The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Nineteen

Skilgannon headed his chestnut gelding up the steep, rocky slope, pausing below the crest and dismounting. Leaving the gelding’s reins trailing he eased his way to the top and gazed out over the rugged, arid lands which stretched from the mountains to the sea. Unlike the deserts across the ocean there was no heat to speak of here. It was a desert simply because the ground lacked topsoil, consisting almost entirely of rock. Harsh winds blew across the plateau, and what plants could grow in this inhospitable place were thin and spiky. The few trees were dry, the wood snapping and crumbling under the faintest of pressures.

Skilgannon’s throat was dry, his hair grey with rock dust. His eyes felt gritty. Seeing the land below was empty of movement he waved the others forward. Decado and Alahir rode their horses up.

‘No sign of them yet,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Why would she warn you?’ asked Decado.

‘I cannot answer that.’

‘I still think she might have been lying,’ said Alahir. Skilgannon glanced at him. The events of the morning lay heavy on the Drenai leader. After days of easy travelling they had disembarked on the banks of the Rostrias and headed north for the temple site. The riders had been glad to be free of the boats, as indeed had the Jiamads. The two-day march to the temple mountains had been without incident. Stavut and his pack had caught and killed eight bighorn sheep, and everyone had tasted fresh meat.

This morning had seen the first tragedy.

They had arrived at the temple mountains, and Skilgannon had seen for himself the enormous crater where the temple had been. It was a disconcerting sight. Although Gamal had said it was gone Skilgannon had nursed the hope that the man had been mistaken; that he and his companion had travelled to the wrong place.

The riders had reined in on the edge of the crater. Shakul had wandered over the rim, his great head swaying. Then he had stumbled, and almost fallen. Alahir’s young aide, Bagalan, had dismounted. When Shakul seemed in trouble he had run forward. Then he had screamed. Shakul grabbed the rider and lurched back over the rim. Bagalan had writhed in his grasp, blood bursting from his mouth and throat.

Shakul lowered him to the ground and the riders had gathered round. Alahir was the first to the young man’s side. Blood was seeping through Bagalan’s armour. His body went through a series of violent spasms. Then he died.

Alahir stared down at the boy’s twisted armour. His chain-mail gorget was mangled and blood-covered, his breastplate cracked. Lower down his hauberk was embedded in the flesh of his right thigh. It was as if his armour had come alive, and had eaten its way into his body.

Skilgannon stood over the corpse. He did not remind them that he had warned the riders to stay clear of the crater. There was no need. Bagalan’s mutilated corpse was enough of a reminder.

‘No way for a Drenai warrior to die,’ said the veteran Gilden. ‘We cannot even take his armour.’

Alahir tried to draw the boy’s sword from its scabbard, but even this had twisted and melded.

‘What kind of magic does this?’ he asked, his face ghostly pale.

‘I don’t know,’ said Skilgannon.

One of the riders swore and pointed at the crater. Bagalan’s helm was writhing on the dusty ground. It was changing shape — as if a giant, unseen hammer was pounding it. Then, as they watched, the helm rose from the ground, twisting and shimmering in the sunlight. It flew higher, then moved north, like a silver bird. The riders watched it until it disappeared. No-one spoke.

‘Move back from the rim,’ said Skilgannon, at last. ‘Set up camp over there by the stand of rocks.’

Moving to his horse he stepped into the saddle. ‘Alahir!’ he called. ‘Ride with me. We need to scout for a defensive position.’

Alahir backed away from the corpse and mounted his horse. As Skilgannon headed away towards the east Alahir and Decado joined him.

‘Maybe the bitch was lying,’ said Alahir.

‘It is a possibility, but I don’t think so. Therefore, until we know differently, we will assume we are facing a thousand riders and two hundred Jiamads. We cannot take them on open ground. They will flank us.’

‘I’ve seen the Eternal Guard in action,’ said Decado. ‘They are rather splendid, you know.’ He looked at Alahir. ‘No offence to you and your men, but I’d back the Guard to take any force. Would it not be better to stay mobile, rather than pick a battle site?’

‘Look around you, Decado,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Open land with no cover? A few water holes, and no trees. No hiding places. We cannot run. Our only hope is to locate the temple and end the magic’

‘You have not seen the Legend Riders fight,’ Alahir told Decado. ‘I would wager they will turn back these Guards of yours.’

‘An interesting idea,’ said Decado, with a wide smile. ‘However, if you lose how would you pay the wager?’

‘We do not lose,’ snapped Alahir.

‘Let us move on,’ said Skilgannon.

For two hours they rode over the arid land. Skilgannon stopped often to study the ground. He questioned Alahir about the route the Guard would take. Alahir, who had never been this far north, could offer little constructive advice. Decado volunteered his opinion. ‘They would have taken ship from Draspartha,’ he said, ‘and followed the coast. Beyond the mountains ahead of us is the Pelucid Sea.

There is only one port on the coast — well, more of a fishing settlement, really — but there is a jetty. I stopped there two years ago after returning from a campaign in Sherak. As I recall there is a mountain road leading to the old silver mines.’

‘A pass would suit us,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Somewhere narrow. That would level the odds.’

‘You might be expecting too much,’ said Decado. ‘In my experience there is rarely only one pass through any mountain range. If we form up in one, what is to stop the Guard from finding another and encircling us?’

‘First let us find a pass. Then we’ll argue about how to hold it,’ Skilgannon told him.

Angling his horse he set off towards a tower of red rock that rose like a spear above the surrounding high ground. Dismounting, he walked round the base of the tower, then levered himself up, seeking out hand- and footholds. Decado and Alahir watched him as he climbed ever higher.

Once on the face Skilgannon moved with care. The holds were good, but he was aware that the rock was soft stone and he tested each hold before applying his full weight. Several times as he gripped what seemed a solid spur the rock would crumble and fall away. Higher he went, until he was some two hundred feet above the rocks below. He glanced down. Decado and Alahir had dismounted, and were watching him keenly.

At last he levered himself over the lip of the peak, and sat staring down over the land below. From here he could see the sharp breaks in the mountains signifying passes. Decado had been right. There were several. He could not tell from this vantage point which of them might be blind canyons, but he could see the main pass, and just glimpse the sea in the far distance. He sat for a while, gathering his strength for the return climb, and continued to study the land ahead. When he had finally committed the scene to memory he eased himself back over the edge and climbed carefully down. Despite his skills, he was relieved when his feet touched solid ground.

He told the waiting men what he had seen and sent Alahir back to fetch the rest of the force, directing him to head due east towards the deep V-shaped cut in the mountains. ‘Decado and I will scout the various passes, and see which offers the best chance of success.’

As Alahir rode away Decado shook his head. ‘You are the most optimistic man I have ever met, kinsman. Do you really believe these country boys can beat the Guard?’

‘It hardly matters what I believe. We cannot run, and we cannot hide. Therefore we fight. And when I fight, Decado, I win. Be it an army or a single man.’

‘Unlike most people I love arrogance,’ said Decado happily. ‘It is so refreshing. I feel the same way.

There’s not a man born of woman who could survive me in a duel. And you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Tell me.’

‘One of us is wrong.’

‘Or both of us,’ said Skilgannon. ‘How fortunate we are on the same side.’

Decado chuckled. ‘Fortune is a fickle beast at best,’ he said.

Skilgannon walked to his horse and mounted. ‘Tell me all you can of the Guard, their training methods, their tactics, their weapons,’ he said, as Decado moved to his own mount.

Decado swung himself into the saddle. ‘Mounted or on foot they always attack,’ he said. ‘And like you, kinsman, they never lose.’

Unwallis had experienced many ambitions in his long life. Most had been fulfilled. One would never be fulfilled. For some reason that he could not understand, none of the many women in his life had ever conceived children by him. It had always been a mild regret. Until now.

He lay in the royal bed, Jianna curled up alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her thigh across his own. She was, at this moment, entirely childlike, and Unwallis felt a strong paternal affection for the sleeping queen. He lay there quietly, stroking her long, dark hair. Intellect told him this feeling was merely an illusion. The women lying in his arms was a ruthless tyrant, with the deaths of nations on her conscience. But in the dark of the tent his intellect faded back, allowing his emotions to roam free.

An hour passed. Unwallis began to doze. Then something caused him to wake suddenly. His eyes flared open.

He found himself looking into the grey face of a Shadow, looming over the bed. A knife blade pricked the skin of his shoulder, and he fell back. The paralysis came swiftly. Two other Shadows moved alongside. He saw Jianna jerk and try to swing her legs from the covers. With a swiftness the eye could not follow they were upon her.

Unwallis, paralysed, could do nothing to help her. He could not even close his eyes when he saw a cold, grey dagger blade plunge into Jianna’s heart. Her body fell back to the sheet, her dead eyes staring into Unwallis’s frozen orbs. Then the Shadows dragged the Queen’s corpse from her bed.

Unwallis did not see them take her from the tent. He lay, his unclosed eyes becoming dry and painful, for several agonizing hours. Finally he was lifted up by Agrippon. A surgeon was beside the bed.

Together they lifted Unwallis into a sitting position. Slowly the feeling came back to his arms, and with it a terrible pounding pain in his skull.

When at last he could speak he uttered a single word. ‘Jianna.’

‘Shadows struck down the guards,’ said Agrippon. ‘We can find no trace of her.’

‘She was killed,’ said Unwallis. ‘Stabbed through the heart. They took her body away.’

Alahir stretched out on the rocky ground at the water’s edge and removed his helm and hauberk. The sun was warm, but there was a breeze whispering through the rocks, cooled as it passed over the pool.

All around him the Legend Riders, save for the men scouting the eastern roads, were relaxing. Beyond them the horses, watered now, were tethered in the shade of the western rock face.

Gilden joined him. The veteran had doffed his armour, and was dressed only in a simple grey knee-length tunic. He did not look like a soldier now, more like a grim-faced teacher. ‘That tunic has seen better days,’ observed Alahir.

Gilden glanced down. ‘It was once green, I think,’ he said. Then he sat down, reached into the water and splashed his face. Leaning over he gazed into the depths. ‘I wonder how deep it is.’

‘Amazing that it is here at all,’ said Alahir. ‘Is it just trapped rainfall, do you think?’

‘Hard to say,’ Gilden told him. ‘Desert tanks like these can be connected to perpendicular wells -

even underground lakes. I think that’s why the ancients angled the road so close to the cliffs here. It would have made a fine resting place on the journey from the sea to the interior. Merchants could water their horses and rest, before the long haul to Gulgothir or Gassima.’ He glanced across to the other side of the pool, some thirty feet away, where Askari was sitting alongside the brooding Harad. ‘Beautiful girl.

That Stavut is a lucky man.’

‘I am not sure how lucky any of us are,’ said Alahir. ‘We are about to face the Eternal Guard, and a few hundred Jems.’

Gilden did not reply. He cast his eyes around the area. ‘Where is Stavut?’

‘The pack went off with Skilgannon and Decado. They are scouting the other passes, trying to see whether the Guard can find a way round us.’

Gilden laughed. ‘A part of me hopes they miss us completely.’

‘I know the feeling,’ agreed Alahir. ‘But then what would we do, my friend? Ride home and die facing yet another regiment — or two, or ten?’

‘There is that.’

Askari rose and walked round to sit with them. ‘The water is cool and yet no-one is swimming,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’

Gilden laughed aloud, and looked at Alahir. ‘We are not, er, great swimmers,’ Alahir told her, his face reddening.

Askari glanced at Gilden. ‘Am I missing something here?’

‘Indeed you are, lass.’

‘Oh, shut up, Gil!’ snapped Alahir.

‘Ours is a society of ancient values, some of which, to be frank, are startlingly stupid,’ said Gilden gleefully. ‘Women come in three groups, angelic maidens, wives, and whores. The first two groups are revered, the third enjoyed. Of course when I say enjoyed, it should be understood that this enjoyment comes with a sack of guilt.’

‘And this has something to do with swimming?’ asked Askari.

‘At any time the enemy may come in sight. You don’t want to be fighting in wet clothes. Therefore we would swim naked. And the Drenai cannot do that while you are here, you angelic maiden you.’ His laughter boomed out.

‘But you do not share this. . shyness?’ she said sweetly.

‘I have spent some time in the south, across the Delnoch mountains, so I have greater experience of other cultures.’

‘Good, then doff that threadbare tunic and show your comrades how well you swim.’

Now it was Alahir whose laughter rang out. Gilden reddened. ‘Ah, well,’ he temporized, ‘having said that, I never did quite throw off the shackles of my early training.’

Askari smiled. ‘So, the Legend Riders are really just shy boys, frightened of being seen naked?’ She swung to Alahir. ‘Are you shy, Earl of Bronze?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I would really like to swim.’ Pushing himself to his feet he stripped off his shirt and leggings and dived into the water, sending up a mighty splash. All around the pool the Legend Riders hooted and clapped. Several other men stripped off and joined him.

The water was wonderfully cool and Alahir swam to the far side of the pool, where he rested his elbows on a rock and glanced up at Harad. He was sitting quietly, the great axe in his lap. ‘Join us, my friend,’ said Alahir.

‘I cannot swim,’ said Harad.

‘It is easy. Put aside the axe and come in. I will teach you in a matter of moments.’

Harad suddenly grinned. ‘Aye, that would be good,’ he said. Throwing off his clothes he waded into the water. ‘What do I do?’

‘Take a deep breath and lie back. The air in your lungs will keep you afloat.’

Harad leaned back. As his head touched the water he tried to stand. His foot slipped and he sank beneath the surface, coming up spluttering. Alahir was beside him in an instant. ‘Trust me,’ said Alahir. T

will support your back. Now breathe in deeply and we will get you to float.’

Askari watched the two men, and swung to Gilden. ‘You are old to be a soldier,’ she said.

‘Thank you for sharing that observation,’ he said sourly.

‘I meant no disrespect. Far from it. To have survived this long you must be very skilled.’

‘Lucky is all.’

‘You have family? Children?’

He chuckled. ‘I have these shy boys,’ he said. ‘They are my family. One day they will take my armour and bury me. Then they will sing songs over my grave. It is enough for me.’

‘The sky is too blue to be talking about graves and death,’ she pointed out. Rising to her feet she stripped off her clothes. ‘Come, Gilden, swim with me,’ she said, holding out her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and stood. Pulling his tunic over his head he displayed a body with many scars, across his chest and shoulders, and upper thighs. Askari took his hand, and drew him into the water.

Just then Skilgannon and Decado rode through the gap in the rocks that ringed the pool and dismounted. Alahir saw them, left Harad happily floating, and waded to the bank. Decado moved away from them, stripping off his clothes and diving into the water. Skilgannon looked tired. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face gaunt. ‘Perhaps you should get in too,’ offered Alahir.

‘We found three other passes that could be used to get behind us,’ said Skilgannon, ‘and we don’t have enough men to adequately defend them all. There may be even more that I couldn’t find. Once down into the low canyons it is like a warren. Stavut is still checking them.’

‘They will come at us head on first,’ said Alahir. ‘It is the way of the Guards. See the enemy, kill the enemy. They have great belief in their martial supremacy.’

‘I agree. It matches everything Decado told me.’

‘Then what is worrying you?’

Skilgannon grinned. ‘You mean apart from being outnumbered four to one? If we are cut off then I will not be able to reach the temple site, and this whole venture will have been for nothing.’

‘There is nothing there,’ Alahir pointed out. ‘We have seen that for ourselves.’ His body almost dry in the bright sunshine he picked up his tunic and slipped it on, and then his leggings. ‘So, let’s just finish off these Guards and head back for Siccus.’

‘The magic is still emanating,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It must be there.’

‘I know nothing about magic, Skilgannon, but if the temple is gone, perhaps they took the source somewhere else. Another country. Over the sea.’

‘True,’ admitted Skilgannon wearily. ‘But the prophecy said I would find the answer. And I am here -

not across the sea.’ Taking the reins of the two mounts he led them to the far side of the pool.

Alahir helped him with the unsaddling and they rubbed the beasts down. Then Skilgannon gestured for Alahir to follow him and they walked back through the deep cut in the rocks that led out to the trail. It was some thirty feet wide here, dropping steeply away to the north. Skilgannon walked to the edge.

From here they could see the great crater where the temple mountain once stood. Skilgannon stared at the distant ring. Heat waves were shimmering over it. Reluctantly he turned away. ‘We have an advantage here,’ he said to Alahir. ‘The ground dips away to the east, which means the enemy will be coming at us uphill. The cliffs and the precipice mean they cannot flank us.’ He walked on down the old road, which narrowed to around fifteen feet at the bend, where it swung away sharply before continuing down to the canyon below. ‘They will have no time to form up properly for a charge,’ he continued. ‘The formation will break at this point, where only five or six riders can stay abreast of one another. Once past this they will be in arrow range. I can’t see them risking their horses against trained bowmen on high ground.’

‘No,’ agreed Alahir. ‘They will dismount and come at us fast on foot.’

‘Or send in their beasts.’

‘I think they will hold back the beasts at first,’ said Alahir.

‘Why so?’

‘I don’t wish to sound arrogant, but we are the elite, Skilgannon. The Legend Riders have a reputation. I think the Guards will want to test that. Once we bloody their noses then they’ll send the beasts.’

‘That sounds right to me,’ admitted Skilgannon, walking once more to the edge. He gazed down. ‘It is only half a mile to the canyon floor, but the enemy, following a winding uphill road, will have to travel four, perhaps five, times that far. I don’t know how long they will have been without water, but even with supplies their mounts will be tired, and the warriors will be hot, their mouths dry, their eyes gritty.’

They stood in silence. Alahir gazed at the winding road, picturing the Eternal Guard in their black and silver armour, their high plumed helms. Skilgannon was right. The road, some hundred and fifty paces from the entrance to the rock pool, was too narrow for them to form up for a charge. They would have to attack in relative disorder, trying to create a strong formation even as they ran towards the bowmen.

Moving to the narrow point he turned and began to run back up the slope, counting as he did so.

‘How many?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘I would be surprised if we couldn’t loose six volleys before they hit our front rank.’

‘Roughly fifteen hundred arrows,’ estimated Skilgannon. ‘Against one thousand heavily armoured men carrying shields. At least half the shafts will be blocked. Half again will strike breastplates or chain mail and do no damage.’

‘And at least half of the remainder will wound, but not incapacitate,’ added Alahir.

‘That leaves around one hundred and twenty-five taken out of the fight. Leaving eight hundred and seventy-five engaged in hand to hand combat with two hundred and fifty. Sheer weight of numbers will drive us back.’ Skilgannon strolled up the road to the entrance leading to the rock pool. ‘It would be natural,’ he said, ‘to pull back into here. The entranceway is narrow, and could be easily defended. Yet it would be suicidal, for there is no other way out.’

He walked on another two hundred paces. Here was the top of the rise. After this the land opened out, as the road meandered down to the desert below. ‘Once past this point and they will flank us, encircle us, and kill us at their leisure.’

‘You are beginning to depress me,’ muttered Alahir.

Skilgannon laughed, and clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Plan for the worst, expect the best,’ he quoted. Then he walked back to the main trail and squatted down, studying the land.

‘We could send a small group of riders down the trail,’ offered Alahir, ‘and hit them as they climbed.

That would increase their losses.’

‘True — but then the Jems would probably come first, chasing our riders. We need the Guards to make the first attack. Then we can strip away their arrogance, and leave them terrified of failure and death. The sending of their beasts must be an act of resignation and defeat. Then, when we have turned back the beasts, the day will be ours.’

‘Ah, this is more to my liking,’ Alahir told him.

‘What is the fewest number of men you need to hold the line there?’ asked Skilgannon, pointing to the widest point of the old road.

‘A hundred. Perhaps a hundred and fifty.’

Skilgannon remained silent, his expression intense. Twice he looked back up the trail, then glanced up at the towering cliffs to his left. Telling Alahir to stand at the widest point, Skilgannon retreated up the slope some fifty paces. After a while he returned. ‘We need to keep shooting at all times,’ he said.

‘When the first attack comes we will meet it here. Once the Guard engage, the rear ranks of our bowmen will move back to the high ground, and shoot over our heads into the mass beyond the fighters. They will be crammed together, struggling to get to the action. How many shafts does each man carry?’

‘Thirty.’

‘If we break their first attack we can replenish our supply from the dead. Everything depends on that first charge. We need to hold them until their confidence breaks. Decado and I will be at the centre of the first line.’

‘As will I,’ said Alahir.

‘Indeed. Wear the Armour of Bronze, Alahir. It will lift the men.’

‘I had that in mind. Where will Harad fight?’

‘He is a concern,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He is brave and he is powerful, but he is unskilled. Added to which no axeman can fight in close quarters, surrounded by comrades. He needs room to swing that weapon. I shall send him with Stavut and the pack to watch the other passes.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Alahir. ‘You are right that the Armour of Bronze will lift my men. So would the thought of Druss’s axe being used in the battle.’

‘It may come to that by the end,’ Skilgannon told him.

Harad followed Shakul and Stavut up a long rise, and onto a wide plateau overlooking a narrow pass snaking east through the mountains. Here the rest of the pack were waiting. Harad took a swig from a water canteen, loaned to him by a Legend Rider. Swishing the water round his mouth he spat it out, seeking to remove the taste of rock dust. Sweat trickled down his back. He glared balefully at the arid land, and found himself longing for the green leaves in the forest back home. This brought an instant image of Charis, smiling as she brought him his food. His mood darkened, a mixture of sorrow and rage swirling through him.

Stavut wandered over. ‘About two miles ahead the trail you can see merges with the old road. If they split their force this is the way they will come.’

Harad would have preferred to fight alongside the Legend Riders, rather than these beasts. He was still uneasy around them, though he marvelled at the way Stavut wandered among them, clapping some on the shoulder, and making jokes Harad was sure the beasts could not understand. The Jiamads stretched out in the sunshine. Many of them began to doze. Stavut yawned and scratched his thickening beard. ‘Do you know any stories about Druss?’ asked Harad.

‘A few. Legends, probably. His wife was a princess of some kind. She was stolen from the palace by traitors. I think some foreign king had fallen in love with her. Anyway, she was taken across the sea, and Druss went and fetched her back.’

‘Storytelling is not a strong point of yours, is it?’ said Harad.

‘I never was much interested in history. I think he fought a demon king as well — but that could have been someone else.’

‘Why is it that all the heroes married princesses?’ asked Harad.

‘I guess that’s what heroes do.’ Stavut glanced back down the trail. ‘I hope they don’t come this way,’ he said.

Shakul suddenly stood and raised his head into the air, nostrils quivering. The other Jiamads stirred.

Stavut swore. Harad took up his axe. ‘You are as good at hoping as you are at storytelling,’ he said.

Shakul padded back to where the two men waited. ‘Many Jems. Here soon,’ he told them.

‘How many?’ asked Stavut.

‘Big pack.’

‘Bigger than us?’

‘Many times.’

Stavut swore again, and drew the cavalry sabre Alahir had given him. ‘I think you should keep back out of the action,’ Harad observed. ‘Unless you know how to use that.’

‘Very droll,’ muttered Stavut.

Shakul sniffed the air again. ‘Not all come,’ he said. Stavut moved forward to where the trail dipped down towards the canyon floor. To the right was a towering cliff, to the left an awesome drop. The trail was some twenty feet wide. Then he glanced around. There were scores of boulders from previous rock falls scattered over the plateau.

‘Shak, I want as many of those big rocks pushed to the edge of the plateau as you can.’

‘Rocks?’

Stavut ran to a huge boulder, and placed his hands upon it, pretending to push. ‘We will roll them down towards the enemy. Come on, lads!’ he shouted. Shakul walked to the boulder and heaved his enormous bulk against it. The massive rock did not budge.

‘No good,’ said Shakul.

‘Together we can do it. Grava! Ironfist! Blackrock! Over here!’ Three more Jiamads joined him.

Together they threw their weight against the boulder. Slowly it began to move. ‘Careful now!’ warned Stavut. ‘We want it right on the edge.’ Harad moved forward to assist them, and slowly they rolled the giant rock into place. Others followed, until there was a line of colossal rocks perched on the edge of the plateau. Then they waited.

Far below they saw the first of the Jiamads come into sight. There was an officer with them, on a piebald horse. Stavut ordered his pack to pull back from the crest. He was not quick enough, and the officer saw them. Harad watched as he waved his arm forward. The Jiamads with him began to run up the slope. They were big beasts, all of them as large as Shakul, perhaps larger, and they were carrying long clubs of dark iron. Harad counted them as they came. There were more than forty of them, and they were moving fast. The officer was riding with them. He had drawn his sabre, and his black cloak was billowing behind him.

When the beasts were halfway up the slope Stavut bellowed: ‘Now!’

Shakul and several of the others hurled themselves at the first boulder, tipping it over the edge. Others of the pack pushed another great rock after it. Then a third. The first stopped about ten paces ahead, but the second rolled on, picking up pace. Shakul ran to the first, Grava alongside him. Together they got it moving, then loped back to where Stavut stood with Harad.

Five boulders were now rumbling down the slope. They picked up speed, bouncing off the rock face to the right. One of them rolled over the edge long before it reached the Jiamads. Another hit the cliff face and stopped. The rest thundered on, picking up speed. The charging Jiamads stopped, as they realized the danger. They turned and tried to run. The officer’s horse reared as he dragged on the reins. Then a boulder struck the piebald, hurtling it over the edge. The officer had managed to kick his feet clear of the stirrups just before the boulder struck, and threw himself from the doomed horse.

Harad stared down through the dust cloud the avalanche had caused. At least ten of the Jiamads had been swept to their deaths, or crushed. The others regrouped. The officer, his plumed helmet gone, waved his sword in the air, pointing up the mountainside. And the enemy came on again.

Shakul and the pack waited. Stavut moved up to stand at the centre, Harad alongside him.

‘I hate fighting,’ said Stavut.

‘Picked the wrong place to be,’ muttered Harad.

As the enemy neared Stavut shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Kill them all!’ With a great roar the pack hurled themselves at the enemy. Harad ran with them. A massive beast swung an iron club at his head.

Harad ducked and sent Snaga crunching through its ribs. Then he shoulder-charged the dying beast, thrusting it aside as he hurled himself at another. Shakul grabbed a Jiamad by the throat and groin, hoisting it into the air and flinging the hapless beast back into his comrades. Stavut whacked his sabre at a charging monster. The blade bounced away, causing no more than a shallow cut. The beast grabbed Stavut by the shirt, dragging him towards its fangs. A mighty blow from Shakul struck the side of its head.

Dropping Stavut it turned towards Shakul. The two huge beasts roared and hurled themselves at one another.

Stavut pushed himself to his feet, and gathered up his fallen sabre. The plateau echoed with the sound of snarls and cries. Shakul tore the throat from his opponent and rushed back into the fray. Harad was attacking with relentless power, blocking and cutting, the great axe cleaving through fur, flesh and bone.

Stavut ran to help him, leaping over fallen beasts, and ducking round others who were still fighting. The officer of the Eternal Guard saw him, and rushed in. Stavut blocked a fierce thrust, then threw himself back as a second slashed towards his belly. The blade flicked up, tearing his shirt and nicking the skin of his chest. Holding the sabre two-handed Stavut slashed and cut, but his attack was easily parried. ‘You are dead meat!’ sneered the officer.

Harad, who was close by, smashed Snaga into the face of an attacking beast, then leapt towards the guardsman. The soldier saw him coming and swung to meet the new threat. With no concern for fairness Stavut rushed in, plunging his sabre through the man’s throat. As he did so, he saw that Harad’s attempt to save him had put the axeman in peril. He had turned his back on the Jiamads coming at him. Stavut tried to call out a warning. A club thundered against Harad’s head. The big man staggered. Stavut leapt to his aid. Harad, blood streaming from his temple, drove Snaga through his attacker’s chest.

The enemy broke — the survivors running back down the trail.

Stavut, feeling light-headed with relief, sought out Shakul. The big beast was bleeding from several shallow cuts and gashes. ‘Are you all right?’ Stavut asked.

‘Strong,’ answered Shakul. Stavut moved around the killing ground. He found eight of his pack dead, and four others wounded. Then he saw Grava lying close to the precipice. Running to him he squatted down. ‘No, no, no!’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t you dare be dead!’ Cradling the elongated head he felt for a pulse, but couldn’t find one. Shakul leaned over, his snout close to Grava’s mouth.

‘Breathes,’ said Shakul. ‘Not dead.’

Stavut stared up at the sky. ‘Thank you!’ he shouted. Grava groaned, his golden eyes opening. He stared at Stavut, then said something unintelligible, his long tongue lolling more than ever.

‘Good to see you too,’ said Stavut happily. Rising, he turned and stared down the slope. ‘Will they come back?’ he asked Shakul.

‘Officer dead. They run now. Others come back. Maybe.’

‘We won, Shak! We beat them!’

Then he saw Harad lying face down on the ground close by. Stavut ran to him, rolling him to his back.

Harad’s face was grey. Shakul loomed above him. ‘No breath,’ he said. ‘Friend dead.’

Suddenly Harad’s body spasmed, and ice blue eyes flared open. ‘Dead?’ he said. ‘In your dreams, laddie!’

Skilgannon, dressed now in Alahir’s old armour and mail hauberk, knelt at the centre of the Drenai defensive line. All around him stood the grim warriors of the Legend Riders, arrows notched to their bows. Beside him knelt Decado, wearing the armour of one of the riders killed in the battle with the lancers. Skilgannon felt uncomfortable in the heavy chain mail, which, while not initially restricting movement, would leach energy from the wearer by its weight alone. Normally Skilgannon preferred speed and freedom of movement, but today the battle would be fought in close confinement, and there was no way he could avoid swords or spears being thrust at him during the initial melee.

Further down the ancient road the Eternal Guard had drawn up. They could see the Legend Riders waiting for them, and Skilgannon watched as their officers gathered together, discussing strategy. He hoped they would take some time, not because he feared the coming battle, but because lengthy discussion among them would show indecision. There was no such delay. Within moments orders were called out and the Eternal Guard dismounted and put aside their lances. Round infantry shields were unloaded from several wagons at the rear of the column, and passed to the warriors. Skilgannon shivered suddenly. The emblem on the shields was the Spotted Snake — the emblem he had devised for the Queen of Naashan’s troops so many centuries ago. Back then the men who fought under that emblem had been his: highly trained, superbly disciplined, and wondrously brave.

A quarter-mile below, the Eternal Guard formed up smoothly. There was no sense of excitement, no indication of alarm or concern. These were fighting men.

Skilgannon glanced to left and right. He had instructed Alahir to place the burliest and most powerful of his riders at the front of the line, ready to stand their ground against the onslaught. Once the two forces clashed there would be a period of heaving and pushing for ground. It was vital that the line was not forced back in these early moments.

‘Fine-looking bunch, aren’t they?’ observed Decado.

Skilgannon did not reply. The Eternal Guard had begun to march. Beyond them more than a hundred huge Jiamads waited. Alahir had been right. The Guard wanted the honour and the glory of defeating the Drenai.

Shields held high the Guard came on. There were no battle cries, merely the rhythmic sounds of booted feet, marching in step. Alahir eased his way through to the front of the Drenai line. Then he too knelt, to give the archers behind him a clear view of the enemy. The Armour of Bronze gleamed in the afternoon sun, which glittered on the winged helm, and the bright sword in his hand.

The road narrowed, and the Guard came into range. They knew what they were facing, but they did not hesitate. Skilgannon found himself admiring these brave men, and a heaviness settled on his heart.

Good, brave men were going to die today, robbing the world of their courage, their spirit and their passion.

‘Now!’ yelled Alahir.

Hundreds of barbed shafts tore into the ranks of the marching men. Most thudded into shields, or ricocheted from iron armour. Many others sliced into flesh. Soldiers fell — but still the Guard came on. A shouted order came from within their lines, and they broke into a run. More volleys struck them, thinning the ranks. Then, when they were less than twenty paces from the waiting Legend Riders, Alahir raised his sword. The front line of the defenders passed their bows back to the men behind, drew their sabres, and, with Alahir, Skilgannon and Decado in the lead, charged into the fray.

Skilgannon blocked a wicked thrust, shoulder-charged the soldier, hurling him back. The Swords of Night and Day flashed in the sunshine, cutting left and right. Alongside him Alahir clove into the ranks of the Guards, the golden sword stained now with crimson.

Behind them, higher up the hill, a hundred bowmen continued to rain arrows down on the Guards trying to join the fight. As Skilgannon had predicted the men were close packed, and unable to raise their shields. Sharp arrows ripped into flesh, and the sound of clashing arms was interspersed with the screams of dying warriors. Greater weight of numbers began to force the Drenai line back.

Another fifty archers dropped their bows and rushed forward to reinforce the line. Skilgannon blocked a thrusting sword, and sent a lunging riposte through the face of the attacker. The man fell back. Another took his place. Skilgannon was fighting now with a cold, remorseless fury, hacking and cutting, his swords always in motion, glittering and flashing as they clove through armour and bone. Alongside him Decado and Alahir were holding their ground, but on both flanks the Guards were pushing ahead. Soon the three warriors would be surrounded.

Gilden hurled himself forward, seeking to link up with Alahir. A sword blade gouged into his thigh.

Another clattered against his helm. Ducking down he threw himself at the men ahead of him, knocking one man from his feet, and forcing another back. His sabre slashed out, and the dagger in his left hand slammed into the unprotected neck of an oncoming guardsman. Other defenders surged after Gilden, and for a while the line held.

But the Guards did not break. Slowly, inexorably, they were winning.

Like all great war leaders Skilgannon, despite being at the centre of the fight, could feel the ebb and flow of the conflict. The Legend Riders were battling bravely, but he could sense their growing uncertainty. The Guards were fighting now with more vigour as they caught the scent of victory. A sword hammered into Skilgannon’s hauberk. The chain mail stopped the blow from cutting flesh, but the bruising force almost knocked him from his feet. Surging up he killed the attacker. Then another — creating a brief space around himself. Alahir, his face smeared with blood, was trying to push forward into the enemy ranks, but the shields closed against him, and he too was forced back.

Guardsmen surged past Skilgannon on both sides as the Drenai line behind him gave way. There was nothing he could do now, save fight on.

Suddenly the air was filled with snarling screams. The body of a guardsman came hurtling past Skilgannon. Then Shakul appeared. His huge fist crashed against a wooden shield, splintering it. The great beast grabbed the warrior holding it, hauling him high into the air, and flinging him into the ranks of the oncoming guardsmen.

Another figure loomed. It was Harad.

Skilgannon — for the moment having no foes to face — saw the axeman hurl himself into the fight. Snaga rose and fell, cleaving and killing. Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. Harad had always been powerful, but he lacked experience. That deficiency could not be seen now. The axeman powered forward in perfect balance, and the guardsmen were falling back before the ferocity of his assault.

Yet still the Eternal Guard did not break. Skilgannon charged in, Alahir alongside him. The Legend Riders surged forward, pushing the Guard back towards the narrowest point of the road. The battle became ever more chaotic, the dead and dying trampled underfoot.

A trumpet sounded — and the Guard pulled back. Even in retreat they kept their discipline.

Some of the Legend Riders began to give chase. Alahir called them to order. ‘Re-form!’ he shouted.

Smoothly they pulled back to their original fighting line. Harad walked over to stand before Skilgannon.

‘Is it you?’ asked the warrior softly.

‘Aye, laddie. I’m back for a time.’

Skilgannon wanted to say more, but two men appeared at the narrowest point of the road. Both were slim and young, and they wore no armour. They approached Alahir, and bowed. The first, stoop-shouldered and balding, spoke. ‘I am Warna Set, surgeon to the First. This is my assistant, Anatis.

By your leave I will attend the Guard wounded. Do you have a surgeon with you?’

‘We do not,’ Alahir told him.

‘If it is agreeable to you, my general offers the assistance of Anatis for your own wounded. He also requests you allow us to remove the dead from the battlefield.’

Alahir gazed back along the road at the fallen men, some of them writhing in pain. Then he glanced at Skilgannon.

‘How long will this truce last?’ Skilgannon enquired.

The sun was already beginning to fall. Warna Set turned to Skilgannon. ‘The general says that he will hold off the next attack until sunrise.’

‘You may signal our agreement,’ Skilgannon told him. The surgeon bowed and returned to the Guard.

Anatis remained. He was a small man, sandy-haired, with large brown eyes. His features were soft, almost feminine.

‘Might I begin my work, sir?’ he asked Skilgannon.

‘Of course. We are grateful for your assistance.’

Anatis smiled wearily. ‘My talents would be better employed among people who did not seek to cut each other to pieces. Assign me some men, for those wounded who can be moved to a safer place. I understand there is water close by.’

‘Yes.’

‘The wounded should be carried there, and those without stomach wounds encouraged to drink.’

Then he moved back to walk among the fallen riders. Alahir told Gilden to assist him.

‘I don’t know who their general is,’ he said to Skilgannon, ‘but I must say I warm to him.’

‘Aye, it is a fine gesture, but it also has strategic merit. His own men know they will receive treatment if wounded, and will not be merely cast aside. Allowing us a surgeon also means we are less likely to butcher wounded guardsmen. The man is a thinker.’

The sound of a horse’s hooves upon stone broke through the conversation. Skilgannon swung to see Decado riding out from the entrance to the pool. He strolled back to where the dark-haired young swordsman sat his mount. ‘Leaving us so soon?’ he asked.

‘I am afraid so, kinsman. This never was my fight. It pleased me to stay while I thought it might be won.’

‘Well, good luck to you, Decado.’

The man smiled. ‘No pleas for me to stay? No appeal to my loyalty?’

‘No. I thank you for your help today. You are a fine warrior. Perhaps we will meet again, in happier times.’

With that Skilgannon turned away from the man and walked over to where Druss was standing, apart from the other men. ‘Not looking good,’ said the axeman.

‘No,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Skills on both sides are even, but their numbers will win the day. I think we can resist two, maybe three attacks.’

Druss nodded. Skilgannon saw the blood on the axeman’s temple, and the huge bruise beneath it.

‘That looks bad.’

‘Feels it,’ admitted Druss. ‘I think Harad’s skull might have been cracked. Damned painful.’

The two men stepped aside as Legend Riders moved past, carrying wounded men. ‘I take it you will be staying for a while?’ said Skilgannon.

‘I think it best,’ Druss told him. ‘Harad is a good lad, but this skirmish is going to need a touch more than guts and determination.’ He glanced across at Alahir and grinned. ‘Good to see that armour again.

And he wears it well.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘He is Drenai,’ said Druss. ‘Says it all for me.’

The sun faded down behind the mountains and darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon moved away to sit on a rock and clean his swords. As he finished wiping the dried blood from the Sword of Night he lifted the blade to examine it. What he saw caused his breath to catch in his throat.

Reflected in the shimmering steel was the temple mountain, pale and gleaming in the starlight, the Mirror of Heaven bright upon its peak. He turned his head and glanced back down the mountainside.

There was no temple, only the huge crater which had killed Bagalan.

Switching his gaze back to the reflection in the sword blade he wondered if his mind was failing him.

Askari wandered over to squat down beside him. ‘This is no time to be admiring yourself,’ she said.

‘Look in the blade and tell me what you see,’ he told her, passing her the sword. Askari held it up.

‘I have looked better,’ she said. ‘There is dirt on my face.’

‘Move the blade and look down the mountain.’

Askari did so. Her expression changed as she saw the reflection of the temple mountain, and she swung round just as Skilgannon had. ‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

‘It means it always was some kind of ward spell. It can fool the eye, but not a mirror.’

‘What will you do?’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘Everything in me yearns to stand with these men, and face the foe. Yet it is not what I came for. I came to end the reign of the Eternal. I cannot do that up here. I must get into the temple.’