“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 him as Deathwalker, both feared and revered him. They had carried his corpse from the battleground and were preparing to honor him.
Skilgannon had dismounted close to the tent of Ulric, Lord of Wolves. The royal guards had 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 ax.”
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 around 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 wide, it had been the first line of defense. Harad strolled along it, ax 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 farther 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 between them.
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. 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 favorite 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 Harad wandered off into the ruins, and Skilgannon sat alone, lost in thought and ancient memory.
T he 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 he could find no reason for it.
Moving away from their 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, yet he obviously wanted to be alone. Skilgannon decided to return to his own blankets. Just then a sudden breeze whispered across him.
Where are you, laddie?
Skilgannon froze—then spun around. 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 campfire was burning brightly. Close by, Harad was swinging the ax in a series of overhand sweeps and sideways cuts. But it was not Harad. Skilgannon had watched the young logger earlier practicing with the weapon. His movements had been clumsy and untrained. This man was a master.
Skilgannon did not move. Moonlight glistened on the flashing ax 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 axman plunged Snaga into the ground and turned toward 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 around, 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. That relief had now 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.” He looked around 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 ax. That was my destiny. This is yours. Here and now.”
“More like punishment than destiny,” said Skilgannon, without rancor. “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 axman 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 that 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 axman 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 ax 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. Gray skies, demons.” Harad shuddered. “This time I had the ax. 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 ax 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 dreamed of Druss?”
“I don’t remember now,” said Harad. He glanced at the sky. “Dawn is close. We should be heading back.”
L andis Khan 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 re-create 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 Khan 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 around the arm. 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 Khan, 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. An old man arrived. Landis remembered him well. He had a crookback 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 he 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, which 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. His finds in Naashan were greeted with mild interest, 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 origin of the artifacts, 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.
&nb
sp; It had followed the archaeological research of Abbot Goralian more than fifteen centuries ago, and had led to the creation of the first Temple of the Elders on the present site in the desert. Below 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 Khan 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 mountainside. Here 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 into 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 mountaintop. 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 all of them. In the years that followed many more discoveries were made, but only one matched the opening of the golden shield. 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 races. After eighteen years of patient study Hewla finally deciphered them. It brought her to a knowledge of the use of the machines. Landis had read and studied Hewla’s writings. Her work had led to a renaming of the temple, and a new direction for the priests who labored 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.
The Swords of Night and Day Page 10
