The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Five

They left the hollow soon after dawn, and climbed a series of steep, rock-strewn rises for more than two hours. Topping a crest, Harad paused. Skilgannon moved alongside him. His breath caught in his throat. From this high point he could see the land stretching out over the steppes to the north, and the wide plains to the south. Far below was a huge and derelict fortress, with six walls and a once mighty keep, now shattered and partly collapsed. The walls stretched across the pass, blocking the way north.

Skilgannon shivered. For the first time since he had awoken in this new body he knew exactly where he was. The weight of a thousand years bore down on him. When he had last seen this fortress it had been mighty, and impregnable, towering and majestic. Yet now it was broken, ruined by time and the power of nature. It was a vivid reminder of how greatly the world had changed, and made him feel even more like a man out of his time.

He glanced at Harad. This man was the image of a younger Druss, and yet he knew nothing of the struggle for survival that once took place on those now shattered ramparts.

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Harad. ‘It is called the Ghost Fortress.’

‘Once it had another name,’ said Skilgannon softly. Shrugging off his pack he sat down and stared at the ruin. Sometime in the last hundred years there had been an earthquake here. The first wall was fractured and half covered by an avalanche. The keep had split and crumbled.

‘What name?’ asked Harad, sitting alongside him.

‘Dros Delnoch. It was said it would never fall while men with courage stood upon its walls.’

‘It did fall, though,’ said Harad. ‘I don’t know much history, but I do know it was conquered by a warrior chief named Tenaka Khan. The Nadir swarmed over it. Conquered the old lands.’

‘I never heard of him,’ said Skilgannon. ‘The last battle I know of was fought by Druss the Legend and the Earl of Bronze. Druss died here. And the fortress held. Ten thousand men against an army fifty times greater.’

Skilgannon drew in a deep breath, remembering the day he had ridden into the Nadir camp.

Two hundred thousand warriors were besieging the Dros. But on this night there was no assault.

A great funeral pyre had been prepared, and the body upon it was that of Druss the Legend. He had fallen that day, battling impossible odds. The Nadir, who knew hint as Deathwalker, both feared and revered him. They had carried his corpse from the battleground, and were preparing to honour him.

Skilgannon dismounted close to the tent of Ulric, Lord of Wolves. The royal guards recognized him, and led him into the presence of the Khan. ‘Why are you here, my friend?’ asked the violet-eyed man. ‘I know it is not to fight in my cause.’

‘ I came for the reward you promised me, Great Khan.’

‘ This is a battlefield, Skilgannon. My riches are not here.’

‘ I do not require riches.’

‘ I owe you my life. You may ask of me anything I have and I will grant it.’

‘ Druss was dear to me, Ulric. We were friends. I require only a keepsake: a lock of his hair, and a small sliver of bone. I would ask also for his axe.’

The Great Khan stood silently for a moment. ‘He was dear to me also. What will you do with the hair and bone?’

‘ I will place them in a locket, my lord, and carry it round my neck.’

‘ Then it shall be done,’ said Ulric.

‘You are lost in thought,’ said Harad, ‘and you are looking sad.’

‘It is a sad sight,’ said Skilgannon.

The earthquake and the subsequent avalanche meant that it was now possible to access the fortress from the mountains, rather than through the high keep above the Sentran Plain to the south. The descent was still perilous, but Harad and Skilgannon slowly made their way down until they were standing on the ramparts of Wall One. Two of the towers that were set every fifty paces had been smashed by the avalanche. The others still stood. Skilgannon walked to the crenellated rampart wall and stared down.

Sixty feet high, and four hundred paces in length, it had been the first line of defence. Harad strolled along it, axe in hand. Skilgannon watched him. Druss would have been sixty years old when he last stood on this wall. Now — in a way — he was here again. Once more Skilgannon shivered.

‘You want to go further up?’ asked Harad. Skilgannon nodded. The two men walked down the rampart steps and crossed the open ground between the first two walls. The second wall had ruptured during the earthquake and they climbed the crack that had opened within it.

Beyond Wall Two the gate tunnels had been cleared, and Harad and Skilgannon made their way up to the ruined keep. Here Harad prepared a fire close to an old well and the two men sat quietly until Harad produced a pot from his pack and walked to the well. Lowering a bucket to the water below he hauled it back, drank deeply, then half filled the pot. ‘Brought the bucket and rope here last year,’ he said. ‘The water is cold and sweet to the taste. Makes for a good stew.’ He glanced at Skilgannon. ‘I thought you would enjoy seeing this,’ he said, ‘but I think I was wrong.’

‘You were not wrong. I am glad we came. How often do you come here?’

‘As often as I can,’ said Harad. ‘I feel. .’ he gave an embarrassed smile, ‘I feel at peace here.’

‘A sense of belonging, perhaps.’

‘Yes. That’s it exactly.’

‘Do you have a favourite place here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it at the gate of Wall Four?’

Harad gave a start, and instinctively made the sign of the Protective Horn. ‘Are you a wizard or some such?’

‘No,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I saw the ashes of old campfires at the gate as we passed.’

‘Ah!’ Harad seemed satisfied and relaxed.

‘Can you read the inscriptions above each gate?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘No. I have often wondered what they meant. Just names, I suppose.’

‘More than that, Harad. Wall One was called Eldibar. It was from an ancient tongue. It means Exultation. It is where the enemy is first fought and turned back. The defenders are exultant. They believe they can win. Wall Two was called Musif. This means Despair. For the defenders of Wall Two have seen Eldibar fall, and that is the widest, strongest wall. If that can fall, then perhaps they are doomed.

Wall Three was Kania. Renewed Hope. Two walls have fallen, but the men on Wall Three are still alive, and there are still walls to retreat to. Wall Four is Sumitos. Desperation. The three strongest walls have fallen, and it is now a desperate struggle for survival. Wall Five is Serenity. The defenders have fought hard and well. The best of them have survived this far. They know death is coming, but they are brave and determined. They will not run. They will face the end with courage.’ He fell silent.

‘And Wall Six?’ asked Harad.

‘ Geddon. Wall Six is Geddon. Death.’

‘Where did Druss the Legend fall?’

‘At the gate of Wall Four.’

‘How is it you know all this, but you don’t know about when the fortress fell?’

‘My memory is not what it was.’

They fell silent, and Harad prepared a broth of barley and dried meat. After they had eaten he wandered off into the ruins, and Skilgannon sat alone, lost in thought and ancient memory.

The stars were bright above the ancient fortress, the night calm and windless. Harad had built the fire from a small stock of wood piled against the keep wall. It was gone now, and the flames were slowly dying away. Skilgannon stood and wandered around the area, seeking any source of fuel. There was nothing, just stony ground, scattered rocks and a few tiny bushes. He felt a sense of unease, though could find no reason for it.

Moving away from his camp he walked up to the ramparts of Wall Six. From here he could just see a twinkling campfire. Harad had other stores of wood down at Wall Four, but he obviously wanted to be alone. Skilgannon decided to return to his own blankets. Just then a sudden wind rippled across him.

‘ Where are you, laddie?’

Skilgannon froze — then spun round. There was no-one close. His heart began to beat wildly. ‘Druss, is that you?’

‘ Come down to my fire,’ whispered a voice in his mind.

Skilgannon knew that voice, and it was as if a cool, welcome breeze had arrived on a hot summer’s day. Swiftly he set off through the darkened tunnel, and down to the gate of Wall Four. As he emerged on the open ground before it he paused. The camp-fire was burning brightly. Close by Harad was swinging the axe in a series of overhand sweeps and sideways cuts. But it was not Harad. Skilgannon had watched the young logger practising earlier. Unused to the heft of the weapon, his movements had been clumsy and untrained. This man was a master.

Skilgannon did not move. Moonlight glistened on the flashing axe blade. Memories flowed through the swordsman’s mind: the attack on the citadel, the rescue of the child, Elanin, the last farewell on the high ramparts. He stared at the giant figure, his emotions roiling.

The axeman plunged Snaga into the ground and turned towards him. ‘Good to see you, laddie,’ said Druss the Legend.

Skilgannon took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Sweet Heaven, it is better than good to see you, Druss.’

Druss stepped in and patted Skilgannon’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get used to it,’ he said. ‘I shall not be here long.’ He swung round, his pale eyes scanning the ancient ramparts. ‘Egel’s Folly they used to call it,’ he said. ‘But it proved its worth.’ Druss wandered back to the fire and sat. Skilgannon joined him.

‘Why can you not stay?’

‘You know why. This is not my life, boy. It belongs to Harad.

Ah, but it is good to breathe mountain air again, and to see the stars. But let us talk of you. How are you faring?’

Skilgannon did not answer at first. The shock at seeing Druss had been replaced by a huge sense of relief. He was no longer alone in an alien world. Now that relief had been dashed. The loneliness was merely waiting in the shadows. ‘I should not be here, Druss. It is that simple. I lived my life.’

‘No, you shouldn’t, laddie. What are your plans?’

‘To go back to Naashan. Apart from that I have none.’

Druss remained silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps that is your destiny,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘I don’t think so, though. You came back. There will be a reason for it — a purpose. This I know.’

‘I was brought back because an arrogant man believed in an ancient prophecy. He thought I rode a horse with wings of fire. He thought I could change the horrors of this new world.’

‘Maybe you can.’

Skilgannon laughed. ‘I am one man, with no army.’

‘Ah, laddie! If you need an army you’ll find one.’ Druss looked round at the ruined fortress. ‘This was what I was born for, all those centuries ago. To come to this place and help save a nation. One old man with an axe. That was my destiny. This is yours. Here and now.’

‘More like punishment than destiny,’ said Skilgannon, without rancour. ‘A thousand years in the Void.

Now this. At least I knew why I was in the Void.’

‘No, you did not,’ said Druss quietly. Before Skilgannon could reply the axeman glanced up at the high peaks. ‘There is evil here, walking these mountains. I can feel it. Innocent blood will be shed.’

‘What evil?’

‘Do you have your swords?’

‘I will not use them, Druss. I cannot.’

‘Trust me, you are stronger than the evil they carry. You will need them, boy. And Harad will need you.’ Druss sighed. ‘Time I was leaving.’

‘No! Stay just a little while longer.’ Skilgannon heard the sound of desperation in his voice, and struggled for calm.

‘I can only guess at how lonely you must feel, laddie,’ said Druss. ‘But I cannot stay. There is someone I must protect. The Void is no place to be alone for long.’

‘I don’t understand. You are trapped in the Void? It makes no sense.’

‘I am not trapped. It is my choice to be there now. When I choose to leave I can. You don’t remember much of it, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Probably just as well.’ He sighed. ‘Take care now.’

Skilgannon felt a sense of desolation, but he forced a smile. ‘You too, Druss. I don’t remember much, but there are beasts in the Void who could kill even you.’

Druss laughed, the sound rich and full of life. ‘In your dreams, laddie!’ he said.

Returning to the blankets by the fire the axeman lay down. His huge body relaxed — then jerked suddenly.

Harad rolled to his feet, eyes staring, fists clenched. He saw Skilgannon, and suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘I had a nightmare,’ he said. He was breathing heavily. Rising he walked to the axe and hefted it. His breathing calmed. ‘I don’t usually dream much,’ he said. ‘When I do it is always here.’

‘What did you dream of?’ asked Skilgannon, heavy of heart.

‘It is fading now. Grey skies, demons.’ Harad shuddered. ‘This time I had the axe. That is all I remember. What are you doing here?’

‘I came down to take some of your wood,’ said Skilgannon. ‘My fire went out.’

They sat in silence for a while. Then Harad spoke. ‘You know a great deal about this Druss. Do you know what he wore?’

‘A black jerkin, edged with silver plates at the shoulder. And a helm.’

‘Were there skulls upon it? In silver?’

‘Yes, alongside an axe blade.’

Harad rubbed at his face. ‘Ah, I am being stupid. Someone must have told me the story. Maybe my mother. Yes, that’s it.’

‘You dreamt of Druss?’

‘I don’t remember now,’ said Harad. He glanced at the sky. ‘Dawn is close. We should be on our way.’

Landis Kan bade his guests farewell, and watched as they mounted their horses. He was shaken by the look Decado gave him. There was a glittering hatred in his eyes, and something else. A look of anticipation that unnerved Landis. He turned back into his palace, heavy of heart, and walked to his library study. How could you have been so arrogant, he asked himself? To believe that you could deceive the Eternal; to think that you could recreate the one great moment of your life? He sat down on the wide leather chair by the window, his head in his hands.

Life had changed that day, so many centuries ago, when he had excavated the ruined palace in Naashan. One of his workers had called out to him. The man was on his knees in the mud at the bottom of a newly dug pit. Beside him, protruding from the earth, was a face, sculpted in white marble. As Landis stared at the face it seemed that the universe suddenly shifted, and all that was broken and disharmonious suddenly became perfect. The face was that of a woman — a woman more beautiful than any he had ever known in life. Scrambling down into the muddy hole he had dropped to his knees and wiped the wet dirt away from the stone face. The man beside him let out a low whistle of appreciation.

‘Must be a goddess,’ he said.

Landis Kan called more men to the pit, and slowly they unearthed the full statue. It was of a woman sitting on a throne, her arm raised to the heavens. A snake was entwined round the limb. For the next few days Landis had teams working both day and night to clear away the earth. They discovered the edges of a curved marble wall. Landis estimated it would have a diameter, if fully excavated, of around two hundred paces. As more of the wall was unearthed Landis realized it must once have edged a man-made lake. He cared nothing for the lake, nor for the ruined city. His entire focus was now on the statue. Days were spent examining it, sketching it, staring at it. Landis Kan, the young priest of the Resurrection, forgot all his teachings and found himself dreaming of the woman who had inspired this exquisite sculpture.

There were engravings on the base of the statue. Landis sent for an expert in the hieroglyphic writings of Naashan, and an old man arrived. Landis remembered him well. He had a crooked back and a twisted neck. He had crouched by the base of the statue in the moonlight, and scribbled his findings on a tablet of wet clay. Then, awkwardly, he had climbed from the pit.

‘It says she was Jianna, Queen of Naashan. It speaks of her victories, and the glories of her reign, which lasted thirty-one years. Her bones are probably interred at the base of the statue. That was the custom then.’

‘Her bones are here?’ Landis could barely control his excitement. His hands began to shake.

The crookback had been correct. A secret compartment had been located in the base, just beneath the carved throne. There had also been the rotted remains of a box, and two rusted hinges. From the ruined debris Landis guessed the box had contained parchment scrolls, but water had seeped in at some point and destroyed them. He had the bones packed away, and returned to the mountain temple, hidden within the desert. The journey took three long months, across the Carpos Mountains, then northwest to the city port of Pastabal, that had once been named Virinis. From here they sailed west, then north, moving through the straits of Pelucid, and finally reaching the western shore at the mouth of the Rostrias river. Few of the priests there were concerned, as he was, with the more recent history of the world, and his finds in Naashan were greeted with mild interest only. For they had dedicated their lives to rediscovering the greater secrets of the ancient, long-lost peoples who, it was said, had mastered the magic of the universe and then destroyed themselves.

Landis had never had any abiding interest in the origins of the artefacts he studied, only in how their use could benefit him. It was well known that the priests enjoyed preternaturally long lives. This appealed to Landis. It was also believed — and Landis now knew this to be true — that it was possible to return from death itself. These secrets, however, were known to very few. Landis had befriended one of them, and become an assiduous student. His mentor, a Reborn named Vestava, loved to talk of the ancient days when the temple was first founded.

It had followed the archaeological research of Abbot Goralian more than fifteen centuries before, and had led to the creation of the first Temple of the Elders on the present site in the desert. Beneath the rock of a lonely mountain here Goralian had discovered a series of buried chambers, containing arcane machines constructed of a metal that did not rust or decay, and white wood that did not rot. Goralian spent much of his life studying the machines, but it was only after his death that a second abbot, the mystic Absyll, had reactivated them. Landis Kan would have liked to have witnessed that moment.

According to Vestava, the abbot had entered a dream trance, and had pierced the mists of time, floating back through the ages. He had watched the ancients at work on the machines. When he awoke he led the priests to a high, secret chamber on the mountain side, where he pressed a series of switches and levers. Within moments a groaning sound had been heard, and the mountain chamber began to tremble.

Some of the priests ran, fearing an earthquake. Others stood rooted to the spot. Absyll led the still frightened priests to a stairway, and slowly they climbed higher into the mountain, emerging at last onto a metal platform hundreds of feet above the desert. Once in the open he pointed up the mountain. On the high peak above them something was moving. At first it appeared to be a thick column of gold, rising from the mountain. Then the tip of the column began to swell, and then to open, like a giant flower.

Vestava stated there were originally twenty-one petals, but they shimmered and merged together, creating a perfectly round metal mirror, resting on the mountain top. Absyll had called it the Mirror of Heaven.

If the priests on the platform had been amazed at the sight of the golden shield, then the others inside the mountain were equally astonished. Lights blazed from chamber walls throughout the ancient structure.

Machines began to hum. Men scrambled from the buildings, running out onto open ground.

Many of the priests had written their memories of that day, and Landis had studied them all.

Excitement had been high, and a sense of destiny had touched each one of them. In the years that followed many more discoveries were made, but only one matched the opening of the golden shield. The Abbess Hewla, before her fall into evil, had become fascinated by a shimmering mirror in one of the higher antechambers. Strange markings flickered on its surface, changing and flowing. Hewla copied many of the markings, and became convinced they represented the lost writing of the Elder race. After eighteen years of patient study she finally deciphered them. It brought her to a knowledge of the use of the machines. Landis had read and studied the abbess’s writings. Her work had led to a renaming of the temple, and a new direction for the priests who laboured there. It became the Temple of the Resurrection, and use of the machines initially gave the priests extended life and energy. More than this, however, it eventually allowed the priests to conquer death itself; to be reborn.

By the time Landis came to serve the temple Hewla was long gone, though stories of her, and the dark deeds of her life, had become legend. Landis had taken the bones of the long dead queen to Vestava, and suggested — humbly — that it would ‘enhance our understanding of the past if we were to restore her life’.

Vestava had smiled. ‘There would be little advantage in such a process, Landis. Her soul would long ago have left the Void. One day you will understand it. When you are ready I will teach you myself.’

That one day had been twenty-six years, four months and six days away. During that time Landis returned to Naashan, and had the head of the statue removed and brought back to his rooms at the temple. At nights he would sit and stare at it, and even at times talk to it. His passion for the long dead queen did not fade. In fact it grew stronger. He began to dream of her.

When Vestava at last chose to share the mysteries with his student Landis learned that the key to successful resurrection lay in an ancient ritual Hewla had called the migration of souls. In order to accomplish the transfer it usually had to be made within a day of death. On rare occasions it could be longer, if there was a mystic with power who could enter the Void and guide a soul back to the haven of his new body. But the longest time recorded was eight days. The Queen of Naashan had been dead for five hundred years.

The disappointment felt by Landis Kan was intense. That first night he lay in his chamber and wept.

Three years passed, and then came the most glorious moment of his life so far. He showed the statue head to a young priest, training in the mystic arts. The man’s skill lay in touching objects and seeing visions of their past. He and Landis had been joking about the young man’s gift. ‘Tell me of the statue,’

said Landis. The young man had placed his hands on the cold, white stone, then taken a long, deep breath. ‘It was crafted by a one-eyed man. It took him five years of his life.’ The young priest had smiled.

‘He was helped by his son, who was, perhaps, even more gifted than the father. The queen came to their workshop and sat with them. They sketched and drew her, and laughed and joked with her. Her name was Jianna.’

‘You would know that from my reports,’ said Landis, trying not to be sceptical.

‘I have not read them, brother, I assure you. The statue was placed by a lake.’ He suddenly jerked.

‘Blood was shed there by assassins seeking to kill the queen. They failed. She did not seek to flee. She fought them. There was a man with her, his head shaved, though not on the top of his head. Odd. It looks like a horse’s mane.’ Suddenly the young man screamed and threw himself backwards, falling onto a couch.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Landis, shocked.

The young man shivered. ‘I don’t know. I felt. . Oh, Landis, I feel ill.’

‘What did you feel?’

‘She touched me. The queen touched me. She haunts this statue.’

‘Her soul is still connected to the world?’

‘I believe so. I shall not touch the thing again.’

Landis had taken the news to Vestava. ‘We can bring her back,’ said Landis. ‘Is that not so?’

‘It is not that simple, student. And if she still haunts the world then that might be reason enough never to try. Don’t you see? She has not passed the Void. What evils must she have committed to be damned for so long in that hellish place?’

‘But she could expound so many of the mysteries of that bygone era. We have mere fragments. Are we not here to pursue the path of knowledge, master? This is what you have taught me all these years.

She would know of the growth of empires that are lost to us, and the fall of civilizations. She might even have knowledge of the ancients.’

‘I will think on it, Landis,’ said Vestava. ‘Give me time.’

Landis knew better than to press the old man, who could be obdurate when he felt pressured. What followed was the longest year of Landis’s life. As the following winter approached Vestava summoned him to the upper council chamber. The Five were assembled there, the most senior priests of the Resurrection. Vestava spoke: ‘It has been decided that this is an opportunity too promising to let pass.

We will begin the process of Rebirth. Bring the bones to the lower chambers tomorrow.’

As Landis sat quietly, locked into memories of the past, a lantern guttered and went out. He shivered, and forced his mind back to the present.

Leaving the library he returned to his apartments in the western wing. It was growing dark and servants were in the corridors lighting lanterns. He found Gamal waiting for him in the main room.

‘You did not deceive Unwallis, Landis,’ he said sadly. ‘The Black Wagon will be coming. You should leave this place, and journey across the sea. Find a new life somewhere beyond her power to reach you.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Landis, seeking not to convince his friend, but to bolster his own failing confidence.

Gamal sighed. ‘You know I am not. To bring Skilgannon back was perilous — but the girl? This was madness. Oh, Landis, how could you be so foolish?’

Landis sank into a chair. ‘I love her. Thoughts of her are always with me. Ever since I found the statue.

I just wanted to be with her, to touch her skin, to hear her voice. I thought I could. . I thought I could do it right this time.’

‘She knows what you have done, Landis. She will never forgive you. ‘

‘I will leave tomorrow. I’ll journey north. Perhaps Kydor.’

‘Do not take the Reborn with you. She will be the death of you. They are already hunting her and they will find her.’

Landis nodded. ‘Jianna was not always evil, you know. I am not fooling myself in this. I knew her, Gamal. She was warm and loving, and witty and. . and. .’

‘And beautiful,’ said Gamal. ‘I know. I do not think we were intended for immortality, Landis. I knew a man once who fashioned artificial flowers from silk. They were gorgeous to behold, but they had no scent. They lacked the ephemeral beauty of a real bloom. Jianna is like that. There is no humanity left in her. Do not wait for tomorrow, Landis. Leave now. Gather what you need and ride north.’

Gamal made his way slowly to the door, his hand reaching out ahead of him to steer him round the furniture. ‘I shall take you back to your rooms,’ said Landis, stepping in to help the blind man.

‘No. Do as I advised. Pack and leave. I can find my own way.’

‘Gamal!’

‘What is it, my friend?’

‘You have always been dear to me. I thank you for your friendship. I will never forget it.’

‘Nor I.’

The blind man moved out into the corridor. Landis walked out to watch him making his slow way towards the far stairwell. Then he returned to his apartment and closed the door.

Sighing, he moved out to the balcony. The sun was behind the mountains now, but still casting a golden glow in the sky above the peaks. He felt tired and drained. Gamal had urged him to ride out into the night, but Landis convinced himself his friend was merely panicking. Decado and Unwallis had left, and he had no wish to ride a horse in darkness, nor camp in some dreary cave, locked in thoughts of despair.

Dawn would be a good time. The sunlight would lift his spirits.

Landis returned to his rooms and filled a goblet with red wine. It tasted sour.

The lanterns flickered, as if a breeze was blowing through the room. There was no breeze, yet one by one they went out. Landis stood very still, his mouth dry.

‘I never thought you would ever betray me,’ whispered a voice.

Landis spun. A shimmering light began in the darkest corner of the room, swelling and growing, forming a human shape. The image sharpened, and Landis gazed once more upon the features of the woman who had haunted his dreams for five hundred years. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a silver circlet upon her brow, her slender body clothed in white. Landis drank in the vision, his eyes drawn, as ever, to the tiny dark beauty spot just to the right of her mouth. Somehow this blemish only enhanced her perfection.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I always have.’

‘How sweet! How foolish. You fell in love with a statue, Landis. What does that tell you about yourself?’

‘I gave you life,’ he said. ‘I brought you back.’

The image shimmered closer to him, shifting and changing. The white gown disappeared, replaced by a shaped silver breastplate, and leather leggings, reinforced by silver bands upon the thigh. At her side was a sword belt.

‘You did not love me, Landis. You loved an image of me. You desired to possess that image, to have it for your own. That is not love. Now you have recreated that image. Without my permission. That is not love.’

‘Have you come here to kill me?’

‘I am not going to kill you, Landis. Tell me the truth. Are there any more bones of my past bodies?’

‘Do not harm her, Jianna. I beg you.’

‘Are there any more bones, Landis?’

‘No. She is innocent. She knows nothing, and could never harm you.’

The Eternal laughed. ‘She will serve me well, Landis. She is the right age.’

Landis’s heart sank. ‘Were you always evil?’ he heard himself ask.

‘This is hardly the time for philosophical debate, my dear. However, I will say this: when I was a child my father was murdered, my mother killed. People I thought loyal sought my death. They all had their reasons. When I came to power I killed them. Self-preservation is a paramount desire in all of us. Good and evil are interchangeable. When the wolves pull down a fawn I don’t doubt the doe would consider it an evil act. For the wolves it is a necessity, and they would see the procuring of fresh meat as good. So let us not spend these moments in meaningless debate. I have one more question for you, Landis, and then we can say farewell. What did you find in Skilgannon’s tomb?’

‘I never found his tomb,’ he lied. ‘I found the axe and the bones of Druss the Legend.’

‘I remember him,’ said the Eternal. ‘I met him once. Describe the axe.’ Landis did so. The Eternal listened intently. ‘And you sought to bring him back?’

‘Yes. We could not find his soul. All we have is a powerful young man who works as a logger.’

‘Druss would have been beyond you,’ said the Eternal. ‘He did not wander the Void. Very well, Landis, I believe you.’

The door opened. Landis turned to see the young swordsman, Decado, enter the room. The dark-haired warrior smiled at him, then drew one of his swords. Fear engulfed Landis and he backed away. He looked at the shimmering image of the Eternal. ‘You said you would not kill me,’ he said.

‘And I shall not. He will.’ She floated towards Decado. ‘Not a trace of flesh or bone to be left,’ she said. ‘Burn him to ash. I do not want him reborn.’

‘As you order, so shall it be,’ said Decado.

‘Do not make him suffer, Decado. Kill him swiftly, for he was once dear to me. Then find the blind man and kill him too.’

‘The nephew, beloved. He insulted me. I want him too.’

‘Kill him, my dear,’ said the Eternal. ‘But no-one else. Our troops will be here by morning. Try to remember that we will still need people to till the fields, and I would like servants to remain in the palace ready for my arrival. I do not want blind terror causing havoc here.’

The vision swirled, appearing once more before the terrified Landis Kan. ‘You once told me you would die happy if my face was the last thing you were allowed to see. Be happy, Landis Kan.’