The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Twenty-One

It took several hours for columns of unarmed men to climb the high road, and carry away the Guard dead and wounded. Stavut walked back to the poolside, where a number of the veterans were trying to staunch the wounds of the Drenai injured. Many of the older riders carried needle and thread, but so great were the numbers of wounded that many were unattended. Stavut removed his hauberk and helm, casting aside his sabre. He moved to a young man who was trying vainly to stitch a wound in his own side. The cut extended over his hip and round to his back. Stavut ordered the man to lie down, and then took the needle from his hand. ‘The chain mail parted,’ said the soldier.

‘Lie still.’

‘It was made for my great-grandfather. Some of the rings were badly worn.’

‘There’ll be plenty of mail to choose from after today,’ Stavut told him, glancing across to the pile of hauberks that had been removed from the dead, and stacked against the cliff wall. Stavut drew the last flaps of flesh together, drawing the thread tight, and then knotting it. Taking the man’s knife from his belt he cut the excess thread clear. The rider’s face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his face.

‘My thanks to you, Stavut,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt of pain.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To find a new hauberk.’ The man staggered off. Stavut saw him sifting through the discarded armour.

Stavut moved on to the next wounded man, only to find that he had bled to death. A number of the injured had broken arms, or legs. Several Drenai soldiers brought enemy shields back to the poolside, and began breaking them up to make splints. Even as he stitched wounds and offered comfort to the bleeding men Stavut found himself wondering why. The beasts were coming, and there was no way they could be turned back. All this effort was a waste of energy. Every man here would be killed when the end came. Yet around him he could hear wounded men making jokes, and chatting to one another.

He worked on. Druss came by to talk to the wounded, then stripped off his armour and waded into the pool, washing the blood from his face and body.

Druss.

Stavut no longer thought of him as Harad. How could he? What he had seen today had been awesome. The axeman had stood like a great rock against an onrushing sea. The immovable against the unstoppable. Druss emerged from the pool and sat in the sunshine for a while. Then, once dry, he pulled on his clothing and hauberk. There was still blood upon his face. The water had washed away the forming scabs. Stavut walked over to him. ‘I’ll stitch those cuts,’ he said.

‘Just the one above the eye,’ said Druss. ‘It was damned annoying trying to fight and blink away the blood.’

‘What will happen to Harad?’ asked Stavut.

‘Do not fret, laddie. When this day is done he will return. I am not a thief.’

‘I didn’t think you were. Not for a heartbeat,’ said Stavut, with a smile.

‘He didn’t have the experience to survive this — especially not with a cracked skull.’

Stavut suddenly laughed. ‘You really still think we are going to win?’

Druss looked at him. ‘Winning is not everything, Stavut. Men like to think it is. Sometimes it is more important to stand against evil than to worry about beating it. When I was a young man, serving with Gorben’s Immortals, we took a city. Its ruler was a vile man. I heard a story there. His soldiers had rounded up a group of Source priests, and they decided to burn them all. One citizen stepped out from the crowd and spoke against the deed. He told them that what they were doing was evil, and that they should be ashamed of themselves.’

‘And did he save the priests?’

‘No. And they killed him too. But that’s what I am saying, laddie. I remember that man’s deed and it inspired me. Others who saw it would have been inspired too. Evil will always have the worst weapons.

Evil will gather the greatest armies. They will burn, and plunder and kill. But that’s not the worst of it.

They will try to make us believe that the only way of destroying them is by becoming like them. That is the true vileness of evil. It is contagious. That one man reminded me of that, and helped me keep to the code.’

Stavut inserted the needle into the split flesh above Druss’s eye, and carefully sealed the cut. ‘You believe that you can defeat evil with an axe? Is that not a contradiction in terms?’

‘Of course it is, laddie. That’s always the danger. However, in this instance I am merely standing my ground. If they come at me I will cut them down. I am not invading their land, or burning their cities, or ravaging their women. I am not trying to force them to bend the knee, or accept my philosophy or religion. Do I think we can win today? I think we have already won. I have seen it in the eyes of the Guards. Will we die? Probably.’

Stavut tied the knot in the stitch, then cut the thread.

‘Almost time,’ said Druss, glancing at the sky. ‘Best get your armour on.’

‘I don’t think so, Druss. I shall help the wounded. I’ll stand my ground without a sword in my hand.’

‘Good for you, laddie,’ said the axeman.

Taking up his axe he strode away towards the road.

Alahir stood and watched as the last of the bodies was carried down the hill road. The battleground was clear again, and if Druss was right, the Jiamads would come next. There were less than a hundred Drenai warriors to face them, and many of those were carrying wounds. Even those who had escaped injury were exhausted. Had the troop been at full strength it was unlikely they would be able to defeat a hundred Jiamads. Alahir’s heart grew heavy. He had learned much in these last few days, about leadership, and courage, and the nobility of spirit that so often characterized fighting men. He had also learned what separated the ordinary warrior from legends like Druss. Earlier today he had been knocked from his feet, and a warrior had loomed over him, ready for the death blow. In that moment Alahir saw Druss glance in his direction. But the axeman did not come to his aid. Instead it had been Gilden who flung himself at the attacker, blocking the blow, and killed the guardsman. After the battle Alahir had replayed the scene in his mind. Druss was holding his ground. To turn away and aid Alahir would have meant showing his back to the enemy. He had made an instant judgement. Alahir’s death, while — Alahir hoped — regrettable, was less important than containing the Guards. Such intensity of focus was beyond Alahir. In fact it is beyond most men, he thought. Druss in combat was a killing machine of relentless power and determination. He radiated a kind of invincibility that cowed those facing him. Alahir hoped he would have the same effect on the Jiamads.

Even as the thought came to him he glanced down the long road. The Jiamads were forming up. Many of them carried huge swords, others clubs. Swinging round Alahir called out: ‘Form ranks!’

Drenai soldiers gathered up their bows and ran along the road. Druss approached, walking past Alahir and scanning the advancing beasts. ‘We need to hit them from here, then fall back line by line to the poolside,’ said Druss. ‘The entrance is narrow. Easier to defend.’ Alahir agreed, and issued orders to his riders. Forty men gathered, notching shafts to the string. Twenty paces behind them fifteen more bowmen stood in line. Alahir organized three more ranks of fifteen, spaced all the way back to the pool entrance.

Then he walked forward to stand with the first group, leaving Druss standing by the entrance.

The Jiamads were halfway up the slope when the Drenai sent the first volley sailing through the air. The arrows rose and curved then flew down into the Jiamad ranks. The range was long, and only two Jiamads fell, and one of those rose again. Others ignored the arrows jutting from their flesh, or ripped them clear. Then they began to run. Another volley hit them. This time three went down, and did not rise.

They were closer now, and their roaring echoed through the mountains. As they neared the defenders so the arrows struck them harder, and with more penetrating force. Alahir counted at least ten dead.

Not enough, he thought.

One last volley hit them. They were only twenty paces away when the shafts struck.

‘Back!’ bellowed Alahir.

The archers spun on their heels and sprinted up the road, moving between the next rank, who loosed another volley before themselves turning and running.

The beasts charged, their speed incredible. They overran the fourth rank of bowmen, smashing through them. One archer was dragged from his feet and hurled out over the precipice. Others were ripped or hacked to pieces. Throwing aside their bows, the Drenai who had made it to the pool entrance drew their sabres. Druss hefted Snaga. The first of the beasts rushed at the waiting men. Druss leapt to meet it, Snaga crunching through its skull. As it fell Druss wrenched the axe clear, sweeping it out in a murderous cut that clove through the ribcage of a second beast. Alahir surged forward to support the axeman, spearing his golden blade through the heart of a huge creature bearing a massive sword. In its death throes the beast hammered his weapon against the bronze breastplate. Alahir was lifted from his feet and thrown against the cliff wall. Around him the soldiers were fighting courageously, but the numbers of dead were mounting. The beasts were just too large and powerful. Only Druss was able to hold his ground. Two of the creatures burst through the Drenai lines, and, maddened by the smell of blood from the wounded, raced into the pool area. Several of the wounded, armed with bows, shot them down.

Alahir struggled to regain his feet. Someone reached down and hauled him up. It was Stavut. The merchant was not wearing armour, but had a sabre in his hand. There was no time to speak. Alahir pushed forward, hacking and stabbing.

Instinctively he knew it was to no avail. They had but moments left before the line broke and the beasts swept through.

Then he saw the giant form of Shakul appear behind the Jiamad lines. An enemy beast was hurled from its feet, a second lifted high and pitched from the precipice. Others of Stavut’s pack appeared.

They tore into the enemy ranks, forcing back the Jiamads.

‘Now!’ yelled Druss. ‘Attack!’

It was a pivotal moment. Alahir knew it, and Druss had voiced it. Raising the golden sword Alahir bellowed: ‘On, Drenai! Victory!’ The surviving defenders surged out of the entrance. Ahead Alahir saw the mighty Shakul, his body pierced by two huge spears, still fighting. A sword smashed into his side, bringing a roar of pain. Druss, coming alongside, killed the wielder. Stavut ran past Alahir, heading for the stricken Shakul. Alahir tried to call him back, but the merchant was not listening.

‘Shak!’ he cried out. ‘Shak! I am with you!’

As he tried to reach the beast a Jiamad thrust a spear into his back. Stavut staggered, and fell. Shakul leapt upon the spear wielder, flinging him aside. Another spear plunged into him. This time even Shakul’s mighty strength gave out. Falling first to his knees he pitched sideways to the ground. Alahir and several Legend Riders charged into the beasts around him.

And the remaining Jiamads broke and ran.

Members of Stavut’s pack gave chase. Alahir swung round to see Stavut crawling to Shakul’s side, leaving a trail of blood as he moved. Alahir ran to him. Stavut reached Shakul and struggled to his knees.

The great beast rolled onto his back, two spears embedded in his chest.

‘Oh, Shakul,’ said Stavut, ‘why did you come back? I wanted you to run free.’

Blood was flowing fast from the death wound in Stavut’s back and the exit wound in his belly. As his strength failed, he sagged across Shakul’s chest. Alahir was joined by Gilden and some of the other riders, and they stood staring down at the dead man and the dying Jiamad. Shakul’s arm came up around Stavut. ‘Run free. . now,’ he said.

Alahir knelt beside Shakul. ‘I thank you, my friend,’ he said. ‘We all thank you.’

Gilden came alongside. Reaching out he touched his finger to one of the wounds in Shakul’s chest.

Then he lifted it to his mouth. ‘Carry with us,’ said Gilden. Shakul’s golden eyes stared at the man. Then they closed. Others of Stavut’s pack gathered round. One by one they each took blood from the wound.

Alahir rose.

‘Goodbye, tinker,’ he said. ‘I shall miss you.’ A stoop-shouldered Jiamad approached Alahir. It spoke, and Alahir struggled to understand it. Slowly the beast repeated the words.

‘Go now. Hunt deer.’

With that he led the fifteen surviving members of the pack away. As they left Alahir saw Druss waving to him from the narrow point in the road. Alahir walked down to him. The axeman pointed down to the Guards’ camp. Their Jiamads had fled, and there was no indication of another attack.

‘I think we won, laddie,’ said Druss.

‘Aye, we did, but what a cost. I feel a great sense of shame, Druss. All our lives we have been taught Drenai legends. Nobility, bravery, truth. Part of that truth was that Jiamads were soulless beasts, devils in flesh. Yet they came back and died for us.’ He looked at Druss and asked: ‘Were there animals in the Void?’

‘No. Just human souls.’

‘Then they have nowhere to go when they die.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Druss told him. ‘I don’t know the answer, but my heart tells me that there is a place for them. A place for all living things. Nothing truly dies, Alahir.’

Gilden called out from above them, and pointed down into the valley below.

Alahir and Druss walked to the edge.

Where the crater had been now stood a mountain. Shining bright upon its peak was a dazzling shield of gold.

Jianna walked out of the room, leaving Skilgannon dying on the floor. The stabbing of him had been instinctive rather than planned, and as she walked on the full horror of it seeped through the centuries of emotional barriers she had constructed in her mind.

She felt a tightness in her stomach, and a lump in her throat. Tears welled. In truth Jianna had known she would have to kill him. Olek would never have compromised. This realization clashed with her promise to bring him back. Another twenty years in the Void, while a new Reborn was cast from his bones, would do nothing to change who he was, what he believed in.

You just killed the man you loved.

The thought was sickening. One by one the barriers crumbled. The first to fall was Justification. She had always told herself that she never set out to become the Eternal. Her first actions had been to save the temple. Everything after that had become self-perpetuating. She saw now that that was untrue. She had gloried in her new life, building armies and conquering cities. She had adored the near worship she inspired in her followers. In the beginning she had convinced herself she would build a new world, perfect and peaceful, and she would one day bring Skilgannon back to rule by her side. They would be happy.

They would have the life she always believed she had dreamt of.

Another lie.

Jianna stood, head bowed, at the foot of a high circular stairwell.

Back in Naashan, in those early days, when she first met Olek, she had also been full of dreams. She remembered talking to him in the gardens of his house, about the need for hospitals and schools, the provision of clean water to the centre of the city, where disease was rife. About building a better Naashan, where the people would be happy and content, secure in the knowledge that their leader cared for them. The naive dreams of the young, she had told herself later. Dreams that were crushed by the harsh reality of betrayal, and the unbridled ambition of those who sought to usurp her. A ruler needed to be cool and detached, ever alert to treachery. The people needed to respect that ruler, and respect was bought by fear.

Now, in the aftermath of the killing, she knew that this was also largely a lie.

Alahir and his men had ridden into peril for Skilgannon, not because they feared him, but because they were inspired by him. The beasts had followed Stavut not because he would kill them if they didn’t, but because he loved them.

Jianna let out a long breath and wiped away the tears. The crowning achievement of her five hundred years of power was the murder of the one man she had truly loved.

Her thoughts sombre, she climbed the stairwell, the rusting metal steps groaning under her tread. At the top she came to another doorway. This was unlocked, and she stepped into the Crystal Shrine.

The room was vast and circular, the walls decorated with bright metal, full of flickering lights, displaying arcane symbols in reds and greens. At the centre, on a raised dais circled with a silver railing, was a golden column, rising up through the vaulted ceiling. As she walked in Jianna became aware of a tingling in her skin, and a faint vibration from the floor beneath her. Drawn to the dais, she climbed the ten steps that led to it and gazed at the base of the golden column. Brightly coloured swirls of smoke writhed within a three foot high transparent tube. At the centre of the tube a massive white crystal was slowly spinning, light reflecting from its facets and casting rainbow colours across the high, vaulted ceiling.

The Eagle’s Egg! The source of all magic. It was beautiful, and as she came close to it Jianna felt all weariness leave her body.

The voice of Memnon whispered into her mind.

‘ We are close, Highness. Is Skilgannon with you?’

‘I killed him,’ she said aloud. Again her stomach knotted.

‘ Excellent.’

A door opened on the far side of the chamber, and she saw Decado step through, the Swords of Blood and Fire in his hands. Blood dripped from the blades.

He looked up and saw her, but did not smile. Behind him came Memnon. He was not wearing his familiar robes, but dressed in riding clothes: a dark blue tunic and purple leggings, and exquisitely designed boots of lizard skin. He advanced into the room, and did not bow.

For all her grief and self-absorption Jianna had not lost her intellect, or her blade-sharp sense of danger.

‘Do I catch the scent of treachery here, my dears?’ she asked, moving to the silver railing and gazing down on the two men.

‘Treachery, Highness?’ responded Memnon. ‘Let us pause for a moment and examine the question.

Would you say that I have served you loyally, and with devotion? Can you offer a single shred of evidence that I have ever conspired to cause you harm?’

‘Not until now,’ she said.

‘Ah, but I did not know then what I know now. All these years you have been murdering my children, preventing me from acquiring the benefits of true longevity. In these last moments of your immortal life perhaps you would tell me why?’

Jianna laughed. ‘You already know why. As a mortal you served me. As an immortal you would have been a threat to me. As with so much else, Memnon, it all comes down to self-preservation. I take it you have already killed my other Reborns?’

‘The last one died an hour ago. Your reign ends here, Highness. An apt place, don’t you think?’

Transferring her gaze to Decado, she smiled. ‘And it will be you, sweet lover, who delivers the death blow?’

‘Is it a difficult choice for me?’ asked Decado. ‘On the one hand there is the treacherous bitch who ordered me murdered. On the other. . oh wait. . it’s still the treacherous bitch who sanctioned my death. No, I can honestly say I am quite looking forward to it.’

Jianna drew her sabre. Decado laughed aloud. ‘We have fenced before, you and I. In happier times.

Fighting me will buy you no more than a few heartbeats of life. However, I am in a charitable mood today. So let us even the odds a little.’ Sliding the Sword of Fire back into its scabbard he raised the Sword of Blood. ‘I shall fight you left-handed. I am marginally less skilled with my left.’

‘That is true,’ said a voice. ‘Like watching a child swatting bees with a stick.’

Jianna spun to see Skilgannon standing in the far doorway, the Swords of Night and Day in his hands.

‘Oh, now my joy is complete,’ said Decado happily. ‘I get to kill the great hero.’

Despite his lightness of tone Decado was troubled. It was not fear that concerned him. Decado feared no living man, and was utterly sure he could kill Skilgannon. It was more the coalescing of doubts that had been growing in his mind ever since Memnon’s spirit contacted him, after the fight with the Shadows.

He had ridden away from Skilgannon and the others, heading up into the hills, to think and to plan.

Later that night, in a shallow cave, Memnon had appeared to him. Decado had seen this magical trick before, and, after the initial shock as the swirling image materialized, he merely added another stick to his fire. ‘Send as many Shadows as you have,’ he said. ‘I will kill them all.’

‘Oh, be calm, my boy,’ chided Memnon. ‘You know how anger brings on your headaches. I sought you because I was concerned for you.’

‘You showed your concern so well last night. They almost had me.’

‘I sent the oldest and slowest. It was all that I could do. The Eternal ordered your death. I have always been your friend, Decado. You know this to be true.’

‘Aye,’ he admitted, ‘you have always been most kind to me, Memnon. When I come for the bitch I will not kill you.’

‘She has become an evil creature,’ agreed Memnon. ‘Her turning on you has stretched my loyalty to breaking point. Together we could bring her down. You and I need to meet. Will you trust me and stay where you are until I reach you?’

‘Trust the man who tried to kill me? I think not, Memnon.’

‘Think on this: I have located you. Had I wished I could merely have sent more Shadows to kill you while you slept. Not so?’

‘That is true. Very well. I will wait.’

It was almost a full day before Memnon rode up the hillside to the cave. ‘How is your head?’

Memnon had asked, even as he dismounted.

‘It has been good.’

‘Excellent. I have brought some narcotic to aid you, should it return.’

Once inside the cave Memnon had given him the jewelled necklet, and instructed him to pass it to the mountain girl Askari.

‘What will it do?’

‘When the time is right I shall — through the magic in the jewel — assist the Eternal to possess Askari’s body. This will place Jianna at the heart of our enemies. It will also separate her from her Guards. You will join with Skilgannon, and assist him in every way.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he just may find a way to bring back the temple. There is so much there that we could use, Decado. Greater artefacts, with incredible power. I will continue to commune with you, and we will make our plans, depending on how the situation changes. And now I must return.’ Memnon rose.

Decado stared up at him.

‘Before you go, Memnon, tell me honestly: was it just her treatment of me that led you to this course?’

Memnon dropped to one knee and laid his hand on Decado’s shoulder. ‘Yes, my boy. It hurt me greatly when you were sentenced. I look upon you as a son.’

The sincerity in his voice had touched Decado.

He had suffered no problem of morality when he joined Skilgannon. There was no sense of disloyalty.

While travelling with the man he had grown to like him, and he felt a kinship with the riders of the Drenai.

Even the merchant, Stavut. They were men on a mission, and it had nothing to do with material wealth, or revenge, or glory. They merely wanted to protect their world from a powerful evil, and were willing to die for it. Decado had found a sense of camaraderie among them, and an emotional warmth he had never before experienced.

Fighting alongside Skilgannon, in a just cause, had been the greatest moment of his life, and he had felt torn when Memnon’s voice whispered in his mind after the battle.

‘ Leave them now, my boy. I have traversed a pass beyond the battle road, and am waiting close to the temple site. Skilgannon will come soon. Jianna will be with him. Victory is within our grasp.’

They had hidden among the rocks close to the crater, and Decado had felt a sinking of the heart when Skilgannon and Jianna rode to the rim. He truly did not want to kill this man, and in that moment wished he had ignored Memnon, and waited with the Drenai for the last battle. None of this had felt like treachery until then. The Queen had betrayed him and sought his death. His hunting down of her was merely revenge. But now Skilgannon was walking into danger, not knowing that the woman beside him was intent on his death, and that two more enemies were close behind.

He had remembered then his last conversation with his kinsman.

‘ Well, good luck to you, Decado.’

‘ 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.’

Happier times?

He and Memnon had watched Skilgannon and Jianna make their way across the rim — and then disappear. Decado had run down to the crater, drawn his own swords, and seen the hidden pathway.

Using the same method as Skilgannon he had — with Memnon behind him — made it to the open doorway and entered the temple. Once inside Memnon had crouched down, closed his eyes, and gone into a trance. It had lasted some time. While Decado waited, swords in hand, he had heard the screams of beasts, and a wailing death cry. Memnon had stood.

‘Lead the way,’ he said. ‘I will direct you. We need to get to the uppermost levels. Walk warily.

There are beasts everywhere.’

They had been attacked three times. The first assailant was a huge, deformed hound. Decado had slain it with ease. The second had proved more durable. It was a hideous creature with two heads and four arms. One of the heads was grey and decomposing, the other constantly shrieked. The beast had charged at Decado, arms flailing. In one of its hands it held a jagged length of twisted metal. The flailing arms, and the club, made it difficult for the swordsman to deliver a death blow. The space in the corridor was narrow. He had fought it off with slashing cuts that tore through its flesh, and had then used a trick he had practised many times back in Diranan. Stepping back he held out his sword, the blade pointing upwards — and released it. As the sword dropped his lifted his foot, catching the hilt on the toe of his boot.

Then his leg lashed out. The sword flew like a spear into the creature’s pale chest. As it staggered back, its limbs no longer flailing, Decado ran in and cut the living head from its shoulders.

The third attack had been — potentially — the most deadly. Scores of the beasts had gathered. Decado and Memnon had run to a narrow winding metal stair, and climbed swiftly. The beasts had gathered round the base. Not following them at first. Decado had glanced back. Several hound creatures began bounding up after them.

At the top was a doorway. Memnon opened it and stepped through. He and Decado pushed it shut.

There was a wooden lock bar set against the wall. Together they heaved it into the brackets. Even as they did so the door juddered, dust spraying out from the frame.

‘I don’t know how long that will hold,’ said Decado.

‘Then we should press on,’ said Memnon.

They had climbed two further flights of stairs, emerging at last into this chamber, with its golden column and flashing lights.

Here Decado’s heart had sunk further. He heard Memnon talk of the murders of ‘my children’ and realized his mentor had not betrayed the Queen for him. He was merely a tool for Memnon’s revenge.

Then Skilgannon had come, and Decado’s emotional misery deepened. He heard himself say: ‘Oh, now my joy is complete. I get to kill the great hero.’

Regret washed over him like a dark river.

Jianna watched as the two swordsmen circled one another. Olek was holding his blades in the Naashanite manner, right hand sword trailing, left hand blade held across the chest. As Decado sought an opening Olek suddenly switched the blades, the left snapping down and out, the right moving to the defensive chest defence. It was a technique Malanek had taught centuries ago in his training school. The trailing blade was used for the riposte. Fully ambidextrous fighters like Olek could switch back and forth, keeping the opponent confused as to where the attack was to originate. Decado leapt in, the Sword of Blood lancing towards Olek’s chest. He parried it easily and swept out a riposte that Decado blocked with the Sword of Fire. The flickering blades then came together, the blows, lunges and blocks coming faster and faster. The song of the swords echoed in the chamber. Jianna was mesmerized by the speed and skill of the two men. She had seen Olek in action before, but never against a man with Decado’s speed and talent. They were moving now like dancers, as if every strike and counter-strike was elaborately and carefully choreographed. The glittering blades sometimes moved so fast that Jianna could not follow the action. It was only when fresh blood appeared on Decado’s upper arm that she even realized he had been cut. The frantic pace could not last, and the two swordsmen moved back, and began to circle again.

Now Jianna saw that Olek was also cut, at the base of the neck and across the chest, where his shirt had been sliced. The neck cut had missed his jugular by a hair’s breadth. Now Skilgannon moved from defence to attack, surging forward, both blades flashing. Decado blocked desperately and backed away.

His footwork was incredible, and not once did he lose his perfection of balance. Blocking an overhead cut, he tried a riposte, which Skilgannon blocked. As the two men came closer together Skilgannon suddenly head-butted Decado, sending him staggering back, blood spurting from a cut above his right eyebrow.

‘Not a move they taught us in training school,’ said Decado. ‘I must remember it.’

‘You won’t have to remember it long, boy,’ Skilgannon told him. Decado laughed.

‘Nice try, kinsman,’ he said, circling again, ‘but, as you know, anger is the second enemy in any duel.’

With lightning speed he launched a counter-attack. Now it was Skilgannon’s footwork that kept him alive, as he backed away, defending desperately. Decado’s sword lanced out, slicing through Skilgannon’s long coat. Jianna thought it was a death blow — and gasped as the Sword of Night swept up. Decado blocked it. Skilgannon hooked his foot around Decado’s and shoulder-charged him.

Decado fell, but rolled to his feet as Skilgannon moved in for the kill.

They circled again.

Just then the door behind Memnon crashed open, the top hinges parting, the frame splintering. A massive form, blocking the light from beyond the door, ducked its head and lurched into the chamber. It was grotesquely malformed, with three arms, one growing from its chest. The head was elongated, the mouth lipless and wide, showing two rows of sharp fangs. As it entered other beasts poured in behind it through the shattered doorway. Two huge hounds, larger than lions, surged at Memnon. The Shadowlord ran for the dais and leapt. Instinctively Jianna threw out her arm, grabbing his wrist and hauling him over the railing.

‘Thank you, Highness,’ he said — and rammed his dagger into her side. Jianna cried out and fell back.

As she did so a huge hound leapt onto the dais. Jianna saw its great jaws close on Memnon’s head, and heard the crunching of bone. Blood and brains sprayed from the beast’s maw. Ignoring Jianna, it lifted the dead Memnon in its mouth and strutted from the dais.

Jianna stared down at the dagger hilt jutting from her body. Judging by the angle of entry the blade was close to her heart. Her ribcage was burning, her head spinning. I ought to be dead, she thought. Then she looked at the beautiful crystal, slowly spinning within the swirling smoke. It is keeping me alive, she realized. Grabbing the dais rail she hauled herself to her feet. Decado and Skilgannon, no longer fighting each other, were battling against the beasts back to back. Decado’s tunic was blood-drenched, and she could see he was growing weaker. They could not survive for long.

Swinging back she looked again at the crystal. Skilgannon and the Legend Riders had risked all to destroy this marvel. She stared at it. Rainbow lights flickered around her. Pain lanced through her. She knew then that the power of the crystal was trying to heal her body, the flesh forming around the dagger blade in her chest. Gripping the hilt she prepared to pull it clear. Then she paused, and glanced back at Skilgannon. He was fighting desperately. Decado half fell. Skilgannon leapt in front of him, plunging his sword into the chest of a towering mutant.

While this crystal survived Jianna would always be the Eternal, and men like Skilgannon would fight and die to bring her down.

Gasping for breath, Jianna took up her sabre and hammered it against the glass cylinder protecting the crystal. The blade bounced clear. Twice more she struck it. To no effect.

Her strength failing, she turned towards Skilgannon.

‘Olek!’ she shouted. ‘I cannot destroy it! Throw me a sword!’

A three-armed creature lunged at Skilgannon. Ducking under a murderous punch, he drove the Sword of Day into the mutant’s heart. Even as the beast fell Skilgannon dragged the blade clear, spun away from another attack, then threw the Sword of Night towards Jianna. The razor sharp blade spun through the air. Jianna judged the flight — then her arm swept out, her fingers curling round the ivory hilt.

Darkness was closing in on her and she fought it back. The Sword of Night hammered against the glass. A small crack appeared in the cylinder. Then another. With the third stroke the cylinder disintegrated. Coloured smoke billowed from it, flowing out into the room. The floating crystal dropped to the base of the golden column with a dull thud. With the last of her strength Jianna raised the Sword of Night and hammered it down on the crystal. The massive gem shattered in a blinding blaze of multicoloured light.

As the shards of crystal exploded outwards all the lights in the shrine dimmed, and the floor ceased to hum and vibrate. All was silence. Around the room the beasts were standing very still. Then, one by one, they toppled to the floor. Some writhed for a while. Then there was no movement.

It grew darker. Soon the only light in the shrine came from moonlight shining through a high window.

Jianna dropped the Sword of Night and looked around for Skilgannon. He was kneeling beside the fallen Decado. Jianna staggered from the dais and made her way to the two men. Decado was conscious.

Moonlight glistened on the length of blood-smeared metal jutting from his belly. ‘There’s no pain,’ said Decado. ‘Which I must say is a novel experience for me. And I can’t feel my legs. I take it that is not a good sign?’

‘No,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Tell me why you didn’t kill me.’

‘You were too good, kinsman.’

‘I know how good I am,’ said Skilgannon. ‘But, as my old tutor once taught me, there is always someone better. You were that man. Three times you had me. Three times you withheld the death blow.

Why?’

Suddenly more figures entered the room. Skilgannon surged to his feet, his sword held high.

‘Whoa there, laddie,’ said Druss. Behind him came Alahir and several Legend Riders.

Skilgannon knelt again by Decado’s side. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I need to know.’

But Decado was dead.

He glanced at Jianna. ‘Do you know why?’

He saw her face was unnaturally pale. She swayed and sagged forward into his arms. His hand touched the dagger. Gazing down he saw the black hilt, the blade buried deep in her chest. Jianna’s face settled against his shoulder. ‘I. . thought I had. . killed you,’ she whispered.

‘The old priest had a shard of. .’ In that moment he thought of the shattered crystal. Heaving her into his arms he ran for the dais. Jianna cried out.

‘The pain! Put me down, Olek. Please!’

‘In a moment, my love. Hold on!’ He carried her back up to the dais and laid her on the ground, then searched among the shattered glass. Finding a large shard of crystal he returned to her side, raised the crystal shard — then stopped. Realization struck him, and he groaned aloud.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I cannot save you. I would give my life to have Jianna by my side. But I can’t allow the Eternal to return.’

‘It is all right, Olek,’ she whispered. ‘The Eternal’s time is over. I’m glad we. . met. . again. I missed you. . so much.’

Her eyes closed, and her head sagged. Skilgannon leaned down and kissed her lips. Then he sat alongside her, head bowed. Her body spasmed. A single word escaped her lips.

‘Stavi!’

Skilgannon spun round. Grasping the dagger hilt he pulled it from her chest. She cried out. Instantly he took the crystal shard and held it to the wound. ‘Lie still, Askari,’ he ordered. ‘Just lie still until the strength returns.’

He saw her colour begin to return, and her eyes opened. ‘Where is Stavi?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Lie still. I will explain all when you are well again.’

Her eyes closed. Alahir came alongside and touched Skilgannon on the shoulder. Leaning in close he whispered: ‘Stavut is dead.’

‘Sit with her for a while,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘Hold this crystal to the wound.’

He rose and walked across to Druss. ‘I’m ready to return to the Void. How do I do that, Druss?

How do I give that young man his body back?’

‘You can’t, laddie,’ said Druss. ‘I took Charis to the Golden Valley. The lad chose to cross with her.’

The shock was intense. ‘I don’t want it! The only person I ever loved has just gone to the Void! I should be there!’

‘You will be. But not now,’ said Druss. ‘If I see her there, I’ll help her as best I can.’

‘You are going back?’

‘Aye, laddie. My time here is done. I’m going home to Rowena. It was good to breathe the mountain air, but I am done with death and slaughter. I’ll not return.’

Skilgannon sighed, then reached out and shook Druss by the hand. ‘One day, perhaps, I’ll make it through to that Golden Valley.’

‘You could have done it any time, laddie.’

‘No. I remember I was scaled, like the other demons.’

‘There never was anything stopping you — save your own conscience. You believed you needed punishing — so you punished yourself. Now you have a life again. Live it well. There is a world full of evil out there, and a lot of defenceless people who will need your strength. Give it freely. Then when you go to the Void, walk straight towards the light. I’ll see you there.’

Druss walked to the wall beneath the window and lay down. ‘Harad will be here soon. Tell him I was proud of the way he stood his ground against the beasts.’

‘I’ll do that. You be careful in the Void, Druss. Wouldn’t like to think of a demon stopping you getting home.’

The axeman laughed. ‘In your dreams, laddie!’ he said. Lying back, he closed his eyes.

Skilgannon walked to the dais and retrieved the Sword of Night. Askari was sitting with Alahir. He had his arm round her shoulder.

Sheathing his swords Skilgannon began to fill his pockets with more shards of crystal. Then he returned to the priest’s chamber.

The old man was still alive, but he looked different now, his hair white and thin, his face heavily wrinkled. His breathing was ragged. Skilgannon knelt beside him, opening the man’s deformed hand and pressing a shard of crystal into it.

The priest sighed, and his eyes opened. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It will not be enough to save me.’

Skilgannon reached into his pocket for more shards. ‘No!’ said the old man, placing his hand over Skilgannon’s arm. ‘Save them for those who will need them more.’

‘What is happening to you?’ asked the swordsman.

‘Time is. . catching up with me. Those five hundred years you spoke of were not cheated. They were merely waiting to claim us all.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘You destroyed the crystal?’

‘Yes.’

The old man looked desolate. ‘No golden age to discover now,’ he whispered. ‘No end to disease and starvation. No bright, sparkling cities reaching the clouds.’

A slow rumbling sound came to Skilgannon, and the walls began to vibrate. ‘What is happening?’ he asked the priest.

‘The Mirror is closing, drawing itself back.’ Tears fell from his eyes. ‘All I have lived for is gone now. I am so tired.’

‘Then think on this, priest: you stopped the Eternal from finding greater weapons. Your actions here have led to her death. The world is free again.’

‘Free? Of one tyrant perhaps. You think there will be no others?’

‘No, I do not. But I know there will always be men to stand against them. You grieve because of a pure magic lost. That magic was corrupted by evil. This is how evil thrives. We find a herb that cures disease, and someone will make a poison from it. We forge iron to make a better plough, and someone will make a sharper sword. There can be no power that evil will not corrupt. There may be no golden age to come now, but equally there will be no more Joinings, no more twisted, malformed beasts. No more wizards casting dark spells.’

The old man’s fingers opened, and a black shard of stone fell from his hand. ‘The Eternal is no more?’

he said, his voice barely audible.

‘She is gone from the world.’

‘Then. . some small good came from. . my actions.’

‘Aye, it did.’

His eyes closed, his head sagged back. Skilgannon sat by the body for a few moments. The decay continued rapidly, the hair growing, the skin drawing tight over the skull. Then it split and peeled away, falling in dust to the floor. Skilgannon rose.

Then he walked from the temple, and out into the desert night.