Shadows. The list went on and on.

Unwallis remembered the day Landis Kan had left Diranan for the lands granted to him by the Eternal.

He had wondered then if the Shadows would be despatched after him. He and Landis had spoken briefly on that last morning, as servants packed Landis’s belongings.

‘Why are you leaving, my friend?’

‘I am tired, Unwallis. I want to rest and look at the mountains. I cannot face another war.’

‘There is no war.’

‘No, but there will be. Agrias to the north, Pendashal across the ocean. One or the other. Perhaps both.’

‘Have you told the Eternal of your fears?’

Landis had smiled. ‘You think she does not know?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She is bored, Unwallis. War is the only recreation that truly fires her blood.’

Unwallis had dropped his voice. ‘She wants a war?’

‘Think about it. Before sending Agrias north she abused him in front of the court, heaping ridicule on his achievements. She shamed him, then, by way of apology, she granted him the lands beyond the Delnoch mountains. You know Agrias as well as I do. He is unforgiving and vengeful. He is also powerful and charismatic. He has his own generals, his own artefacts. He can produce Jiamads. He can recruit men. If you were the lord of this realm, would you let him live?’

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Unwallis.

‘Indeed not,’ insisted Landis. ‘Now I have been granted lands adjoining his. I will not play this game, however. I will take no part in the coming war. Look after yourself, Unwallis.’

Looking back, Unwallis wondered how a man as intuitive and intelligent as Landis could have believed his later actions would fool the Eternal.

He trudged across the campsite to where his own tent had been placed. It was far smaller than that of the Eternal, and Unwallis had to stoop to enter it. There was barely room for the folding bed. He sat down upon it, then lay back and closed his eyes. It was as if a light had shone on a dark place in his mind, and he saw now clearly. The first indication had come during the battle — or to be more precise, at the dreadful moment when Jianna had drawn her grotesque horse alongside his and told him they were riding into a trap. Her eyes had shone with excitement, and he knew then that the Eternal enjoyed flirting with death. It seemed so obvious now why she engineered treachery and promoted men who would ultimately betray her. Eternal life bored her to tears. That was why she had ordered Memnon not to kill Skilgannon — not because she loved him, but precisely because he was a threat.

In effect, poor Agrias was to be buried alive for doing exactly what the Eternal wanted.

How evil is that, wondered Unwallis.

Then there was Decado. She had ignored his excesses for years, but when the time came refused to consider poison, which would have taken his life swiftly and without the risk of escape. Now he was with Skilgannon, making the threat to Jianna even more potent.

The Armour of Bronze was even more mysterious. Unwallis recalled a time some fifty years before, when the Eternal had become interested in archaic sites. She had travelled then with an arcanist named Kilvanen, a shy man, with only one abiding passion — seeking to unveil the secrets of the past. Unwallis had liked him. Unlike most of his contemporaries the arcanist was not power-hungry, nor did he seek to rise through the Eternal’s ranks. Unwallis felt comfortable in his company, and enjoyed the man’s tales of digging and scrabbling through ancient earth in search of history’s clues. He had become ill, after a dig in the Sathuli lands. Unwallis had visited him. Kilvanen was not a rich man, and had few servants. He lived in a pleasant house on the hills north of the city. Unwallis had decided to offer him the services of his own physician, but when he arrived at the house he knew it was too late for medicines or potions. Kilvanen was all skin and bone, his skin pale and dry, his eyes bright with the coming of death. Unwallis asked him if he was in pain, but Kilvanen shook his head. ‘The Eternal has sent me strong narcotics,’ he said.

‘Thank her for me when you see her.’

Then they had talked. Kilvanen drifted away into drug-induced sleep, then awoke and began to talk about his work. One story stayed with Unwallis. Kilvanen had discovered a secret chamber on a mountainside. In it, upon a wooden stand, was a suit of incredible armour, gleaming bronze. Kilvanen had known immediately what it was. It represented the greatest find of his life. He had rushed back to the camp to inform the Eternal, and together, holding lanterns, they had eased their way through the narrow tunnel that led to the armour. She had drawn the sword, and touched the gleaming breastplate. ‘Before we remove it,’ Kilvanen had said, ‘we need to examine the chamber and see if there are any other clues at to why it was brought here.’

‘I would imagine he would know,’ Jianna had replied, pointing to the bones on the ground.

‘My guess is that this was Lascarin the Thief,’ Kilvanen had told her. He then outlined the story of the theft of the legendary armour. At the rear of the chamber was a doorway, leading to a blocked tunnel.

Kilvanen had walked along it. Behind him the Eternal had cried out. Kilvanen rushed back.

The Armour was now encased in a block of glittering crystal.

‘What happened, Highness?’ he asked her.

‘It just appeared. Did you touch anything in the tunnel?’

‘No, Highness.’

‘How curious.’ Then, according to Kilvanen she had walked to the crystal and reached out for the sword. Her hand had passed through the block, and she had drawn the blade cleanly. She had laughed then. ‘It is merely an illusion,’ she said, returning the blade to its scabbard. Kilvanen had approached the block — only to find it solid as glass. For a time they talked about the magical phenomenon. Finally Jianna gestured for Kilvanen to draw the blade. This time there was no resistance, and the arcanist pulled the weapon clear. ‘Now put it back,’ she told him. After he had done so Jianna reached towards the glittering helm — only to find her fingers could not pierce the crystal. She had laughed. ‘A clever spell,’ she had said. ‘The crack in the rock through which we arrived was not here when this chamber was built.

The only entrance was the tunnel into which you walked. It is the tunnel which activates the crystal barrier and the sword which causes it to become illusion. This is so fascinating.’

For Kilvanen it had been the most rewarding moment of his life. His joy had been short-lived. Jianna had ordered the opening sealed, leaving the Armour of Bronze untouched. Kilvanen had pleaded with her, but she had been adamant not only that the Armour should remain where it was, but that Kilvanen should tell no-one of its existence. There was little chance of that. Kilvanen took ill almost as soon as they returned to the capital. He was dead within three weeks.

It was only later, when some of the Eternal’s other detractors died in the same way, that Unwallis realized she had killed the arcanist.

The Armour of Bronze, the great rallying symbol of the Drenai, was back.

Could it be, he wondered, that somehow the Eternal had engineered this also? That she had sought to make Skilgannon just a little more powerful, in order to heighten the risk?

That evening, in her tent, Jianna communed with Memnon. ‘I want to see Olek,’ she told the translucent image of the dark-eyed mage.

‘I can show you him, Highness.’

‘I want him to see me too. Can you help with this from such a distance?’

‘Distance is no object, Highness. Hold the talisman firm in your hand, and lie back. I will guide your spirit to him. He will see you.’

Lying down on her bed, the bronze amulet in her hand, she closed her eyes. A cool breeze whispered across her, and she felt the mildly sickening wrench that always accompanied these flights of the spirit, as if a harsh hand had dragged her from her body. Then she was in the air, her spirit being drawn towards the northeast. She flowed over mountains and plains, and through a winding river canyon. Below her she saw five long barges, their sides painted bright crimson. They were anchored in the lee of a towering cliff face.

‘He is in the lead barge, Highness,’ came the voice of Memnon. ‘He may be sleeping.’

‘Show me,’ she said, feeling a sense of rising excitement.

Her spirit was drawn closer to the boat. There were horses upon it, and sleeping men. At the prow stood Skilgannon, the Swords of Night and Day on his back. He was everything she remembered and a great sadness touched her. He was tall and dark, his eyes brilliant blue, his face handsome. He looked just as he had that last day at the citadel, when they had kissed for the last time. ‘Bring me closer to him, Memnon.’

Slowly her spirit floated over the deck, past the sleeping Drenai. She was now only a few feet from him. He was staring at the rearing cliffs, his eyes distant. Jianna knew that look. He was thinking and planning, examining every possibility that could thwart his mission. ‘Ah, Olek,’ she said. ‘I have missed you.’

‘He did not hear you,’ said the voice of Memnon. ‘I need a moment, Highness, to bring your image to life.’

Jianna waited. Skilgannon suddenly stepped back, his face a mask of astonishment.

‘I have dreamed of this moment for a thousand years,’ she said. ‘But never did I think we would meet as enemies.’ He said nothing, but she saw the surprise replaced by longing, and his expression softened.

‘What is it you want here?’ he said at last.

‘To be friends again, Olek. To talk as we once did.’

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he sighed. ‘Shall we talk of the day you chided that boy you caught pulling wings from a butterfly? Or of your dreams of gathering the finest surgeons and apothecaries to a central university, in order to advance the cause of medicine? Or perhaps the promises you made to make life more prosperous and happy for all the citizens of Naashan?’

‘Why must you always be so argumentative, Olek? You could at least say you are glad to see me.’

‘Aye. It would be true, too,’ he admitted. ‘When you died the sun ceased to shine for me.’

‘Then come to me, Olek. Together we will build that university you spoke of. We will put in place all the plans we ever made.’

‘And you would be Sashan for me again?’ he asked. His soft use of the name they had concocted, when she had masqueraded as a whore to escape capture, lanced into her. It brought back memories so distant they had all but disappeared from her consciousness.

‘I would love that, Olek.’

‘It cannot be,’ he said harshly. ‘Sashan is dead, Jianna. As indeed you and I are dead. We should not be here.’

‘Then you will not come to me?’

‘I intend to end your reign.’

‘You would kill me, Olek?’

‘No,’ he admitted, ‘I could never do that. But I can destroy the Eternal.’

‘You were a great general, Olek. You taught me much. I have a regiment of Eternal Guards on their way to the temple site. And two hundred of our strongest Jiamads. You think this rag-tag group of misfits and dreamers can oppose them? Even with you and Decado? Even with Druss’s axe and the Armour of Bronze? A thousand battle-hardened veterans, Olek. You really want to proceed with this folly? You really want all these boys to die?’

‘I think you should go now,’ he said. ‘There is no more for us to say. I love you. I have always loved you. But you are my enemy now, and I will bring you down.’ He turned away from her then, and gripped the boat rail.

‘I love you too,’ she said.

Memnon’s voice whispered into her mind. ‘Is it finished now, Highness?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she told him.

The world spun and she gasped as the weight of her body returned. Replacing the bronze amulet in its ornate box she walked from her tent into the moonlight. She sent a sentry to find Agrippon. The officer had obviously not been sleeping for he arrived swiftly.

‘Dig up Agrias,’ she said.

‘Highness?’

‘I have changed my mind. Bring him out.’

‘At once, Highness.’

Jianna returned to her tent, and filled a goblet with rich red wine. She did not often drink, but tonight she wanted that warm, enveloping mist that would soften the sharp pangs of her regrets.

She had not set out to become the Eternal, back on that distant day when her new eyes opened to a world of blue skies and fresh, sweet air. That was when she had first seen Landis Kan. In those early days in the temple she had merely been glad to be back in the world of the flesh, enjoying the long forgotten delights of eating, sleeping, feeling the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. And she had been fascinated by the temple and its artefacts. There had been no thought of building armies, or regaining thrones. She learned within the first few days of her new existence that the old empire of Naashan had survived a mere fifty years after her death, and that, now, her old palace was a ruin. At first she had thought it would be good to travel across the sea, and gaze once more on familiar mountains. Common sense told her that this was not wise. The new world was much like the old, torn by wars, greed and the lust of men. A woman without wealth, travelling alone, would be prey to any bandit chief, slaver, or mercenary warlord.

The decision which set her on her current path had been made with the best intentions. Landis Kan told her that a former priest, now a renegade warlord, had gathered a force and was said to be marching on the temple, desiring its power, and the wealth it contained. The priests were terrified. The ward spell which protected them could be pierced by the renegade. Jianna asked them why they were not making plans to defend themselves. Landis Kan pointed out that the men here were academics, and not warriors.

They commanded no soldiers, and no defence force.

By this time Landis Kan was her lover, and would do anything to please her. She told him that the answer lay in hiring mercenaries, from among the bandits who roamed the wild lands. He was aghast at the thought. ‘Anyone who tried to approach them would be taken and tortured,’ he said. ‘These are savage, unholy creatures.’

‘Who is the worst of them?’ she had asked.

‘Abadai. He is vicious and cruel.’

‘How many men does he have?’

‘I have no idea. Nor do I want to know.’

‘How old is he?’

‘In his middle years. He has been raiding the caravans and sacking towns for three decades at least.’

‘Then he will do,’ said Jianna. Two days later, on a borrowed horse and armed with a sabre, Jianna had ridden from the temple. She still had a crystal clear memory of the moment she glanced back, and saw nothing but a mountain behind her. No sign of the great doors, or the many windows. Merely blank rock. Even the great, golden mirror atop the peak was no longer visible.

She pushed on, following the directions Landis had reluctantly given her. He had even offered to come with her, and she had seen the gratitude in his eyes when she refused. By late afternoon, high in the mountains, she saw the first of Abadai’s riders. There were three of them sitting their horses on the trail ahead. Jianna realized that from their position they must have been watching her for some time. As she rode closer she saw the hunger and the lust in their eyes. The men were of Nadir extraction, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes.

They wore breastplates of baked leather, and carried long lances.

Jianna drew rein. ‘I am seeking Abadai,’ she said.

‘I am Abadai,’ answered one of the men. ‘Step down and let us talk.’

‘You are far too ugly to be Abadai.’ The other riders smiled at her insult — the smiles vanishing as the first man glared at them.

‘You will regret those words,’ he said.

‘Regret is pointless,’ she told him. ‘Now, either take me to Abadai, or. .’ The sabre flashed into her hand. ‘. . or just try to take me.’

The lance head dropped and he yelled a wild battle cry as he heeled his horse forward. Jianna swayed to her left as the lance blade thrust at her, then her sword arm lashed out, the blade slicing through the back of the man’s neck as he passed. His horse galloped on for several steps. Then he pitched from the saddle.

‘Do I have to kill you all?’ she asked the two warriors, noting their expressions of shock. ‘Or will you take me to Abadai?’

‘We’ll take you,’ said one. ‘You should know that the man you killed was Abadai’s brother.’

The camp was a ramshackle affair, the tents old and patched. Naked children ran across the stony ground, and the women she saw were scrawny and undernourished. Raiding had obviously not been so profitable recently.

The men drew up outside a tent larger than the others. One of them called out, and a squat, powerful, middle-aged man stepped out. His harsh face was deeply lined, his eyes black and cruel. The riders spoke to him in a language Jianna did not know, and she sat quietly waiting.

At last Abadai turned his dark eyes on her. ‘Speak,’ he said. ‘When you have finished I will decide whether to kill you quickly or slowly.’

‘You will not kill me, Abadai,’ she said, stepping down from the saddle, and lifting her saddlebag clear. Draping it over her shoulder she walked to face him.

‘And why will I not?’

‘I hold your dreams in my hand, warrior. I can give you what your heart most desires. I can also give your people what they most desire.’

‘And what is it that I most desire?’ he asked.

Jianna smiled and stepped in close, her mouth next to the warrior’s ear. ‘To be young again,’ she whispered. He laughed then.

‘And perhaps I could grow wings, so that I could attack my enemies from the air, like an eagle?’

‘Invite me into your tent and I shall prove the truth of my promise.’

‘Why should I even talk to you? There is a blood feud now between us. You killed my brother.’

‘You will not mourn him. I doubt you even liked him. The man was an idiot. You are not. However, if my words prove false, or if you decide to take your revenge anyway, it can wait until after we have spoken. You know the old saying? Revenge, like wine, needs time to mature. Then it tastes all the sweeter.’

Abadai laughed. ‘You are an unusual woman. Is it merely extreme youth that makes you so reckless?’

‘Youth, Abadai? I am five hundred years old. Now invite me inside, for the sun is hot, and I am thirsty.’

Jianna smiled as she remembered that long ago day. Sipping her wine she thought of Skilgannon. He would have been proud of her. There would have been no look of contempt in his eyes. She sighed. That look was hard to bear. It did not matter that he was a romantic, and could never understand the need for ruthlessness in a monarch. It did not matter. .

Yet it did.

In all her long life Jianna had needed admiration from only one person.

The man now out to destroy her.

She shivered, drained her goblet, poured another, and sought refuge in a past untainted by soaring ambition.

Landis Kan had given her a regenerative potion that the priests used to fend off sickness. It was, he said, a life extender. Not as powerful as having a Reborn body, but it strengthened the immune system, and revitalized glands and muscles that had begun to wither with age.

She had walked into Abadai’s filthy tent and sat down on a rug at the centre, her sabre across her lap, her saddlebag by her side.

Abadai sat cross-legged opposite her. ‘Your words need to be golden,’ he said.

She smiled. Reaching into her saddlebag she produced the potion. It was contained in a bottle of purple glass, stoppered with wax. ‘Drink this,’ she said, offering it to him.

‘What is it?’

‘It might be poison. Or it might give you a hint of what youth was once like.’

Abadai returned the smile, but it was more of a grimace. He called out to the riders who were waiting outside. Ducking under the tent flap they entered.

‘I am about to drink a potion,’ he said. ‘If it kills me then I want the bitch cut into pieces. Her suffering should be long.’

The riders glanced at one another and looked nervous. Jianna leaned forward. ‘They don’t want to embarrass themselves, Abadai, but they would be happier if you called in more men. However, that will not be necessary.’ She lifted her sabre and tossed it to one of the warriors. Abadai shook his head and suddenly chuckled.

‘I am beginning to like you very much,’ he told her, his gaze resting on her long legs.

‘I have that effect on men,’ she said.

Abadai took the purple bottle, broke the seal, and drank the contents in a single swallow. Then he sat very still watching her. ‘I feel nothing,’ he said.

‘You will, warrior. Now here is the second part of my promise.’ Delving once more into the bag she produced a heavy pouch, tossing it to the leader. He tipped the contents into his palm. Gold coins tumbled from his fingers. The other two warriors scrambled forward to get a closer look at the treasure.

Abadai waved them back. He looked at her now with different eyes.

‘This is the kind of promise I can understand,’ he said. ‘What is it for?’

‘I need an army. Not too large. Perhaps two hundred good fighting men, a few archers.’

Abadai took a deep breath, then levered himself to his feet. Stretching out his arms he clenched his fists. Jianna looked at him. The deep lines on his face were softening, the iron grey of his hair growing darker. ‘I feel. . strong,’ he said. Jianna, who had only heard from Landis about the power of the potion, was almost as surprised as the warlord. The effect was startling. Masking her surprise, she glanced at the two warriors. They were standing open-mouthed.

Abadai waved them away. As they left the tent he sat down once more. ‘You have been true to your word, girl. Where do you come from?’

‘The Temple of the Resurrection.’

His eyes widened, and he was about to reply when he stopped and laughed. ‘I was about to say it was a myth. But I am here, younger and stronger. How young do I look?’ he asked suddenly.

‘You have lost at least ten years,’ she said. ‘I will supply fifty more gold coins before the fight, and fifty after we win. How many men do you have?’

‘Sixty or so. There were more.’ He shrugged. ‘This has been a bad year. Two bands struck out on their own.’

‘You know where they are?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then send for them. When they are gathered show them the gold. I will supply you with one extra coin for every man. This needs to be accomplished with speed, Abadai. The force we are facing will be in the mountains within the week.’

‘And they are?’

‘Mercenaries — much like you yourself. They are led by a former priest of the Resurrection, and will be travelling down from the city of Gassima.’

‘How many men does this priest have?’

She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘I would think no more than a few hundred. Perhaps less. All plunder from the bodies will belong to you, and all horses taken.’

Drawing in a deep breath he stared at her with undisguised longing. ‘You fire my blood, girl. Share my bed and we will spit hands on the agreement.’

Jianna laughed. ‘After we win, Abadai, I will come to you. You will need the extra youth and vitality I have given you. And perhaps more.’ Rising from the rug she gathered up her saddlebag, slinging it over her shoulder. ‘When you have the men assembled, ride west until you see the hanging rock. You know where I mean?’

‘Of course I know. Close to the old oasis.’

‘The very same. I will join you there.’

‘You were right,’ he said, as she reached the tent flap. Jianna glanced back. ‘He was my idiot brother.

I came close to killing him myself a couple of times.’

The battle with the priest’s force had been short, bloody and decisive. Unfortunately the man had escaped with a handful of riders. But most of his three hundred mercenaries lay dead on the desert floor.

Abadai and his warriors had rushed round the battlefield, butchering wounded survivors and stripping them of rings, trinkets, clothes and boots.

That night, as she had promised, she spent with the bandit leader. His lovemaking was fierce and urgent, lacking finesse and subtlety. Yet it was sublime when compared to the fumbling adoration of Landis Kan.

And so had begun the journey that would culminate in empire. Fearing the renegade would return with a larger force the temple priests had authorized Jianna to gather an army. With this she had marched to Gassima and sacked the city. Once more the priest escaped, heading south. Jianna pursued him. The priest sought refuge with a bandit warlord in the Sathuli mountains. Jianna gathered more fighters, and crushed his army also. As her fame grew her force swelled. She had become a power in the land. By the time the priest was caught and killed he had become incidental to the greater purpose. The day of the Eternal had dawned.

The wine jug was empty. Jianna called out to her guards, ordering them to bring her another. Agrippon himself brought it. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘where is Agrias?’

‘He had strangled himself with the cord of his robe, Highness.’

‘The idiot. He always had a poor sense of timing,’ she said. ‘Send for Unwallis.’

Alone once more, she allowed the memories of the years to slide before her mind’s eye. As the army grew larger it became increasingly necessary to widen the scope of its activities. More and more towns and cities came under her sway. Until, at last, even the fading empire of the Drenai fell before her, their ambassadors bending the knee, pledging allegiance. She had transferred the seat of her power to Diranan, taking Landis Kan and Agrias, and many of the priests, and their artefacts of power, with her.

There had been many insurrections, a score of small wars. Yet always her empire swelled. As she grew older, and even the power of the restorative potions began to lose its magic, Landis Kan had suggested repeating the process by which they had brought her back: raising duplicates of herself.

Was that when I became evil, she wondered? Anger flared. You are seeing yourself through Skilgannon’s eyes, she chided herself.

Or perhaps through the eyes of the last abbot, she realized. She had returned to the temple with Landis, seeking more artefacts. Landis wanted to study in the great library. The abbot had come down, she thought, to greet them. Instead he stood in the great doorway and refused them leave to enter. Jianna had been shocked.

‘You have corrupted this temple,’ he said. ‘You have made a mockery of everything we have worked for over the centuries. You have built an empire of evil, and seduced once good men like Landis to follow in your footsteps. You will not enter here, Jianna.’

Before she could answer he had stepped back inside, and the doors swung shut. Furious, Jianna had ridden, with her fifty Eternals, to the closest garrison. Gathering several hundred men she had returned -

only to find the temple gone. Two riders rode over the rim of the crater that remained. They died horribly, the metal of their armour twisting around them, tearing into their flesh.

The arrival of Unwallis brought her thoughts back to the present. The statesman was dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep. ‘Is there a problem, Highness?’ he asked.

‘I felt in need of the company of a friend,’ she said. ‘Be at ease, I do not intend to seduce you. Just sit with me.’

‘What has happened?’ he asked.

‘I saw Skilgannon. And now I must kill him.’ She laughed then. ‘It is curious, Unwallis, but a part of me wants to be at his side, fighting the good fight against the evil Eternal. How foolish is that?’

‘A part of you is doing just that,’ he said.

‘An interesting riddle. Perhaps you would explain.’

‘I might be wrong, Highness, but did you not send the Legend Riders to him?’

She looked at him closely, then shook her head and smiled. ‘I always forget how clever you are, my dear. But this is your crowning moment. How could you possibly know that? Did Memnon tell you?’

‘No, Highness. I knew that you and Kilvanen had found the Armour of Bronze. It seemed rather too coincidental that a wandering Drenai rider should discover the site.’

‘And what conclusions do you draw?’ she asked him.

‘The wars with Agrias here, and Pendashal in the east, are of your own making. You crave excitement, and, in reality, there is no-one who can truly defeat you. Once I realized that, then I knew the discovery of the Armour was not happenstance.’

‘Ah, Unwallis, if you had only been a soldier, or developed some strategic skills.’

‘I am happy I did not, Highness, for perhaps then I would have been buried alive like poor Agrias. As it is I fear my candour will cost me my life.’

‘Then why risk it?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the truth just has to be spoken, no matter what the consequences. Landis Kan was a friend of mine. He knew of your manipulations. He also knew you were hoping he would join Agrias. The two of them might have really tested you.’

‘His plans were rather more dangerous to me,’ she said.

‘I think he surprised you with those. Even so, you have sought to give Skilgannon a greater chance than he would have had.’

‘He deserves it,’ she said, refilling her goblet. ‘I never had a braver or more dedicated friend. Olek risked his life many times for me. Without him I would never have escaped the city. My father’s murderers would have caught me and killed me, as they did my mother. Skilgannon lost his friends and his youth to my cause. Through the darkest times — when we thought we were finished — he stayed loyal.

He won battles no other general could have. Outnumbered, sometimes outmanoeuvred, occasionally even — in those early days — outclassed, he won. He was unstoppable. His men revered him. They fought with utter belief in his ultimate victory. It was a sight to behold.’

‘And this is the man you have given an army to? Do you want to be defeated, Highness?’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, her voice slurring. ‘Come to my bed, Unwallis. I don’t want sex. I just want to fall asleep next to a friend.’

‘Then you are not going to have me killed?’

‘Ask me in the morning,’ she told him.