The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Three

As the women made their way down the hillside, the plump Kerena moved alongside Charis. ‘Thank you for getting the brute involved,’ she said. ‘They would have hurt my Arin.’

Charis felt a stab of annoyance. She liked Kerena, but the girl was like so many of the others, judgemental. ‘Why do you have to call him that?’ she asked, struggling unsuccessfully to keep the irritation from her voice.

‘What? What did I say?’

‘You called Harad the brute.’

‘Oh, it was just a manner of speaking,’ answered Kerena brightly. ‘It’s what everyone calls him. That and Bonebreaker.’

‘I know that. What I don’t know is why.’

Kerena was surprised. ‘How can you not know? Last summer he broke a man’s back in the high country.’

‘His jaw,’ corrected Charis.

‘No, I definitely heard it was someone’s back. Arin’s sister’s husband told me. Anyway, even if it was a jaw that’s not the point. Harad is always getting into fights.’

‘Like today?’ countered Charis. T expect it will only increase his reputation as a brute. I wish I had not asked him to get involved.’

Kerena reddened, her expression hardening. ‘Oh, you really are too argumentative today, Charis. I was only trying to be pleasant, and to thank you for your help.’ With that she moved away, and began chatting brightly to one of the other women. As Charis walked on she saw both women glance back at her. She guessed what they were talking about.

Charis and the brute.

It seemed to Charis to be manifestly unfair. Anyone who took the time to study Harad would know that he was not the monster they feared. But they could not see. When they looked into his blue-grey eyes they saw them as cold and forbidding. Charis recognized the loneliness there. The others observed his immense strength and feared he would break their bones. She saw a man uncomfortable with that strength, and too shy to express his fears to them.

At the foot of the hill the wives moved off to their various homes and Charis wandered back to the palace with the other servants. They would return to the woods at dusk with more food for the itinerant workers. The timber men would be working here until the Feast in ten days’ time, and they needed feeding. They would receive wages and many of them would carry their coin into town and spend it on a night of revelry. Then, broke and happy, they would wander off seeking other work to keep them fed during the coming winter. Harad would not spend his money in such a way. He would hoard it, then buy supplies and carry them up to his mountain cabin. He would stay away from the settlements for as long as possible.

Charis sighed.

For the rest of the afternoon she worked with four other women in the palace kitchens, preparing the food for the evening meal. At one point she heard the rumble of a wagon outside and moved to the rear window. It was the wolf catcher, Rabil. In his caged wagon four timber wolves prowled behind the bars.

Charis watched the wagon draw up at the gated entrance to the lower levels. She shuddered, and touched her brow in the sign of the Blessed Priestess, Ustarte.

‘Charis!’

She turned to see the elderly head servant, Ensinar. Charis smiled. Ensinar was a sweet-natured old man, kind and accommodating, with a single vanity, which made the other servants smile. Though utterly bald on the crown of his head he had grown his grey hair long above the ears. The strands were then swept up and over the crown. Ensinar obviously thought this gave him the appearance of a man whose hair was merely thinning. The effect, however, was comical — especially if he was outside and a sudden gust of wind caused his hair to flap wildly. The old man approached Charis and gave a shy smile. ‘Have you served the lord’s guest yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Take him some food and a fresh jug of water. There is a side of honey-cured ham in the pantry. It is very fine. Cut some thick slices from that. Some fresh bread too. Today’s loaves are a little under baked, I feel. Still. . it should suffice.’ With a second shy smile Ensinar moved away.

Charis was nervous. All the servants knew about the stranger with the sapphire blue eyes. Mira and Calasia had been seduced by him, and Charis had scolded them both for boasting of their exploits. ‘It is unseemly to speak of such things in public,’ she said. The girls both laughed at her. ‘You won’t be laughing if Ensinar finds out. You’ll be dismissed.’

‘Nonsense,’ had snapped Mira, a slim, dark-haired girl. ‘We were told to make him happy. And he certainly made me happy,’ she concluded with a laugh. The other girls gathered round, begging for more detail. Charis had walked away, disgusted.

She had only seen the stranger from a distance, a handsome man, dark-haired, with a spider drawing upon his arm. One of the other servants said she had gone to his room and found him standing naked on the balcony, his limbs contorted, one leg around the other, his arms raised above his head, and similarly twisted. She said there was a painting on the man’s back, a large eagle with wings outspread.

‘Why would anyone have a painting on their back?’ the girl had asked Charis. ‘They could never see it, could they?’

Charis had no definitive answer. All she said was: ‘My brother tells me there are many strange customs Outside. He says there are people who paint their hair different colours, and others have ink marks stained into the skins of their faces, some blue, some red. Outsiders are not like us.’

‘Then I hope they don’t come here,’ said the girl. Charis agreed. Everything her brother told her about the Outside left her feeling uneasy. People lived in stockaded towns, and there were battles everywhere between Jiamad armies. The latest Temple Wars had been raging now for eighteen years. They had begun the year before she was born. Charis had no understanding of the reasons for the fighting — nor did she wish to acquire such knowledge.

Putting such thoughts from her mind she prepared a tray of food as Ensinar had instructed, with ham and bread, adding a dish of sugar-dried fruit. Placing a flagon of fresh water on the tray she carried it out of the kitchens, and up the two flights of stairs to the upper quarters. She hoped the mysterious stranger would be standing on the balcony as the girl had described. She was curious to see the painting on his back. In this she was disappointed. He was indeed on the balcony, but dressed in a loose-fitting shirt of pale blue satin, and leggings of tanned beige leather. He turned as she entered and she saw the brilliant blue of his eyes. A deeper shade than Harad’s, and even less welcoming. His expression warmed as he looked at her. This annoyed Charis. Always men reacted in the same fashion. It was as if they were admiring a fine horse or a cow. The good-looking ones were the worst. They seemed to think that merely being handsome was enough to woo a girl. Charis found them all insubstantial — especially when set against Harad.

This stranger was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen, and the fact only fuelled her irritation. She curtseyed and placed the tray on a nearby table.

‘What is your name?’ he asked. His accent was strange, the words carefully enunciated.

‘I am just a servant,’ she replied. If he tried to seduce her he would find that not all the women in the palace were of easy virtue.

‘Does that mean you have no name?’

She stared at him, looking for signs of sarcasm. There were none. ‘My name is Charis, lord.’

‘I am not a lord. Thank you, Charis.’ He smiled, then turned away from her. This was unexpected, and her interest was piqued.

‘It is said you have a painting on your back,’ she said. He gave a soft laugh and swung back to face her.

‘It is a tattoo.’

‘Is that a kind of bird?’

‘No. It is. . a description of the method used to make the stain on the skin permanent.’

‘Why is it done?’

He shrugged. ‘A custom among my people. Ornamentation. Fashion. I do not know how it began.’

‘There are many strange customs Outside,’ she told him.

‘I notice that the people here wear no jewellery of any kind, no earrings or bracelets or pendants.’

‘What is an earring?’

‘A small circle of gold or silver that is pushed through a pierced hole in the ear lobe.’

‘A hole? You mean they make a hole in the ear for this. . this ring?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘No.’

‘Why would anyone want a hole in their ear?’

‘To hang an earring from,’ he answered.

‘What purpose does it serve?’

‘It looks attractive, I suppose. I have never really considered it before. It is also an indication of wealth. The more expensive the jewellery, the richer the wearer. The rich always have more status than the poor. So a woman who wears sapphires in her ears will command more respect than one who does not.’ Suddenly he laughed aloud, the sound rich and almost musical. ‘How odd and stupid it all sounds now. Have you worked in the palace for long?’

‘A little more than a full year. They offered me a serving role after my father died. He was one of the town’s bakers. He made wonderful bread. They can’t make it now. He did not write down his recipes.

It’s a shame, isn’t it, when something good just goes away?’

‘Are you speaking of your father or the bread?’

‘The bread,’ she admitted. ‘Does that make me seem shallow?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps your father was an unpleasant man.’

‘No, he wasn’t. He was kind and gentle. But his illness went on for so long that it was a blessing when he passed away. I still find tears in my eyes when I pass a bakery and smell fresh-baked bread. It reminds me of him.’

‘I do not think you are shallow, Charis,’ he said, his voice gentle. Her eyes narrowed and she stared hard at him. He saw the change in her. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’ he asked. ‘I thought it to be a compliment.’

‘I know why you compliment women,’ she said stiffly. ‘You seek to take them to your bed.’

‘There is some truth in that observation,’ he replied. ‘Though it is not always the case. Sometimes a compliment is merely a compliment. However, I am keeping you from your work.’

With that he returned to the balcony. Charis stood for a moment, feeling foolish. Then she left the room, angry with herself.

He was not what she had been expecting. He did not leer, or make suggestive comments. He had not tried to seduce her. How different are you from Kerena and the others, she thought? You judged the man on what others had said, just as they judge Harad on hearsay.

And now he thought her witless and foolish.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself sternly. Why should you care about the opinion of a man with a painted back?

Most of the itinerant loggers had brought tents which they pitched alongside the cook fires to sleep in at night, or sat outside under the starlight. Others merely found a dry spot beneath the trees and slept rough, under thin blankets. Harad always found a place away from the main groups, settling himself down alone.

He liked the night, and the awesome quiet. It calmed him.

Harad had always preferred to be alone.

Well, not always, he admitted to himself, as he sat with his back resting against the trunk of a huge oak. He could remember, as a child, wanting to play with the other children of the mountain village. The problem was always his strength. In play fights and scraps he would try not to hurt them, yet always some child would run away crying and in pain. ‘I only patted him,’ Harad would say. One day, when he grabbed another boy, the child had screamed. His arm was broken. After that no-one wanted to play with Harad.

His mother, Alanis, a shy, reserved woman, had tried to comfort him. His father, Borak, a brooding logger, had said nothing. But then Borak rarely spoke to Harad, unless to scold. Harad never understood why his father disliked him, nor indeed why Borak would always leave when Landis Kan visited. The lord would sit with the boy, asking him questions — mostly about whether he dreamt. No-one else seemed interested in his dreams. He would always ask the same question. ‘Do you dream of ancient days, Harad?’

It was an odd question, and Harad didn’t know what it meant. He would tell the lord that he dreamt of mountains, of woods. Landis Kan was disappointed.

Borak was killed in a freak accident when Harad was nine. A felled tree crashed to the ground, and a dead branch snapped upon impact. A shard of sharp wood flew through the air, piercing Borak’s eye, embedding itself in his brain. He did not die swiftly. Paralysed, he was carried down to the palace, where Landis Kan himself fought to save him. Harad still remembered when the lord rode up to the cabin with the news that Borak had died. Strangely his mother shed no tears.

Alanis herself died three years ago when Harad was seventeen. There was no drama. She said goodnight, and went to her bed. In the morning Harad tried to wake her. He brought her a tisane of sweet mint, and placed it by her bedside. Then he had touched her shoulder. As he looked into her face he knew she had gone. There was no movement, no flicker of life.

That was the first moment Harad felt truly alone.

He had run his hand through his mother’s dark, greying hair, wanting to say something by way of farewell. There were no words. Their relationship had never been tactile, but each night she would kiss his brow, and say: ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, my son.’ Harad cherished those times. Once she had stroked his cheek as he lay abed, his body battling a fever. That was the single greatest moment of his childhood.

So, on that last day, he stroked his mother’s cheek. ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, mother,’ he said.

Then he walked down to the village and reported her death.

After that he lived alone. His strength, and an awesome stamina, made him a highly valuable asset as a logger. Yet that same strength still caused him problems. Other men would feel compelled to test it against their own, like young bulls vying for supremacy. Harad travelled throughout the timberlands.

Everywhere it was the same. At some point someone would engineer a disagreement, no matter how hard he tried to avoid confrontation.

He thought this bleak period in his life had ended last year, when he broke Masselian’s jaw. Masselian was a fistfighting legend in the high country. After that Harad had been left alone. In some strange way he had transcended the other ‘bulls’, reaching a plateau on which he was untouchable.

Now, however, he had earned the enmity of Lathar and his brothers. He had told the overseer, Balish, that the brothers would do nothing. He had said it to end the conversation with Balish, a man he didn’t like. As he sat in the dark he knew it wasn’t true.

They would come seeking revenge.

If only Charis hadn’t been there that morning. He could have enjoyed his meal, finished his work, and even now be sleeping dreamlessly.

Harad swore softly. Thoughts of Charis filled his mind. He tried to think of other things, but it was no use. If Harad found the company of men difficult, he found women impossible. He never knew what to say. Words would catch in his throat, and he would grunt some inanity.

Worse, he found much of the conversation of women incomprehensible. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? It makes one feel it’s good to be alive.’ What did that mean? It was always good to be alive. Naturally it was more comfortable when the sun shone, but did that make it more beautiful? Charis had once asked him: ‘Do you ever wonder about the stars?’ That question had haunted him all last winter. What was there to wonder about? Stars were stars. Bright little points in the sky. Night after night he had left his cabin and sat on the porch staring malevolently up at the heavens. He found no answers. But then Charis was like that. She would say things that seeded themselves in his brain, causing him endless discomfort.

Last week she had brought him some food, and sat down beside him. She had picked up an acorn.

‘Isn’t it wonderful to think that an oak tree can grow from this little thing?’

‘Yes,’ he said, simply to say something that might end this conversation before it wormed its way into his brain.

‘The acorn, though, comes from the oak tree.’

‘Of course it comes from the oak tree,’ he said.

‘So how did the first oak tree grow?’

‘What?’

‘Well, if the oak tree makes the acorn, and the acorn makes the oak tree, what made the first oak tree? There couldn’t have been any acorns, could there?’

And there it was. Yet another seed, whose growing roots would torment his mind through the long cold winter ahead.

The night breeze rustled the leaves above him, and he sighed. Perhaps when Charis married she would lose interest in tormenting him. This was a new thought for Harad. It made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t understand why. His mood darkened. Restless now, he rose to his feet and walked to the stream. Squatting down he cupped his hands in the water and drank. In that moment he heard stealthy sounds in the undergrowth. Harad sighed. Rising silently, he walked to a nearby tree and leaned against it, waiting.

The first of the brothers, the bearded Garik, crept out of the darkness. He was holding a three foot length of stout wood, which Harad saw was an axe handle. Behind him came Lathar and Vaska.

Moonlight suddenly bathed the area as the clouds parted above. The men stood stock still, then Garik pointed the axe handle at Harad’s blanket by the tree. In that moment Harad realized he did not want to break any bones tonight. He stepped forward.

‘Isn’t it a beautiful night,’ said Harad. ‘Makes one feel it’s good to be alive.’ All three men swung round in shock. ‘Have you ever wondered about acorns?’ continued Harad, moving away from the tree and towards the waiting men. ‘If an oak grows from an acorn, and acorns grow from the oak, then how did the first oak tree grow?’

He crossed the small clearing until he was standing directly before them. ‘Acorns?’ said Lathar, mystified. ‘What did you say about acorns?’

‘Did you want to see me?’ asked Harad, ignoring the question.

‘We were just. . out walking,’ said Vaska, suddenly frightened.

‘Ah,’ said Harad, stepping forward and laying his huge hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Good night for it.

Lots of stars. Have you ever wondered about the stars?’

‘Gods, what is he talking about?’ Garik asked Lathar. Lathar shrugged and backed away.

‘Forget it, Garik. Let’s go.’

Garik stood there confused, the axe handle hanging to the ground. ‘I thought. .’

‘I said forget it!’

The three men ambled away into the darkness. Harad chuckled and returned to his blankets.

Then he slept, deeply and without dreams.

Though there were many gaps in his memory Skilgannon was beginning now to feel more complete. He recalled his childhood back in Naashan, the death of his father, Decado Firefist, his upbringing with the gentle actor, Greavas, and the middle-aged couple, Sperian and Molaire. He remembered their deaths at the hands of Boranius, and his subsequent flight with Jianna, the princess, and the long battles to restore her throne.

He recalled also the death of his wife, Dayan, and his search for the Temple of the Resurrection, a place steeped in mystery and myth. It had been his quest to bring Dayan back to life. Memories of those years of searching were vague, misty. Disconnected recollections flashed before his eyes, so swiftly his mind could not make sense of them. An old man in crimson robes. A tall room with walls of white marble and metal, lights glittering on gems set in the walls.

So many other memories spilled across his mind like scattered pearls. Many were of wars and battles, or long journeys by land and sea. He remembered a warlord he had fought alongside, a powerful man.

he struggled for a name. . Ulric. The Khan of Wolves.

Moving to the balcony Skilgannon drew in a deep breath and began to work through a series of stretching exercises. His body was more supple now, the young muscles stretching easily into the Eagle pose, the left foot hooked behind the right ankle, the right arm raised, the left arm wrapped around it, the backs of the hands pressed together. Motionless he stood, in perfect balance. A long time ago this exercise would have brought with it a sense of peace. He could not find it now.

I should not be here, he thought. I lived and I died. My journey was complete.

A beast leapt at him from behind a jumble of boulders. It was scaled like a snake, but the face was human. A sword lashed towards his neck. Swaying back he drew the Swords of Night and Day and slew the demon. Others were gathering.

The memory was sudden and jarring.

His journey had not been complete. He had wandered the Void for what Gamal told him was a thousand years. He shuddered as more memories of that cold, grey soulless place filled his mind. Then he smiled grimly. Soulless? It was exactly the opposite. It was full of souls — souls like his own. Skilgannon the Damned, in a world of the damned.

The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky. Skilgannon moved to the balcony wall and drew in a deep breath. He could almost taste the sweetness of life upon the breeze, as his lungs filled with cold, crisp air.

Why am I here, he thought? If the Void had been a punishment was this some kind of reward? If so, for what? It made no sense.

He heard a knocking at his door, and went back into the apartment. It was Landis Kan. He smiled as he entered, but Skilgannon sensed nervousness in him. ‘How are you feeling, my friend?’

‘I am well, Landis. And do not use the word friend so lightly. Friendship is either bestowed or earned.’

‘Yes, of course. My apologies.’

‘There is nothing to apologize for. Gamal says there is someone I should meet. Something about a mystery.’

‘Indeed so. Horses are being prepared.’

‘Is it far?’

‘About an hour’s ride.’

‘Would you prefer to walk?’

Landis grinned. It made him look younger. ‘You noticed my lack of skill? Yes, I would prefer to walk, but I have many duties today. So I must bounce upon the saddle and endure more bruises.’

Half an hour later they were riding over the hills towards the upper timber land. ‘Who is this mysterious person?’ asked Skilgannon, as they reached a long level stretch, and the horses slowed.

‘Forgive me, Skilgannon, but I would prefer it if you waited until we get there. Then I will answer all questions. Might I ask a favour of you?’

‘There is no harm in asking, Landis.’

‘We have visitors coming in tomorrow from Outside. I would like you to be with me when I meet them. It will be vital, however, for your name not to be mentioned. I will, by your leave, introduce you as my nephew, Callan.’

‘Who are they, these people?’

Landis sighed. ‘They serve the Eternal. May we walk for a while?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I feel as if my spine is a foot shorter than when we began.’ Drawing rein, he climbed clumsily from the saddle.

Skilgannon joined him, and they walked on, leading their mounts.

‘This world is suffering, Skilgannon, in a way that is unnatural and perverse. We had the chance, I think, to make it a garden, a place of infinite beauty, without threat of famine or disease. Even death could be held back. Instead we have the grotesque violence of a terrible war, fought by unnatural beast against unnatural beast, and by men against men. The suffering Outside is prodigious. Disease, pestilence and starvation, murder and horror abound. How one man was supposed to put an end to this I do not know. As I said, I was swept up in the prophecy. I truly believed. . believe. .’ he added, hastily, ‘that the Blessed Priestess did know the role you would play.’

‘And this prophecy promised I would overthrow the Eternal?’

‘Yes.’

‘What exactly did it say?’

‘It was written in an archaic tongue, and in a form of verse. There have been several translations, all subtly different, in that they sought to create rhyme in the modern tongue. The one I prefer begins: Hero Reborn, torn from the grey, reunited with blades, of Night and of Day. The rest of it is deliberately obscure and allegorical. Almost whimsical. The Hero Reborn will steal or destroy the magical egg of a vain silver eagle, battle a mountain giant bearing the golden shield of the gods, and bring about the death of an immortal, restoring the world to balance and harmony.’

‘A vain eagle?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘In love with its own reflection,’ said Landis. ‘As I said, some of the ancient texts were expanded, or exaggerated. In full, however, the story indicates that Ustarte knew the nature of the evil we now confront. By her reckoning the world of men would face ruin. She talks of an undead Queen, and armies of Joinings. The Blessed Priestess predicted that only you, and the Swords of Night and Day, could defeat them. I believe she had truly seen the future, Skilgannon.’

‘I knew her, Landis. She spoke of many futures. Every decision we make, or refuse to make, creates a different future. None of them are carved in stone. She knew this.’

‘I accept that. Gamal has made similar points. But she predicted the Eternal, and the monsters that now serve her. So perhaps she was also right in naming you as the saviour.’

Skilgannon saw the hope flicker in the man’s face and said nothing. He walked on. Landis hurried alongside. ‘What was she like? Was she beautiful, as the legends say?’

‘Aye, she was beautiful. She was also — to use your own description — a Jiamad.’

Landis stopped abruptly. ‘No. How was that possible?’

‘I can give you no answers. When we went to her we had a Joining with us. He had once been a friend of one of our company. We were hoping that Ustarte could separate him from the beast he had become. She said it was not possible. If it was she would have done it for herself. She showed me then her arm, which was covered in fur. She was part tiger, part wolf, as I recall.’

Skilgannon saw that Landis Kan had grown pale. The older man walked on in silence for a while.

Then he turned to Skilgannon. ‘Do not mention this to anyone else, I beseech you. The priestess is venerated now. People pray to her, worship her.’

‘Why should it make a difference? She was who she was. Nothing is changed except her form.’

‘Nothing and everything,’ said Landis sadly. ‘Let us ride on. We are almost there.’

Skilgannon had little experience of lumber camps, but it seemed to him that this one was well organized, teams of men felling trees, others stripping away branches. He saw one long trunk being dragged by two shaggy ponies towards an area where wagons were waiting. Here there were loggers wielding two-man bow saws. The trunks were shortened before being lifted by pulleys to the backs of the wagons. The work was swift and efficient, and there was a sweet smell in the air, the perfume of pine.

Landis Kan drew rein a little way back from the workmen and waited. A tall, round-shouldered man made his way through the workers and bowed to him. ‘Welcome, lord. The work, as you see, is going well.’

‘I am sure that it is, Balish. This is my nephew, Callan. He is visiting for a while.’ Balish bowed to Skilgannon. ‘Where will we find Harad?’

The man looked suddenly frightened. ‘There was little I could do to stop the fight, lord,’ he said. ‘It happened so swiftly. No-one was seriously hurt. I have spoken to Harad and warned him about his behaviour.’

‘Yes, yes, but where is he?’

Balish pointed towards the west. ‘Shall I have him brought here?’

‘Yes. We will be a little way down the slope there. Where the stream forks.’

So saying, Landis Kan swung his horse and rode away from the camp. Skilgannon followed him and the two men dismounted by the stream. ‘Balish is a good organizer,’ said Landis, ‘but weak and mean-spirited. He does not like Harad.’

Skilgannon said nothing. He stared at the mountains, and watched two eagles soaring on the thermals.

For some reason sight of the birds filled him with a sense of emptiness, and a longing to be free of this place. Much as he respected Ustarte she was long dead now, and he felt no obligation to be the saviour of a world that was not his. Soon he would leave, and see if he could find a way back to what was once Naashan. His studies in the library during the past few days had confirmed that Naashan was across the sea to the east. To get there he would have to journey to the port now called Draspartha, though in Skilgannon’s time it had been Dros Purdol.

Landis Kan was still talking and Skilgannon wrenched his mind from thoughts of travel. ‘I am going to ask Harad to show you the high country,’ said Landis. ‘He is a dour man, and does not talk much.

Gamal feels a little time away from. .’ he chuckled, ‘away from civilization will help you to readjust to this new life.’

‘Why this Harad?’

Landis Kan looked away. ‘He knows the high country as well as anyone.’

Skilgannon knew the answer was — at least in part — a lie, but he let it pass. ‘Ah, here he comes,’

Landis said. Skilgannon swung to meet the newcomer — and his breath caught in his throat. He felt his heart beating hard and struggled for calm. He glanced at Landis Kan, anger in his gaze. ‘Say nothing at the moment!’ Landis insisted.

The black-bearded logger strode down to where the two men waited. ‘It is good to see you, my friend,’ said Landis. ‘This is my nephew, Callan.’ The logger merely nodded and turned his pale eyes on Skilgannon. Landis Kan spoke again. ‘I would like you to act as his guide, up into the mountains.’

‘I am working here,’ said Harad.

‘You will receive the same wages, my boy. I would take it as a personal favour if you would agree.’

Harad stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘No horses,’ he said. ‘It will be a long walk.’

‘I can walk,’ said Skilgannon. ‘However, if you would prefer not to guide me, I will understand.’

Harad swung to Landis Kan. ‘How long do you want me to guide him?’

‘Three. . four days.’

‘When?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘Meet me here at sunup,’ said Harad to Skilgannon. He nodded to Landis Kan and strode back towards the logging camp.

After he had gone Landis stood silently alongside Skilgannon, who sensed the man’s unease. ‘Are you angry?’ Landis asked, at last.

‘Oh yes, Landis. I am angry.’ Landis took an involuntary backward step, his face showing his fear.

Skilgannon gave a cold smile. ‘But I will not harm you.’

‘That is a relief,’ said Landis. ‘What can you tell me of Harad’s. . ancestor?’

Skilgannon shook his head. ‘I see why you wanted me to meet him, but I will tell you nothing. I need to think on this. Alone.’ With that he stepped smoothly into the saddle and rode away.

Harad was uneasy as he returned to work — not that anyone would have noticed. He still swung his axe with unfailing power, his strength seemingly limitless. He worked throughout the morning, silently as always, his face grim, his expression set. At one point he saw Balish staring at him, but ignored him.

Lathar and his brothers were close by, and twice he found himself working alongside them. They did not speak, but during one short break Lathar offered Harad a drink from a water canteen. Harad accepted it. Lathar sighed. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘So, where did the first oak tree come from?’

Harad relaxed and suddenly chuckled. ‘I don’t know. A woman said it to me. Now I can’t get it out of my head.’

‘Me too,’ said Lathar. ‘Women, eh?’

Harad nodded. No more was said, but the enmity between them melted away.

The day was warm, the work exhausting. By the midday break Harad had been toiling for six hours.

He found himself looking forward to seeing Charis, to sitting quietly on a log, with her beside him. When the women came he walked away to sit alone, and waited for her. She was wearing a cream-coloured smock, and a green skirt, and her feet were bare. Her long, golden hair was tied back with a green ribbon. Harad felt his heartbeat quicken. Charis was carrying a basket of food. She moved among the men, offering them bread. Harad waited, his impatience growing. Finally she turned towards him, and smiled. He reddened.

‘Good day to you, Harad,’ she said.

‘And you,’ he replied, struggling for something intelligent to say. Charis handed him a small loaf and a block of firm cheese. Then she swung away. Harad was astonished. Always she stopped and spoke to him. It was bizarre. On all the occasions when he wished to be alone she would hover close by. Now that he actually wanted to talk to her she was moving away.

‘Wait!’ he called, before he could stop himself. Charis looked around, obviously surprised, ‘I. . I wanted to speak to you.’

Charis wandered back to where he sat. ‘What about?’ she asked, though she did not sit.

‘I am going away for a few days.’

‘Why would you need to tell me that?’

‘I wanted to ask about the lord’s nephew. I am to take him into the high country.’

‘The painted man?’

‘Painted?’

‘He has tattoos on his chest and his back. A great cat, and a hawk or eagle. A hunting bird anyway.

Oh yes, and a spider on his forearm.’

‘You have seen these things?’

‘No. One of the other girls told me. He stands naked in his room.’

‘Naked? In front of women?’

‘He is from Outside. They act differently there, I suppose,’ said Charis. ‘He is very good looking, don’t you think?’

Harad felt anger swelling inside him. ‘You think so?’

‘Of course. I spoke to him. He is very polite. He complimented me. Why does he want to go to the high country?’

‘I didn’t ask him,’ growled Harad, wondering what the compliment might have been.

‘Well, you can ask him while you travel.’ With that she walked away. Harad’s mood darkened, and his appetite disappeared. He pictured the tall, dark-haired young man. His eyes were very blue. Maybe that was what she meant. In a heartbeat I could lift him and snap him in two, he thought. Then he recalled those eyes. As a fighter Harad had an instinct about the strengths and weaknesses of other men. He did not doubt he could crush the man — but it would not be done in a heartbeat.

Leaving the food untouched he strode back to work ahead of the others, easing out his frustration with every swing of the long-handled axe.

Towards dusk Balish approached him. Harad had never liked the man. There was something sly and mean about him. Yet it was Balish who controlled the work gangs, and distributed the wages. Harad sighed and tried to avoid showing his contempt.

‘What did the lord want?’ asked Balish.

Harad told him about the trip to the high country with the nephew, the foreigner. ‘Hard country up there,’ offered Balish. ‘It is said there are renegade Jiamads roaming the upper passes.’

‘I have seen one or two,’ Harad told him. ‘There are like the bears and the big cats. They mostly avoid men.’

‘What is it that he wants to see?’

‘Maybe the ruins,’ said Harad.

‘I have never heard of this nephew before,’ said Balish. ‘Why is he here, do you think?’

Harad shrugged. How would he know? Balish stood around for a few more moments, making increasingly idle conversation. Then he wandered away. Harad sat down, annoyed now that he had not eaten his meal. Hungry, he walked back to where he had left his loaf and cheese. It had gone. It would be a long wait to breakfast.

He thought about the ruins. Every autumn Harad would travel to them, clambering over the old stones.

There was something about the place that eased his spirit. He felt at peace there, in a way he could find peace nowhere else. Perhaps it was the solitude. Harad did not know. What he did know was that he did not relish the thought of taking a stranger there.