The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Two

Skilgannon stood naked on the wide balcony. His breathing deepened. Drawing in a long breath he began to work through a series of stretching exercises. His body was more supple now, the young muscles lengthening easily. Balancing on his left foot, he bent his knee and stretched out his right leg behind him. Raising his arms, he placed his palms together and slowly — his breathing controlled and synchronized to the movement — arched his spine backwards, until the curve of his body formed the shape of a perfect crescent moon. Then the muscles of his right thigh began to ache and tremble, and he felt a slight pain flare under his left shoulder blade.

Once he could have accomplished these exercises with ease. Fragments of memory, jagged and transient, came to him. Slowly he straightened and stood, leaning on the balcony, allowing the images to form.

In his mind he saw a tall building, lit by moonlight. There was a high parapet above sharp rocks far below. He saw himself standing on the parapet, then leaping and spinning to land in perfect balance. One wrong step, one tiny misjudgement, and he would have plunged to his death.

The image faded. Skilgannon continued to exercise, not pushing his body too hard, seeking instead to stretch the muscles rather than work them at this stage. Even so it was tiring and after an hour he stopped.

Donning a shirt of cream-coloured linen and dark leather trousers, he pulled on a pair of soft leather ankle boots and walked out of the room, making his way towards the library Landis Kan had shown him on his first day. He saw several male servants, in tunics of blue cloth. They moved past him with downcast eyes. It did not bother him. He had no wish to speak to anyone.

In the library he continued his search through the oldest of the records. Stories of his own life had not proved as helpful to his memory as he had hoped. Apparently he had fought dragons at some point, and had owned a winged horse which flew above the mountains. He had also been given a cloak which made him invisible to his enemies. Incredibly, he was also supposed to have been born in six different lands, to four different fathers, and three separate mothers. He had been golden-haired, black-haired, bearded and beardless. He had been tall, and short, immensely muscled, and yet slim and lithe.

The agreements were few. He had owned two fighting swords that sat in a single scabbard. They were called the Swords of Night and Day. He had died in a battle to save a nation. He had been a general, whose wife had died. He had also loved a goddess, mysterious and enigmatic. All agreed on this, though none could agree on her name. In some tales she was the goddess of death, in others the goddess of love, or wisdom, or war.

Today he chose stories not of his own legends, but of the ancient lands. He was searching for details that would offer him links to a past he could not summon. He carried a bundle of ancient scrolls to a window seat and slowly began to read them.

The first of them brought no fresh insights. It told of a war among races he had no memory of, but the second, far older, talked of a people called the Drenai. Skilgannon felt his heartbeat quicken. A name came to him.

Druss.

He saw a powerful figure, in clothes of black and silver. Holding to the memory, he closed his eyes.

Scenes flowed up from his subconscious. Druss the Axeman, storming the stairs at the citadel, seeking.

seeking. . the child Elanin. Another face appeared, the features disfigured. Another name surfaced.

Boranius. Ironmask. Skilgannon saw himself fighting this man, blades flashing and blocking, lunging and parrying. The image began to shimmer. Skilgannon struggled to retain it, but it flowed away from him like a dream upon wakening.

He returned to his room and found a cloak of dark brown wool, edged with black leather. Swirling it round his shoulders he walked out of the palace. For the first time since he had returned to life he felt relaxed and free. He walked through the town of Petar, bypassing the crowded market place, coming at last to an old stone bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. He saw a young lad sitting on the parapet of the bridge, a fishing rod in his hands. Beyond the bridge the area leading to the hills had been fenced off. This was puzzling to Skilgannon, for he could see no cattle or sheep. He walked on to a locked gate.

‘Hey there, Outlander!’

Skilgannon turned. The blond-haired boy put aside his fishing rod. ‘Best not to walk the hills,’ he said.

Swinging his legs back over the parapet the boy jumped down onto the bridge and walked over to Skilgannon. ‘Dangerous up there.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Jems. That’s where they train. They don’t like people.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘I don’t like people either.’ With that he vaulted the gate and set off towards the hills. After a while he broke into an easy lope, then a run. Higher and higher he went, pushing his body hard, until at last, breathless and weary, he halted beside a stream. Kneeling, he drank deeply. The water was cold and wonderfully refreshing. Sitting beside the water he saw that the stream bed contained hundreds of rounded pebbles. Most were pure white, but here and there he could see darker stones, some green, some jet black. Plunging his hand into the water he ran his fingers over the pebbles, scooping up several. Once his life would have been as full of memories as this stream was of stones.

Now all he had were a few scattered remnants. Tipping his hand, he dropped the pebbles back into the water and rose.

The sky was bright and clear, and a cool breeze was blowing across the mountain foothills. Skilgannon gazed out over the land, and the white town far below. I do not belong here, he thought, as his eyes drank in the alien landscape.

A sound came to him. Then another. A series of dry cracks and thuds. Intrigued, he followed the sounds, climbing over the crest of the hill and making his way down into the trees beyond. In a clearing far below he saw what at first seemed to be a group of bearded warriors, practising with quarterstaffs.

They were wearing body armour of black leather, and leggings of leather and fur. Skilgannon stood and watched them. His eyes narrowed, and something cold touched his heart.

They were not men at all. Their faces were twisted and misshapen, jaws elongated. Jems, the boy had called them. Joinings was how Skilgannon remembered them. A brief memory flared, of women and children huddling together in a circle while Skilgannon and a group of fighters prepared to face an attack.

The creatures had been large, some close to eight feet tall. Much larger, in fact, than the Jiamads training below. And more bestial in appearance. These seemed to Skilgannon to be more human. Perhaps it was that they were clothed in breastplates of black leather, and leather kilts.

The wind shifted, carrying his scent down into the clearing. Almost immediately the Jiamads ceased their training and turned, staring up towards where Skilgannon stood, hidden in the shadows of the trees.

Though tempted to turn and walk away, he did not. Instead he strolled out into the open and down towards them. As he approached he noted that each of them wore a blue jewel upon its temple. It seemed incongruous that such beings would wear adornments.

The largest of the creatures, almost seven feet tall, its fur jet black, stepped towards him. ‘Skins stay away,’ it said, the voice guttural. Skilgannon, who was a tall man, found himself staring up into a pair of golden eyes, which glittered with cold malice.

‘And why is that?’ he countered. The other Jiamads shuffled forward, surrounding him.

‘Our place. Danger for Skins.’ The elongated mouth gaped, showing sharp fangs. A snorting sound rasped from it, which was echoed by the others. Skilgannon took it to be laughter.

‘I am new to this land,’ he said. ‘I am unaware of the customs here. Why would it be dangerous?’

‘Skins brittle. Break easy.’ The Jiamad stared hard at Skilgannon, and the warrior sensed its hatred.

‘You go now.’

The other beasts gathered even closer. One, its face flatter than the rest, the mouth more widely flared, like a cat began to sniff the air. ‘No other Skins,’ it said. ‘It is alone.’

‘Leave him,’ said the first.

‘Kill it,’ said another.

The first beast snarled suddenly, the sound harsh and chilling. Then it spoke. ‘No!’ The golden eyes stared at Skilgannon. ‘Go now, Skin.’

Skilgannon turned. The cat creature’s quarterstaff suddenly jabbed out towards his legs. Instantly, and without conscious thought, Skilgannon spun on his heel and leapt high, his foot hammering into the other’s face, hurling it from its feet. Skilgannon landed lightly and stepped in, hefting the quarterstaff the beast had dropped. With an angry growl the Jiamad sprang to its feet and lunged at the man. Skilgannon twirled the staff, cracking it hard against its temple. The creature slumped to the ground, dazed. Stepping back, Skilgannon raised the weapon against any new attack. For a moment there was no movement, then the leader stepped forward.

‘Not good,’ it said. ‘Go!’

Skilgannon smiled coldly, then tossed the staff to the ground. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed your training,’ he said. ‘What is your

name?’

‘Longbear.’

‘I shall remember it.’ With that, Skilgannon walked away.

As he topped the rise he heard a terrible cry, full of pain and despair. It was a death cry. He did not look back.

As Skilgannon made the long descent back towards the town he saw a horseman riding across the bridge: Landis Kan. Skilgannon waited. Landis was not a natural rider. His body out of balance, he jerked around in the saddle, unable to harmonize himself with the rhythm of the sturdy chestnut he rode.

A memory came to Skilgannon, of a chubby priest with a frightened face. It was as if a window had opened in his soul, and he saw himself back at the monastery of Cobalsin, working the land, studying in the library, beneath the benevolent gaze of the Abbot Cethelin.

Skilgannon took a deep breath. The air was fresh and cold, and he felt suddenly at peace. More memories flowed then. The chubby priest had been called Braygan. Skilgannon had left him in the war-torn city of Mellicane, before he and Druss the Legend and a group of fighters had set off to rescue the child, Elanin, held in a citadel by Nadir warriors.

A savage exultation coursed through Skilgannon, drowning the frustration of these last few days. He could not remember everything, but he knew he had fought no dragons. There was no winged horse.

Nine-tenths of the stories of his life were legends, and the rest were stretched and twisted beyond recognition.

Landis Kan came alongside him, and gratefully stepped down from the saddle. ‘You had us worried,’

he said.

‘I met some of your Joinings. They are less fearsome than those I recall.’

Landis looked at him closely. ‘You are recovering your memories?’

‘Not all. There are large gaps. But I know a great deal more now.’

‘That is good, my friend. Then you should meet GamaL’

‘Who is he?’

‘An old man — the wisest of us. I invited him to live in my home when he finally lost his sight last spring.

It was he who found your soul in the Void, and brought you back to us.’

Skilgannon shivered suddenly. A sharp image came to him, of a slate grey sky and a landscape devoid of trees or plants. Then it was gone.

They walked together, Landis leading the chestnut. A line of women came into sight, moving up the hillside towards the timber line. All conversation ceased as they came close to Landis Kan and his

‘guest’. The women passed by with eyes downcast. Skilgannon saw they were carrying baskets of food.

Landis Kan noticed his interest. ‘They are bringing food to the loggers working beyond the timber line,’

he said.

‘A wagon and a single driver would be more effective, surely?’ observed Skilgannon. ‘Or do the women bring more than just food?’

Landis smiled. ‘Some of them are wed to loggers, and perhaps they do creep off into the undergrowth for a while. In the main, however, they just bring food. You speak of effectiveness. Yes, a wagon would bring more supplies, more swiftly, with considerable economy of effort. It would not, though, encourage a sense of community, of mutual caring.’

‘That is a good principle,’ said Skilgannon. ‘How does it equate with the fact that when they passed us none of them spoke, and not one of them looked up at us?’

‘A good question,’ observed Landis, ‘and I am sure you already know the answer. It is important to encourage a sense of community. People need to feel valued. It would be exceedingly foolish, however, for a leader to join in. He needs to set himself apart from his followers. If he were to sit among them, and chat to them, and share with them, eventually someone would ask him why he was the leader. By what right did he rule? No leader wishes to engage in that conversation. No, I am like the shepherd, Skilgannon. I muster the sheep and lead them to good grazing land. I do not, however, feel the need to squat down and munch grass with them. Was it so different in your day?’

‘For many years I served a warrior queen,’ Skilgannon replied. ‘She would tolerate no defiance of her will. Those who spoke against her — those she even thought were speaking against her — died. In many ways the society prospered. The Drenai, on the other hand, had no kings. All their leaders were elected by the votes of the people. Yet they also prospered for many centuries.’

‘Yet, in the end, both fell,’ said Landis.

‘All empires fall. The good, the bad, the cruel, and the inspired. For every dawn there is a sunset, Landis.’

No more was said until they reached the palace. There a groom led away the chestnut and Landis and Skilgannon climbed to the uppermost level, entering a high circular tower. ‘Gamal is very old,’ Landis told the warrior. ‘He is blind now, and frail. He is, however, an Empath and versed in the ancient shamanic skills.’

He pushed open a door and the two men stepped into a circular chamber, the floor scattered with rugs. Gamal was sitting in an old leather chair, the blanket pulled close around his thin shoulders. His head came up, and Skilgannon saw that his eyes were the colour of pale opals. ‘Welcome, warrior, to the new world,’ he said. ‘Pull up a chair and sit with me awhile.’

Skilgannon settled himself in another armchair. Landis was about to do the same when the old man spoke again. ‘No, Landis, my dear, you must leave Skilgannon and me alone for a little while.’

Landis looked surprised, and a little concerned. But he forced a smile. ‘Of course,’ he said.

After Landis had gone the old man leaned forward. ‘Do you know yet who you are?’

‘I know.’

‘I will be honest with you, Skilgannon. I am not a man who places great faith in prophecies. Landis -

dear though he is to me — is a man obsessed. I brought your soul back because he asked me to.

However, like so much in our modern world, it is against nature to do such a thing. Worse than that, it was morally wrong of me. I should have resisted it.’

‘Why did you not?’

The old man gave a rueful smile. ‘A question that deserves a better answer than I can give. Landis asked it of me, and I could not refuse.’ Gamal sighed. ‘You must understand, Skilgannon, Landis is trying to protect this land and its people. He is right to fear for the future. Rebel armies are currently fighting amongst themselves. But that war is nearing its conclusion. When it is won the Eternal could turn her eyes towards these mountains. Landis would do anything to prevent his people being enslaved. Can you blame him?’

‘No. It is the nature of strong men to fight invaders. Tell me of the Eternal.’

Gamal smiled. ‘I could tell you all I know, and that would be but a fraction of all there is to know.

Suffice to say she is the queen of all the lands between here and the southern seas and the far western mountains. Her armies are now fighting battles on two continents. We live in a world that has been at war for more than five hundred years. For most of that time the Eternal has ruled. She is, like you and me, Skilgannon, a Reborn. I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded.’

Gamal fell silent, lost in thought. Skilgannon waited for him to continue. After a while the old man drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He shivered. ‘I served her for five lifetimes. In those three hundred and thirty years I almost lost my humanity. Just as she has. We are not created to be immortal, Skilgannon. I do not fully understand it even now, but I know that death is necessary. Perhaps it is merely that we need the contrast. Without the darkness of night how can we fully appreciate the glory of the sunrise?’

Skilgannon ignored the philosophical question. ‘If she has ruled all this time why is it that Landis Kan has not been troubled before?’

‘He served her faithfully. These lands were his reward.’

‘No,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I think there is more to it. That is why you did not want Landis here when we spoke.’

The old man hesitated. ‘Yes, there is,’ he said finally. ‘You are very astute. Landis and I developed a talent for discovering artefacts of the ancient world — the world long, long before you fought your battles, Skilgannon. The Elder races had powers beyond imagination. Despite all our discoveries we still know very little. Like finding part of a rotted leaf, and trying to extrapolate from it what the tree might have been like. What we do know is that the ancients destroyed themselves. How or why remains a mystery.’

‘All this is fascinating,’ said Skilgannon, ‘but can we hold to the path?’

‘Of course, my boy. Forgive me. The mind wanders. You want to know why Landis has been so favoured.’ Gamal paused, as if to gather his thoughts. ‘He discovered her bones. He fought for her right to a new life, and when he succeeded, he and I went on to refine and improve the power of the artefacts, giving her immortality. We created the Eternal.’

‘I can see why she would reward you,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Why do you now fear her?’

‘One answer to that would be you, my boy. The Blessed Priestess and her prophecy. You know of whom I speak?’

‘Ustarte,’ said Skilgannon. ‘She came to me before the last battle. She told me I was to die, and she asked me to grant her a wish.’

‘She wanted to conduct your burial,’ said Gamal.

‘Yes.’

‘Was she as wise as the legends tell us?’

‘I have not read all your legends. Those concerning me are ridiculous and far-fetched. But, yes, Ustarte was wise. She told me she had seen many futures, and some of them were bleak beyond despair.’

‘Did she tell you why she wanted your body?’

‘No. Nor did I ask. My concerns were for the battle against the Zharn. She assured me that I would win it.’

‘And you did.’

‘Yes.’

‘You had put aside the Swords of Night and Day for more than ten years. Why did you wield them again?’

‘I had no choice. I was fifty-four years old and long past my prime. They aided me.’

‘They also cursed you, Skilgannon.’

‘I know.’

‘It is why you were wandering in the Void for all those centuries. You could not pass on to the green fields.’

‘That is not why. None of the legends of my life you have here tell of the evils I committed.’

‘You are speaking of the massacre at Perapolis.’

Skilgannon was surprised. ‘How is it that you know of it?’

‘I know many things I have not yet shared with Landis. You and I spoke in the Void. You were reluctant to return at first. There was a great part of your soul that desired the punishment the Void offered. Yet when the demons attacked you fought them. You would not willingly let your soul be extinguished.’

‘I have no memories of this.’

‘Some will come back. You are now a creature of the flesh once more. Memories of the flesh return far more swiftly than the recollections of spirit.’

‘Why am I here, Gamal? What does Landis think I can do?’

The old man shrugged. ‘He does not truly know. I do not know. Perhaps you can do nothing. It seems to me that even were you to take up the swords again you would not be able to turn back Jiamad armies.

It is a mystery, Skilgannon. Life is full of mysteries.’ Holding tightly to the blanket round his shoulders, the old man rose to his feet and tottered out to the balcony. Skilgannon followed him. Gamal settled himself into a wicker chair, a thick cushion against his lower back. ‘Beautiful, is it not?’ he said, waving a thin hand towards the distant mountains.

‘Yes,’ Skilgannon agreed.

‘I can still see them in my mind, though if I need to I can float my spirit free. I did so earlier, and observed your meeting with some of our Jiamads. You are not a man who scares easily.’

‘Whom did they kill?’

‘I think you know the answer to that. Longbear killed the one you downed. Tore out his throat.’

Gamal sighed. ‘Once — a long time ago — Longbear was a friend of mine. A good man.’

‘Yet you turned him into a beast.’

‘Yes, we did. Needs must when the wolves gather.’ Gamal gave a weak laugh. ‘I gave him the name Longbear. He was a man who admired bears. The admiration he felt for them was what killed him. He used to observe them. Full of confidence he would walk the high country, learning all he could about their habits. He wrote many of them down. One day he was watching a female leading her cubs to one of the upper waterfalls. She suddenly turned on him. Have you ever seen a bear attack?’

‘Yes. For creatures so large their speed is terrifying.’

‘As he discovered. He was mauled. A group of hunters found him. They brought him back, but there was nothing we could do. The wounds were not only hideous, but became infected. When he was dying he offered himself for the joining. We melded him with a young bear.’

‘Does he remember who he was?’ asked Skilgannon.

Gamal shook his head. ‘Some Jiamads do. They do not last long. They are driven mad. Usually a new personality emerges. Human attributes — loyalty, friendship — are mostly absent.’

‘Are all your Joinings volunteers?’

‘No. Most are criminals — outlaws, thieves, rapists, killers. They are condemned to die by the judges, and, upon their deaths, they are melded.’

‘It does not seem wise,’ said Skilgannon, ‘to make a killer even more powerful.’

‘No, it does not,’ agreed Gamal, ‘and that is where the jewels come in. You saw that they had stones embedded in their temples?’

‘Yes.’

‘Through them we control the Jiamads. We can administer pleasure or pain, keep them alive or kill them. They know this. It keeps them subservient. The Eternal’s Jiamads have no such stones. But then she cares nothing if they go on a rampage and slay peasants.’

A light breeze whispered over the balcony wall. Gamal shivered and returned to his room, where there was a fire lit. The old man went to it and knelt before the dying flames. Holding out his hand he gauged the heat, then fumbled for a log, which he added to the blaze. ‘Being blind is such a bore,’ he said.

‘It seems to me that if you have the magic to meld man and beast you should be able to heal your eyes,’ Skilgannon observed.

‘And we can. But I will use it no more,’ said Gamal. Returning to his chair he sat down and sighed. T

have lived for many lifetimes. I was arrogant, and believed I served the greater good. It was a deceit.

Reborns deceive themselves so easily. We are immortal and therefore, somehow, important. Such a nonsense. But let us talk of you. What do you desire now?’

‘I don’t know yet. Not another war. That is certain.’

‘And understandable. You have been fighting in the Void for a thousand years. Enough, I feel, for any man.’

‘What was I fighting?’

‘Demons, and the dark souls of the cursed. The Void is a terrible place for those condemned to walk there. Most pass through it swiftly, some wander for a while. Few accomplish what you did. But then you had help. You recall?’

‘No.’

‘When I was with you a shining figure helped you in a fight against several demons who had cornered you in a ravine.’

‘As I said, I have no knowledge of the Void. Nor — I think — do I wish to recall it. You ask what I desire here. What if I were to tell you that I desire to leave? To journey back to lands I remember?’

‘Then I would wish you well, Skilgannon, and furnish you with coin and weapons, and a sound horse.

I fear, however, you would not get far. The war is being waged across two continents. Death and desolation are everywhere. There are roving bands of renegade Jiamads, and men who have given themselves over to the darkest bestiality of their own natures. Some areas are now desolate of life, others suffer famine and disease. War is dreadful at any time, but this war is particularly vile. If you leave here alone you will find yourself much as you were in the Void — save there will be no shining figure to help you.’

‘Even so I think I will risk it,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I have been studying maps in Landis’s library. Petar is not on them. Where are we now, in relation to Naashan?’

‘In your time this would have been Drenai land, bordering the Sathuli realm. Naashan is across the sea. You can sail from Draspartha. . I believe it was called Dros Purdol in the past. However, might I ask a favour before you go?’

‘You can ask.’

‘Give it one month before you decide. You are a young man again. A month is not a long time.’

‘I will think on it,’ Skilgannon told him.

‘Good. In the meantime there is a mystery you can help us solve. Tomorrow Landis will take you up into the hills. There is a man there I would dearly like you to meet.’

‘What is the mystery?’

‘Bear with me, Skilgannon. Meet the man, and then we will talk again.’

‘You still have not told me why you now fear the Eternal,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Nor why you did not wish Landis to be here when we spoke.’

‘Forgive me, my boy. I am very tired now. I will tell you all when next we meet. I promise you.’

When the fight started Harad walked away. It was none of his concern. The loggers from the upper valleys were arrogant men, and argumentative. Harad usually ignored them, and they, in turn, wanted no trouble with him. Truth was no-one wanted any trouble with the man now known as Harad Bonebreaker.

It was not a title the huge, black-bearded young logger had sought, nor was it one that he liked. It had proved effective, however, and life was generally more calm. He had not been provoked into breaking anyone’s bones for more than five months now. People avoided him — which was exactly how he preferred it.

Moving back from the fight, Harad sat down on a felled tree and took up his meal pack. Fresh bread and strong cheese. The bread was just as he liked it, slightly over baked, the crust dark and crisp, the centre soft and full of flavour. Tearing off a chunk he chewed slowly, trying to ignore the sounds of fists on flesh, and the shouting of the watchers. The cheese was disappointing. There was no tang to the flavour. Good cheese would cause the tongue to cleave to the roof of the mouth, and the eyes to water.

A slim, golden-haired young woman approached him. ‘You have bread crumbs in your beard,’ she said. Harad brushed them away. He could feel his tension rising. Charis had not walked across the clearing to talk about crumbs. ‘Someone should stop this fight,’ she said.

‘Then go and stop it,’ snapped Harad. Charis ignored the tone and sat down on the log beside him.

He tried not to look at her, and struggled to avoid reacting to the fact that her leg was touching his. It was impossible. With a heavy sigh he put down his bread.

‘What do you want from me?’ he asked, trying to sound angry.

‘They are going to hurt him,’ she said. ‘It is not right.’

Harad glanced across to the fight. The young logger, Arin, was battling gamely, but the High Valley man he was fighting was taller and heavier. There was blood on Arin’s cheek, and his lower lip had been split. A crowd had gathered. They were shouting encouragement to the combatants.

‘What is the fight about?’ he asked.

‘The High Valley man made a comment about Kerena.’

Harad switched his gaze to Arin’s young wife, a plump girl with dark blond hair. She was standing some distance from the fighters, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘So are you going to stop it?’ asked Charis.

‘Why should I? It is not my fight. Anyway, the man is defending his wife’s honour. That’s as it should be.’

‘You know what will happen if Arin wins,’ said Charis.

Harad said nothing, returning his attention to the fight. The High Valley man was called Lathar. He and his two brothers were known troublemakers. Tough men, and brutal, they were constantly involved in scuffles and fights. Harad knew what Charis meant. If Arin was to beat Lathar, then his brothers would pitch in.

No-one would stop them. And Arin would take a severe beating.

‘It is not my problem,’ said Harad. ‘Why do you seek to make it so?’

‘Why do you set yourself apart?’ she countered.

Harad felt his anger rising. ‘You are an irritating woman.’

‘I’m glad you’ve noticed I’m a woman.’

‘What does that mean? Of course I know you’re a woman.’ Harad was growing increasingly uncomfortable. A great cheer went up as Arin landed a powerful right cross on Lathar’s chin. The High Valley man stumbled back. Arin surged in after him. One of Lathar’s brothers, a stocky bearded man named Garik, thrust out a foot. Arin tripped over it and tumbled to the ground. It gave Lathar a few moments to recover.

‘See!’ said Charis. ‘It is beginning.’

Harad turned towards her, looking into her deep blue eyes. He felt the breath catch in his throat.

Hastily he looked away. ‘Why do you care?’ he asked. ‘Arin is not your husband.’

‘Why do you not?’

‘Can you never answer a damned question? Always you have one of your own. Why should I care?

Arin is not my friend. None of them are.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Harad the Loner. Harad the Bonebreaker. Harad the Bitter.’

‘I am not bitter. I just. . prefer my own company.’

‘Why is that?’

Harad surged to his feet. ‘When will you stop these questions?’ he thundered. At that moment Lathar was knocked from his feet. He struggled to rise as Arin stood over him. Another brother, a tall pockmarked lout named Vaska, ran in from behind, punching Arin in the neck. The burly Garik joined in, kicking Arin in the hip. The young logger, surprised by the sudden assault, fell heavily.

Harad stalked across the clearing. ‘Back off!’ he roared.

Vaska and Garik turned away from the fallen Arin. Lathar himself was back on his feet. Harad moved in close, pushing past them. Arin was sitting on the ground, looking groggy. Just as Harad reached out to lift him to his feet he heard movement from behind. Harad turned. Garik rushed at him, his fist drawn back. Harad stood still. He could have avoided the blow. Instead he merely thrust out his chin. The High Valley man’s fist hammered against Harad’s face. Harad stared hard at the man who had struck him, noting with some satisfaction the sudden fear in Garik’s eyes. ‘Not the best idea you’ve ever had, pig-face,’ he said. His right hand flashed out, grabbing the attacker’s tunic. With one swift tug he pulled him into a head butt which smashed the man’s nose. Holding him upright, Harad tapped him with a straight left. Garik hurtled back into the crowd, then slumped unconscious to the ground. Vaska charged in. Harad stopped him in his tracks with a straight left, then delivered a right cross which spun Vaska from his feet. Harad had tried to pull his punches, but even so Vaska lay on the ground unmoving. Harad transferred his gaze to Lathar. The big logger was already bloody from his fight with Arin. His right eye was swollen, and closed. Harad ignored him and turned to the fallen Arin, who was now sitting up. The young man was still groggy. Reaching out, Harad hauled him to his feet. ‘Go and drink some water,’ he advised. ‘It will help clear your head.’ Arin’s wife, the blonde Kerena, ran in, taking her husband’s arm and leading him away. As Harad turned he saw Lathar stumble forward, fists raised. Stepping in, he blocked a weak blow and grabbed Lathar’s arms.

‘Wait until you feel better,’ he advised. ‘Then I’ll be glad to break your bones for you.’

Leaving the surprised logger standing there Harad walked away, returning to the log and his food.

Charis joined him. Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed. ‘What do you want now?’ he said.

‘Don’t you feel better for helping Arin?’

‘No. I just want to eat in peace.’

‘Are you coming to the feast?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? There’ll be food, and dancing, and music. You might enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t like noise. I don’t like people.’

She smiled. ‘Come anyway. I might dance with you.’

‘I don’t dance.’

‘I’ll teach you.’

Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes again. When he opened them he saw her walking away down the hillside with the other women who had brought the midday food. Some of the men had already begun taking up axe and saw, ready to begin work. Lathar’s brothers, still unconscious, had been pulled away from the work area. Lathar was kneeling alongside them. The overseer, a tall thin man named Balish, was talking to him.

Harad finished his meal. As he rose to take up his axe he saw Arin walking towards him. The boy’s right eye was swollen almost shut, and his face was heavily bruised.

‘My thanks to you, Harad,’ he said.

Harad wanted to tell him that he had fought well. He wanted to say something in a friendly fashion. But he didn’t know how. He merely nodded and moved away.

Balish the Overseer approached him. ‘You best watch your back, Harad,’ he said. ‘They are vengeful men.’

‘They’ll do nothing,’ said Harad. ‘Now let me work.’

Raising his axe he swung it smoothly, the blade slicing deeply into the tree trunk.