The Swords of Night and Day

Chapter Six

Harad was unnaturally silent as they began their return journey. He strode on ahead tirelessly, despite the weight of his pack, and the double-bladed axe he carried. Skilgannon had no wish for conversation either. The brief meeting with Druss had merely reinforced his feelings of loneliness in this new world. The two men made the long climb back into the mountains. At the top Skilgannon swung to gaze down once more on the old fortress. Then he turned away and followed Harad.

More memories came to him then. He remembered his journeys across the Desert of Namib, in search of the lost temple of the Resurrectionists. Three years he had spent in that desolate land. In order to survive he had joined a band of mercenaries, and fought in several actions near the old Gothir capital of Gulgothir. Roving bands of Nadir outlaws were harassing the farmlands. Skilgannon and thirty men had been hired to find them and kill them. In the end the situation had been reversed. The captain of mercenaries — an idiot whose name Skilgannon gratefully could not recall — had led them into a trap. The battle had been furious and short. Only three mercenaries escaped into the mountains. One had died of his wounds. The other had fled south. Skilgannon circled back, entered the Nadir camp at night, killed the leader and six of his men. The following day the rest of the outlaws had pulled out.

Lean times followed, working for a pittance as a soldier in New Gulgothir, scraping together enough coin to make more journeys in Namib. The dream kept him going. His young wife, Dayan, a woman he had never truly loved, had died in his arms. He carried fragments of her bones and a lock of her hair in a locket round his neck. These bones, according to the legends, would be enough to see her live again.

And then one day he had discovered the temple. It was in an area he had travelled through many times. This time, however, he was in the company of a young priest he had rescued from bandits. How strange are the ways of fate, he thought. The priest had been chased by five Nadir riders. Skilgannon had watched from a nearby rise as they caught him. Then they had prepared a killing fire. It was a barbarous and ghastly ritual. The priest had been thrown to the ground, his full length pale blue robes torn from him.

Naked he had been staked out on the steppes, while the Nadir piled kindling and firewood between his open legs. He would have died screaming in terrible pain as his genitals roasted.

The hideous pleasures of Nadir tribesmen were of no concern to Skilgannon. He was about to ride away when he thought of Druss the Legend, and his iron code. Old Druss would not have left this stranger to his fate. Protect the weak against the evil strong. Suddenly Skilgannon chuckled. ‘Ah, Druss, I fear you have corrupted me with your simple philosophy,’ he said, as he heeled his horse down the slope.

The Nadir, seeing him coming, rose from the bound prisoner and waited. Skilgannon rode up, lifted his leg over the saddle pommel and jumped lightly to the ground. The warriors looked at him. ‘What do you want?’ asked one, in the western tongue. Then he turned to the others and said in Nadir: ‘The horse will bring much silver.’

‘The horse will bring you nothing,’ he told the surprised man. ‘All that awaits you here is death. There are two outcomes, Nadir. You will ride from here and sire more goat-faced children, or you will die here and the crows will eat your eyes.’ They had spread out in a semicircle. The warrior on the far left suddenly drew a knife and rushed in. The Sword of Day flashed in the sunshine and the man fell, blood gushing from a terrible wound in his neck.

Instantly the other Nadir charged. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Three died within moments, and the leader fell back, his right arm severed just below the elbow. Blood was gouting from the open arteries.

His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, staring stupidly at the bleeding limb. Desperately he grabbed the stump with his left hand, seeking to stem the flow. Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the young priest and cut him free. Hauling him to his feet he said: ‘Are you hurt?’ The man shook his head and moved to the fallen Nadir.

‘Let me bind that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can save your life.’

The Nadir struck at him weakly. ‘Leave me be, gajin. May your soul rot in the seven hells.’

‘I just want to help you,’ said the priest. ‘Why do you curse me?’

The Nadir stared malevolently up at Skilgannon. ‘For this worm you have destroyed me? There is no sense to it. Kill me now. Set my spirit free.’

Ignoring the dying man Skilgannon handed the priest his tattered robe and took him by the arm, leading him to his horse. Mounting, he drew the priest up behind him and rode away.

They had camped that night out in the open. Skilgannon lit no fire. The priest, dressed in his torn blue robe, sat shivering and staring up at the stars. ‘I do not want those men on my conscience,’ he said, at last.

‘Why would they be on your conscience, boy?’

‘They died because of me. Had you not come they would be alive still.’

Skilgannon had laughed. ‘You are an irrelevance in this. All over this land people are dying, some because they are old and worn out, some because they are diseased, and some merely because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are not your concern. No more were those torturers. You are a Source priest, yes?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then you must ask yourself why I was here at this time. It might be that the Source sent me, because He wanted you alive. It might be mere happenstance. But you are alive, priest, and the evil men are dead.

Where were you heading?’

The young man looked away. ‘I cannot tell you. It is forbidden.’

‘As you wish.’

‘What are you doing here, in this awful desert?’ the priest asked.

‘Trying to keep a promise.’

‘That is a good thing to do. Promises are sacred.’

‘I like to think so.’ Skilgannon unrolled his blankets and threw one to the young man. The priest gratefully wrapped it round his thin shoulders.

‘What is the promise?’

Skilgannon had considered telling the young man that it was none of his business. Instead he found himself talking of his time in Naashan, and the death of Dayan. Lastly he tapped the locket and said: ‘So, I search. It is all that is left to me.’

The young man had said nothing then, and had stretched himself out on the ground and gone to sleep.

But soon after dawn, as Skilgannon was saddling the gelding, the priest approached him.

‘I have given much thought to your words about the Source,’ he said. ‘And I think it is true that He sent you to me. Not just for my own safety. I am apprenticed to the Temple of the Resurrection. I am journeying there now. I will take you with me.’

Fate was a mysterious creature. It almost made one believe in the Source.

Almost.

The temple had been shielded by a powerful ward spell, and only when the young priest took Skilgannon to the hidden gateway did it fade. He looked up at what had been the blank rock of a massive mountain, and now saw the many windows carved into the stone. More than that he saw a great shield of gold, gleaming on the high peak.

His heart had soared. Finally his dream would be realized, and Dayan would live again, to enjoy the life she should have known.

Thinking on it now Skilgannon smiled ruefully.

The priests of the Resurrection had made him welcome. Yet he had languished inside the temple for almost a month before the Chief Abbot had summoned him. The man’s name was Vestava.

Round-shouldered and slender, he had kindly eyes.

‘We cannot do what you wish,’ he said. ‘We can take the bones you carry, and we can resurrect, if you will, a girl child, who, in time, will look exactly like your wife. Indeed she will be, in almost every way, identical to the woman you knew. But she will not be Dayan, Skilgannon. She cannot be.’

The shock had been great, the disappointment intense. ‘I will find another temple,’ he said. ‘There will be someone who can do this.’

‘There will not,’ said Vestava. ‘We have searched the Void and her spirit has passed through to the Golden Valley. She will be at peace there, having found joy. Believe me on this.’

‘I will not accept it,’ he said, anger flaring.

‘You need to question your motives here, my boy,’ said the older man.

‘What does that mean?’

‘You are an intelligent man. You also have great courage. However, this quest was not to resurrect Dayan, but to salve your own conscience. In short, it was not for her. It was for you. I know you, Skilgannon, and I know your deeds. You carry a terrible weight upon your soul. I cannot ease that. Let me ask you this: did you love Dayan with all your heart?’

‘This is none of your business, priest.’

‘You did not love her. So what would you do if I brought her back? Chain yourself to her out of duty?

You think a woman would not realize that your heart was not hers? You would have me draw her back from a place of perfection so that she could spend unhappy years with an unhappy man in an unhappy world?’

Skilgannon quelled his anger and sighed. ‘What do I do now?’

‘You have helped one of our brothers, and for this we are grateful. We will, if you wish it, give life to the bones you carry. In this way Dayan’s flesh will once more walk the earth. She may grow to find love, and have children of her own. For most people this is the kind of immortality they understand. It is their gift to the future. They live on through their children.’

Skilgannon rose from his seat and wandered to a window, staring out over the bleak desert landscape.

‘I need time to think on this,’ he said. ‘May I stay here for a while?’

‘Of course, my son.’

For several days Skilgannon had dwelt in the temple, observing the priests, wandering the halls and passageways. It was a place of great serenity. There were beautiful halls, and libraries, where men studied without urgency. Every piece of furniture, every painting had been chosen to enhance the harmonious atmosphere. All the harshness and violence of the world outside seemed far away. Men from all nations studied here, without rancour. The tranquillity of the temple allowed Skilgannon to open his mind to truths he had hidden deep.

Vestava’s words haunted him. He could no longer deny the truth of them. Finally he returned to Vestava. ‘I have given over my life to this quest,’ he said. ‘I told myself it was for Dayan. But you are right, priest. It was for me. A poultice for the wound on my soul.’

‘What do you wish us to do?’

‘Give life to the bones. She was pregnant when she died. At least this way a part of her will feel the sun once more upon her face.’

‘A wise decision, my son. You are disappointed. I understand that. It will be as you wish. I will watch over the child, and see her grow strong, if that is the will of the Source. She will be like any other child, and subject to the whims of fate, disease, or war. I will, however, do my best to see her happy. Come back to us in a few years and watch her grow for a while. It will ease your heart.’

‘I may do that,’ he had said. That afternoon he had ridden from the temple, and had not looked back.

Up ahead Harad took off his pack and dropped it to the ground. Then he wandered down to a rippling stream and drank deeply. Skilgannon joined him. They sat in silence for a while. Harad looked intently at Skilgannon, then shivered.

‘What is wrong, Harad?’

‘I can’t get the dream from my mind,’ said the young logger. ‘Grey skies, dead trees, no water and no life. Demons everywhere. It was so real. I have never dreamt anything like it before.’

‘You were in the Void,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It is a dark and dangerous place.’

‘How do you know of this?’

‘I know many things, Harad. I know that you are a good, strong man, and that you will carry Druss’s axe with pride and do his memory honour. I know that you are short-tempered, but that you have a fine heart and an honest soul. I know that you have courage beyond reason, and would be a true friend and a terrible enemy. Ah yes,’ he said, with a smile, ‘I also know you prefer red wine to ale.’

‘Aye, that is true. So, I ask again, how do you know all this? Speak truly.’

‘You are a Reborn, Harad.’

‘I have heard the word. But what does it mean?’

‘A good question. I do not have the best of answers. The priests of the Resurrection have great magic.

They can take the bones of dead heroes and somehow cause them to be born again. Don’t ask me how.

I have no understanding of magic, nor do I wish to acquire any. What I do know is that you were created from a shard of bone.’

‘Pah!’ said Harad. ‘I was born to my mother. I know this.’

‘A long time ago. .’ Skilgannon sighed, ‘a very long time ago, my wife died of the plague. For years I sought the Temple of the Resurrection, hoping that by some miracle they could restore her to life through a piece of her bone and a lock of her hair. When at last I found it I was told by the abbot there that my quest was impossible. What they could do was to allow her to be reborn. By some magical process they could take the bones and a willing woman, and the result would be a birth — a rebirth, I suppose. But they said that my Dayan would not return as I knew her. Her soul had already passed beyond the Void. What there would be was a child in every way identical to the wife I had lost.’

‘And she would be without a soul?’ asked Harad.

‘I understand souls less than I understand magic, Harad. All I know is that I agreed to let them use Dayan’s bones in this way. Some years later I returned, and saw a little girl with golden hair. She was a happy child, full of laughter. When I saw her the last time she was sixteen, and had fallen in love.’

Harad looked at him closely. ‘You are no older than me. Sixteen years? It is nonsense.’

‘I am infinitely older than you, my friend. I died a thousand years ago. I too am a Reborn. Only with me they did find my soul. I had not passed the Void. I could not pass it. The evil of my life prevented me from finding paradise. What I am telling you is the truth. Do you not yet understand why Landis Kan gave you that axe?’

Harad’s face paled. ‘Are you telling me that I am Druss the Legend? I do not believe it.’

‘No, you are your own man, Harad. Every inch your own man. The reason you were in the Void last night was because Druss’s spirit returned to speak to me. We were friends back then. Good friends. I loved the old man like a father.’

‘And now he wants his body back,’ said Harad, a hard edge in his voice.

‘No, he does not. It is not his body. It is yours. He wants you to have a full life. Druss never had sons, Harad. You are like the son he never had. I think he might be watching over you with pride.’

Harad sighed. ‘Why did Landis bring us back?’ he asked. ‘What was his purpose?’

‘Ask him when next you see him. My name, by the way, is Skilgannon. You may call me Olek, if you wish.’

‘Is that what Druss called you?’

Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. ‘No. He called me laddie. But then he called every man laddie. In truth I think he had trouble remembering names.’ Moving to his pack Skilgannon untied the cloth binding around the Swords of Night and Day and lifted them clear. His mood darkened as his hands touched the black scabbard. Pressing the precious stones on the ivory hilts he drew the weapons clear, two curved blades, one bright and gold, the other silver grey as a winter moon.

‘They are beautiful,’ said Harad. ‘Did Landis Kan give them to you?’

‘Yes. But they were always mine.’

‘You sound regretful.’

‘Oh, regret does not begin to describe it. But Druss said I would need them, and I trust him.’

Stavut the Merchant topped the last rise before the settlement and halted his wagon, allowing his exhausted horses to rest. The climb had been long and hard. Applying the brake, and locking it into place with a leather strap, he stepped down to the road and walked alongside the lead animal, stroking its gleaming chestnut neck. The trace leathers were covered in white lather, the horses themselves breathing heavily.

‘Almost time to replace you, Longshanks,’ said the young merchant. ‘I think you are getting a little too long in the tooth for this.’ As if it had understood him the chestnut shook its head and whinnied. Stavut laughed and moved to the grey gelding on the other side. ‘As for you, Brightstar, you have no excuse.

You’re five years younger and grain fed. A little climb like that should be nothing to you.’ The grey stared at him balefully. Stavut patted its neck, then walked closer — though not too close — to the cliff edge and stood staring down at the valley below. From here the settlement looked tiny, and the river running alongside it seemed no more than a shimmering thread of silk. Stavut sighed. He loved coming to this place, even though the profits were meagre. There was something about these mountains that lifted the soul. They made thoughts of war drift away like woodsmoke on the breeze. His eyes drank in the scene, from the majesty of the snow-capped peaks through the mysterious deep green forests, and over the apparently tranquil fields, dotted with cattle, sheep and goats. Stavut felt himself relax, all tension easing from his tired frame.

The last week had been particularly stressful. He had been warned about deserters from the rebel army. Some Jiamads had attacked outlying farms. There was talk of mutilations and murder, and the devouring of human flesh. These were not subjects Stavut liked to dwell upon. The journey south with his laden wagon had been long, but had seemed longer because all the time the merchant had scanned the land, expecting at any moment to see ferocious Jiamads moving towards him. His nerves were in tatters by the time he finally saw them.

The wagon had been rounding a bend between high cliffs when several beasts emerged from behind the rocks. Stavut found it curious to recall that all his fears had suddenly vanished. The terrors he had felt had all come in the anticipation of danger. With the danger now real he drew rein, took a deep breath, and waited. He carried no sword, but at his side was a curved dagger, so sharp lie could shave with it.

He did not know whether he would have — the strength, or the speed, to drive that blade through the fur-covered flesh of a Jiamad.

There were four of them, still sporting the baldrics and leather kilts of an infantry section. Only three of them still carried swords; the fourth was holding a roughly made club.

The scent of them caused the horses to rear. Stavut applied the brake and spoke soothingly to them.

‘Steady now, Longshanks! Stay calm, Brightstar. All is well.’ Transferring his gaze to the Jiamads he forced a cheerful tone and said: ‘You are a long way from camp.’

They did not reply, but moved past him, lifting the cover from the back of his wagon, and peering at the contents.

‘I am carrying no food,’ he said.

The closest Jiamad suddenly lunged at Stavut, grabbing his crimson jerkin and hauling him from the wagon. He landed heavily. ‘Oh, but you are, Skin,’ said the Jiamad. ‘You are scrawny and small, but your blood is still sweet. And your flesh will be tender.’

Stavut rolled to his feet and drew his dagger.

‘Look!’ snorted the Jiamad. ‘It wants to fight for its life.’

‘Rip its arm off,’ said another.

A great calm had settled on Stavut then. He found he had only one regret. He would not see Askari again. He had promised her a new bow, and had searched long to find the perfect weapon, a beautiful recurve model; a composite of horn and yew, the grip covered in the finest leather. He wished he had it in his hands now.

And then the miracle happened. With death only heartbeats away there had come the sound of galloping hooves. The Jiamads had turned and run towards the hills. Cavalrymen came hurtling past Stavut.

‘I think you can sheathe your dagger now,’ said a familiar voice. Stavut looked up to see the young mercenary captain, Alahir. The man was grinning at him. ‘I did warn you about the Jiamads, tinker,’ he said, removing his bronze helm and pushing a hand through his long blond hair.

‘I am a merchant, as well you know,’ said Stavut.

‘Nonsense! You mend kettles. That makes you a tinker.’

‘One kettle does not make me a tinker.’

Alahir laughed. Replacing his helm he heeled his horse forward. ‘We will talk again when I have finished my task.’

With that he rode away. Stavut started to walk towards his wagon, but his legs began to tremble, and he had to reach out to grab the backboard to steady himself. He tried to sheathe the dagger, but the trembling had reached his hands and he could not insert the blade into the scabbard. Laying it on the wagon cover he took several deep breaths. He felt suddenly nauseous and slumped down with his back to a wheel. ‘No more trips north,’ he promised himself. ‘When I leave the settlement I shall go down and winter with Landis Kan, and then head south to Diranan.’

He sat there quietly, waiting for the nausea to pass. Eventually the riders came back. Alahir dismounted. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No,’ answered Stavut. ‘Just enjoying the afternoon sunshine.’ Pushing himself to his feet he was relieved to find the trembling had passed. ‘Did you catch them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me they are all dead.’

‘They are all dead.’

Stavut looked up at Alahir. There was blood on his arm. Glancing round at the cavalrymen he saw three riderless horses. ‘You lost men,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It is what we are paid for. You don’t fight Jiamads without losses.’

‘Are there more of them in the mountains?’

Alahir shrugged. ‘I do not know everything, Stavut, my friend. We were told there were four in this area. Will you be coming back in the spring?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Bring a cask of southern red. The wine in this land tastes like vinegar.’ Alahir swung his mount and raised his hand: ‘Hala!’ he shouted. And the troop rode off.

Standing now close to the cliff edge Stavut felt a great warmth towards the young cavalryman. If he did ever journey north again he would make sure he had a cask of Lentrian red for him and his men.

Stavut sighed. Edging forward to the lip of the cliff he stared down at the awesome drop. Immediately he felt the familiar sense of giddiness, and a growing desire to jump. It was so beguiling. Then fear struck him and he staggered back from the cliff edge. ‘You are an idiot!’ he told himself. ‘Why do you always do that?’

He saw Longshanks staring at him. Stavut patted the chestnut. ‘I wasn’t going to jump,’ he said. The horse snorted. Stavut imagined the sound to be derisory. ‘You’re not as clever as you think you are,’ he told Longshanks. ‘And I won’t be criticized by a horse.’

Climbing back to the driving seat he settled himself down and took up the reins. Releasing the brake, he flipped the reins and began the long descent towards the valley.

Stavut always enjoyed his visits to the small settlement — and not just for the opportunity to seek out Askari’s company. Though the dark-haired huntress was dazzlingly attractive, and fired his blood as no woman ever had, there was a spirit of calm and joy that radiated throughout this mountain village. The people were friendly, the hospitality warm, and the food from Kinyon’s kitchen extraordinary. Kinyon was a stout and powerful man, whose house also doubled as the village inn. The first time Stavut had visited the settlement — two years ago now — he had found the arrangement faintly comical. Looking for somewhere to dine he had received directions from a woman outside the bakery, and had drawn up his wagon outside Kinyon’s small house. It was an old building, with tiny windows and a thatched roof.

Stavut had wondered if he had misunderstood the directions, though that was unlikely in a village as small as this one. Climbing down from his wagon he had approached the open front door. It was coming towards dusk, and he could see a man within, lighting lanterns and hanging them from the walls.

‘Good day,’ called Stavut.

‘And to you, stranger. Are you hungry? Come in. Set yourself down.’

Stavut had walked into the room, which was no more than twenty feet long and about fifteen wide. A fire was burning in a stone hearth and there were only two armchairs, set to the left and right of the blaze.

It was an ordinary living room, excepting that it contained three rough-hewn tables, with bench seats. ‘I have a venison pie, with fresh onions, and a raisin cake, if you have a taste for sweet delicacies,’ said the tall, sandy-haired man.

Stavut looked around. He could not understand how any profit could be made from a dining hall in a village as small as this. ‘Sounds fine,’ he said. ‘Where shall I sit?’

‘Anywhere you please. My name is Kinyon,’ said the man, thrusting out his hand. Stavut shook it, then walked to the furthest table, set alongside a narrow window overlooking a vegetable garden.

‘I also have some ale. Dark ale, but tasty if you have the stomach for it.’

The ale had been extraordinary, almost black, but with a head that was white as lamb’s fleece, and the food was the best Stavut had enjoyed for a long time. Later that evening other villagers had turned up, and had sat in Kinyon’s house, chatting, laughing and drinking.

Askari had entered the small room late in the evening, resting her longbow against the wall by the door, and laying her quiver of arrows alongside it. Stavut had been transfixed. She was tall and slim, and wearing a sleeveless buckskin jerkin, leather leggings and calf-length moccasins. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a black leather headband. Stavut had sat very still. He had seen some beautiful women in his twenty-six years — had even had the extreme joy of sharing their beds — but never had he seen anyone as beautiful as this girl. She laughed and joked with Kinyon, and then sat down at a table close by. He waited until she looked at him, then gave his best smile. All the women he had known always complimented his smile. He had come to think of it as his strongest weapon of seduction. The girl had nodded to him, then looked away, apparently unimpressed.

Undeterred, he leaned forward. ‘I am Stavut,’ he said.

‘Of course you are,’ she responded. Then she ignored him. She had eaten a meal, and then left.

Later that evening, after the villagers had gone, Stavut paid Kinyon for his meal and made to leave.

‘Are you intending to sleep by your wagon?’ Kinyon asked him.

‘That was my plan.’

‘I have another bed. Use that. I think it will rain tonight.’

Stavut had accepted gratefully, and after seeing to his horses he had sat with Kinyon by the fire, chatting about life and his travels, and entertaining the tanner with amusing stories from Outside. ‘Who was the girl who came in with the bow?’ he asked at last.

Kinyon laughed. ‘I saw you looking at her. I think your tongue almost flopped to the table top.’

‘That obvious?’

Kinyon nodded. ‘She is Askari. Extraordinary girl. You should see her shoot. She can bring down a running quail with a headshot. Can you believe that? I’ve seen her do it. More like magic than skill. And that bow has a sixty-pound pull. You’d think a slim young child like that would never be able to draw it.’

‘Is she a relative of yours?’ asked Stavut, anxious not to say anything which might offend the man.

‘No. She was brought here as a child with her mother. Nice woman. Looked nothing like Askari.

Sweet and diffident. Weak lungs, though. Always coughing. Died when Askari was around ten. After that she lived with Shan and his wife. . the baker who was here earlier.’ Stavut recalled the man, small and round-shouldered, but with powerful forearms and large hands. When the girl had left she had walked to him and kissed his brow.

‘Is she betrothed?’

‘No,’ said Kinyon. ‘And unlikely to be to anyone here.’

‘Why is that?’

Kinyon suddenly looked wary. ‘The lord Landis sometimes visits, and often rides out to speak with Askari. I think he entertains a certain fondness for her. Still, best we don’t speak about the ways of the mighty, eh? I’ll show you your room.’

It had taken Stavut three visits to the settlement before he managed to engage Askari’s interest. The merchant had given the matter a great deal of thought on his travels. She was obviously not interested in his smile, and therefore he would need to plan his campaign with care. There would be no point in bringing her jewellery. People in Landis Kan’s realm wore none. Perfume would be equally useless. No, the girl was an archer. So Stavut sought out bowmen in other towns, and asked about the craft. He learned there were many different arrowheads, some heavily barbed, some smooth, some were cast in iron, some in bronze. He knew from Kinyon that Askari fashioned her own from flint. He had purchased twenty arrowheads, said to be perfect for the hunting of deer. Askari had looked at them with interest, but with no enthusiasm. Stavut had finally taken the problem to the Legend Rider, Alahir. His warriors all carried bows, and were highly skilled with them.

‘Her biggest problem is probably with the fletching of the arrows,’ said Alahir. ‘The thread which binds the feathers also separates them. This affects the accuracy. The thread needs to be strong, but very thin. Were I you I would take some high-quality fletching thread.’

‘I’ll try that,’ Stavut told him.

Alahir grinned. ‘You want a little more advice?’

‘As long as it’s free.’

‘Don’t give her the thread.’

‘What then would be the point of taking it?’

‘Sell her the thread. A gift will make her nervous, and she is likely to refuse it. If you sell her the thread you’ll have opportunities to talk to her about how effective it is.’

‘And then I can use my charm to win her over.’

‘You have charm? You have kept it well hidden.’

‘Ha! This from a man who has to pay for female company?’

Alahir laughed. ‘I choose to pay. I am cursed with a staff a stallion would be proud of. It takes an experienced woman to accept it. There are even some whores who hide when they see me coming.’

‘Yes, you keep telling yourself that’s why they hide,’ said Stavut. ‘Why am I taking seduction advice from a man whose idea of foreplay is to slam coins on a table and shout: “Who wants to ride the big horse?” ’

Alahir leaned in and chuckled. ‘Because he knows best, tinker.’

Annoyingly enough he had known best. When Stavut took the fletching thread to Askari she had looked at it, then at him, and said: ‘All right, I will accept your gift.’

‘Gift? You misunderstand, huntress. I am a merchant. I am offering this for sale.’

It was the first and only time he had seen her discomfited. She had reddened. ‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘How much?’

‘A hundred gold raq,’ he said, with a smile, ‘or one kiss to my cheek.’

She had laughed then. ‘I have no kisses to spare at present.’

‘Then I will give you credit. I will claim the kiss on my next visit.’

Askari had relaxed, and he had walked with her to the high hills. Here she had a camp and a roughly built lean-to, covered with branches. Stretched deerskins had been tied to poles for cleaning and drying, and there was a bag of food hanging from a high branch.

‘How did you learn to use a bow?’ he asked her, as they sat in the sunshine, eating raisin bread.

‘How does anyone learn to use a bow?’ she countered.

‘No, I meant you were raised by the baker. Is he an archer?’

‘No. There used to be an old hunter who travelled these mountains. He taught me. He made me my first bow. I liked him greatly.’

‘I take it he died.’

‘No, he married a nomad woman and now lives out on the steppes. Are you really letting me have the thread for one kiss?’

‘Yes.’

‘No wonder you are not a rich merchant.’

‘A kiss from you and I would be richer than the Eternal.’

She looked at him closely. ‘Kinyon says you would make me happy in bed and unhappy in life.’

Stavut sighed. ‘Kinyon is a very wise man. My friend, who gave me the fletching thread, said that the longbow is not as accurate as the recurve bows he and his men carry. He claims that though the recurve is shorter it has greater power.’

‘I have heard that. Is your friend with the Legend Riders?’

Stavut smiled. ‘Yes. Strange folk — but noble in their way. They call themselves the Last of the Drenai.

No magic in their lands, no Jiamads. They hold to the old ways — or they did. Now they have to give tribute to Agrias, and fight alongside his forces. It is the price they pay to keep the Jiamads from their lands.’

‘Who is your friend?’

‘His name is Alahir. He is a fine man, and ridiculously brave.’

‘I would like to meet him.’

‘. . and very ugly,’ added Stavut. ‘No manners at all. And he hears voices in his head. Did I mention that?’

‘Voices?’

‘He told me once — when drunk — that he hears voices whispering in his mind.’

‘Ghosts, you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Stavut told her. ‘Can we stop talking about Alahir? He really is very boring, you know.’

‘But he knows archery,’ she said.

‘I may have overstated his skills.’

‘You are a funny man, Stavut. I like you.’

And so had begun the friendship. Stavut had never claimed his kiss. Kinyon was right. Askari deserved a better man than he, though it would break his heart when she found him.

The huntress, Askari, had never felt comfortable for long around people. She preferred the solitude of the high country and the lonely mountains. It was not that she wished to avoid any single individual in the settlement, nor indeed that she did not enjoy the occasional evening in Kinyon’s kitchen, talking to villagers about the events of the day, or the vagaries of the seasons. Sometimes, after several weeks in the wilderness, she found herself longing for the laughter and camaraderie of the little town. But these needs were short-lived. Mostly she found peace and harmony in her own company, walking the forest paths, or climbing to a high vantage point and sitting staring out towards the northern steppes, under a magnificent sky.

Sometimes she would run over the hills, not for any purpose other than to feel the cool mountain air filling her lungs, and joy in the strength and stamina of her youth. Even in childhood she had been solitary

— she had awaited eagerly the visits of the lord Landis Kan. He would bring her small gifts, and sit and talk with her. He was like a favourite uncle, whose arrival made the child clap her hands with glee. But since she had become a young woman the tone of the conversations with Landis had changed. She had seen him looking at her with an interest which disquieted her. One day recently he had reached out and stroked her long dark hair. Askari did not like to be touched and had drawn back.

‘I meant no offence,’ said Landis softly, a look of hurt on his face. He had run his hands over his close-cropped, iron grey hair. ‘Once my own hair was the colour of yours,’ he said, seeking to lighten the mood. Askari had forced a smile, and tried to relax. ‘Are you content here?’ he asked her.

‘Yes.’

‘But would you not like to travel? To see a little more of the world? I am thinking of journeying across the ocean. There are beautiful places there.’

‘It is beautiful here,’ she told him.

‘Yet dangerous. The war will come here one day. It would please me greatly if you were to accompany me.’

And there was that look again, his gaze straying to her slim body. Askari suppressed a shudder. Even if he were young and handsome she would not want this man too close to her. It was not that she disliked him. He had, after all, always been kind to her, and she felt great affection for him. But the thought of him lying beside her naked was repulsive. Askari was young and inexperienced, yet she knew instinctively that he desired her.

He had come once more only ten days ago, but Askari had seen him from a distance, and melted back into the forest, travelling up to one of her high camps.

Thoughts of Landis faded from her mind when she saw Stavut’s wagon on the ridge road. She smiled, and stood quietly, her longbow in her hand. Stavut had got down from the wagon and was inching towards the edge of the drop, then peering over. He always did that. She wondered what he was looking at. Thoughts of the red-garbed merchant lifted her spirits. He was a good companion, witty and sharp, and she loved his gift for storytelling. When he regaled her with tales of his travels, he would act out conversations, his voice mimicking the people he spoke about. His friend Alahir’s voice was deep, with a slow drawl. Of course he spoke about Alahir less often now. Askari smiled. ‘He sounds wonderful,’ she had said once. She had watched Stavut’s expression darken as jealousy flared. Askari knew he desired her. Unlike Landis’s that desire was open and honest. There was nothing sly about Stavut. And he had a beautiful smile, which was impish and infectious.

He had promised her a new bow, though she did not desire one. Her own longbow was powerful and accurate and had served her well. She was, however, anxious to see the recurve weapon he had spoken of. Koras the Hunter had told her of such weapons, maintaining they were perfect for mounted warfare.

The Legend people could notch an arrow at full gallop and send it unerringly into any target.

For a while longer she watched Stavut negotiating his wagon down the steep slope, then returned to her main camp, just inside the tree line. Stavut would stop first at Kinyon’s house and eat. Then he would tend to his horses. It would be late afternoon before he strolled up to her camp. She thought of going down to the settlement to greet him, but decided against. She did not want to seem anxious to see him.

Stavut was a man used to having women fawn over him, and Askari had no desire to boost his ego. Even so it was an effort to merely sit and wait.

The long afternoon wore on. Askari bathed in the stream, ate a meal of hard bread and broth, then gathered wood for the evening’s fire. She kept glancing back down the slope to the settlement. It was an hour before dusk before she saw him walking up the hill. He was carrying a canvas rucksack, and she could see a bow hanging from it. But by now she was irritated. He had tarried in the settlement for too long, making her wait. Before he could see her she moved back into the trees and squatted down behind a screen of bushes.

He strode up to the campsite, looked around, then called out her name. She ignored him. Stavut doffed his pack and sat down on a log. From her hiding place she watched him. She saw a swelling on his right cheekbone, and a touch of blood upon his brow. Had he been in a fight? Askari sat quietly.

Stavut began to whistle a cheerful tune, but as the darkness gathered she could sense his nervousness.

Not a man who enjoyed wilderness nights. Askari hunkered down further, then, cupping her hands over her mouth, let out a low wolf howl. Stavut leapt to his feet, eyes fearfully scanning the trees. She watched him grab the bow from the pack, then scout around for arrows. There were none. Dropping the bow he pulled out a small knife, looked at it, swore, and sheathed it. Then he ran to the pile of wood Askari had gathered for the night’s fire and hefted a large chunk, holding it two-handed like a club. Holding back laughter she crept through the undergrowth then let out another fearsome howl — this time closer.

Stavut backed away from the trees and then stood very still, awaiting an attack.

Askari rose from her hiding place and strolled out into the camp. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

she asked.

‘Wolves,’ he said. ‘You must have heard them.’

‘They do not attack people unless there is no other source of food. You should know that.’

‘I know that,’ he said, coming back to the camp and dropping the club. ‘But do the wolves know that?’

‘What happened to your face?’

Stavut sighed. ‘I was attacked by Jiamads on the northern road.’

‘And all they did was bruise your face?’

‘No,’ he said, an edge of irritation in his voice, ‘they were going to kill me. Happily for me a group of warriors were hunting them. They arrived before I could be eaten.’

‘Legend Riders?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your friend Alahir?’

‘Er. . No, just some other riders. Anyway. . as you can see I have your bow.’

‘Did you try it out on the Jiamads?’

‘No. It was in the wagon, under the cover.’

She laughed then. ‘You will never be a warrior, Stavut. You are always so ill prepared. Let me see it.’

Strolling over to him she took the weapon and hefted it, tracing her fingers along its graceful lines, all the way to the recurved tip. ‘It feels good,’ she said. Extending her arm she smoothly drew back the string until it nestled against her lips. ‘Let’s see what it can do,’ she suggested, drawing an arrow from her quiver. ‘Pick up your club again and walk out onto the slope. I will tell you where to stop.’

Stavut took the club and walked away. After thirty paces she called out for him to halt.

‘Where do you want me to put it?’ he shouted.

‘Hold it up in the air.’

‘Then what?’

‘I shall shoot it.’

‘I think not!’ he said, dropping the club as if it were on fire. He strode back to where she waited.

‘You think my mother raised stupid children?’

‘You don’t trust my skill?’ she asked sweetly, her eyes narrowing.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I know this scene. A man thinks he is on solid ground, and suddenly he is tiptoeing through quicksand.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Of course I trust your skill. It is your arrows I don’t trust. You could hit the club, and the arrow could glance off and kill me.’

‘I would wager that Alahir would not be afraid to hold the club.’

He wagged his finger at her. ‘True, but Alahir, wonderful friend that he is, is still an idiot. And you can’t goad me into a display of stupidity by mentioning Alahir.’

‘I always thought you to be a brave man,’ she said, shaking her head, as if in disappointment.

‘No, that won’t work either,’ he said brightly. ‘Now, would you like me to plunge that wood into the ground, so that you can shoot at something?’

‘You do that,’ she said, notching the arrow.

Stavut walked back to the club and lifted it. Just as he turned it to push it into the earth an arrow slammed into the wood. Stavut leapt back, tripping over and hitting the ground hard. ‘It is a good bow,’

she called out. He pushed himself to his feet and marched towards her, his expression furious. Askari knew just how to deal with this. ‘And you lied to me,’ she said. ‘Friends do not lie to one another.’

‘What?’ he asked her, confused now. Askari laughed inwardly. It was so easy. Like shooting a tethered goat. On the surface, however, she kept her face stern.

‘You said Alahir did not rescue you. I could tell you were lying.’ Walking past him she recovered her shaft, replaced it in her quiver and returned to the camp. ‘So tell me about your travels,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure I want to talk to you,’ he said. She smiled at him, and he burst out laughing. ‘Yes, Alahir rescued me. It is what he’s good at. Killing things.’

‘Is he married?’

‘No. He doesn’t like women.’

‘Another lie!’

‘They teach you witchcraft in the mountains?’

‘I know you, Stavut. You think you are a good liar, but you are really not. You give it away with your expression.’

‘There was no expression.’

‘That’s what I mean. When you lie your face goes blank.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘And a little crease appears above the brow of your nose. Shall I prove it to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many women have you slept with since last you visited?’

‘None.’

‘Liar.’

He laughed nervously. ‘Very well. Three.’

‘Liar!’

‘Seven.’

Askari’s good humour faded. ‘You’ve only been gone two months! Kinyon was right about you.’

‘Can we start again?’ he said. ‘Let’s go for None!’

‘I don’t want to talk to you any more. Go back down to the settlement. Leave me in peace.’

Stavut sighed then rose to his feet. ‘You are in a strange mood today. You are right, though. I think I’ll go back.’ Moving towards his pack he stopped.

A dark plume of smoke was rising into the air. ‘There’s a fire in the settlement,’ he said.