“Leave me now,” he said.
He could not remember the young man’s departure, nor what happened to the rest of that once beautiful afternoon.
Jianna was dead. The reality was so shocking that he could find no way of dealing with it. He had not seen her in thirty years, but rarely an hour passed in his life without him thinking of her, knowing that she stood under the same sun, and breathed the same air. Only now she did not, and Skilgannon felt more alone than at any other time in his life.
The shock was too great for tears. He sat quietly, thinking back to those glorious first days when she was disguised as a common whore, her dark hair dyed yellow with red strands. Her courage in the face of peril and treachery was colossal, her spirit unconquerable. And he had loved her with such passion there had been no room for any other in his life.
What he had not realized, until the moment he heard the news of her death, was that—despite the physical distance between them—the knowledge that she was alive somewhere was sustaining him in his own life. Added to which, he realized, he had secretly believed that someday they would find a way to be together.
Sitting now in the cave, the anguish he felt then returned with renewed power. He found himself wondering if he could have lived his life differently. Had he stayed with her perhaps he might have softened her thirst for power and empire. His eyes misted, and then anger flickered. “This would be a good time for Jiamads to come upon you, you weeping fool!” he whispered.
“You say something?” asked Harad, rolling to his feet, ax in hand.
“Talking to myself.”
“You’ve been alone too long,” said Harad.
“A thousand years too long,” agreed Skilgannon. “Is there a woman in your life?”
“No.”
“What about Charis?”
“What about her?” snapped Harad, reddening.
“She told me she was a friend of yours,” said Skilgannon.
“Aye, I expect we are,” muttered the young logger, defensively. “Were you married?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“You have children?”
“Not by my wife. She died young. Plague.”
“You never married again?”
“No.”
“You must have loved her greatly then.”
“I didn’t love her enough, Harad.” Skilgannon glanced out of the cave. “Dawn is coming. Time to tackle that cliff, I think.”
S tavut stood at the far wall, clutching the spear so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. It had taken all his strength—and powerful assistance from Askari—to wrench it from the body of the Jiamad. His hands were sticky with the congealing blood that covered the long haft. In the main he kept his eyes fixed on the high opening in the cave wall, through which several beasts had already attempted to clamber through. The first he had killed with the spear, the second had been shot through the eye by Askari. A third took a shaft through its taloned hand and fell back through the opening. Stavut hoped fervently he had also fallen to a bloody death on the rocks below.
His mouth was dry. He glanced at Askari, who was resting on one knee, an arrow nocked to the composite bow. Then his gaze was drawn to the dead Jiamads. In death they looked just as terrifying. Long fangs, wicked talons, and dark fur. He shivered. There had been fourteen, Askari had said. Because she had killed one on the cliff face. Another two were dead here. Oh good, he thought. Only twelve left.
The moonlight faded. Askari put down her bow and lit an old lantern. A dim golden light filled the cave. Placing it on a rock shelf, she stretched her arms over her head and took a deep breath.
“It will be dawn soon,” she said.
“Perhaps they’ll go away.”
She turned to stare at him, then gave a wide grin. “Always jesting, Stavi. I like that about you.”
He was not jesting, but decided to accept the compliment.
Then came a scraping noise from the rear of the cave. He swung to stare at the jumbled rocks and boulders. A small pebble dislodged and tumbled to the cave floor. “What is going on?” asked Stavut.
“I’d say they have found a blocked tunnel and are trying to clear it.”
“They can’t, though, can they?”
Askari shrugged. “How would I know?” Bow in hand, she ran to the rear of the cave and pressed her ear to the rocks. Then she strolled back to Stavut. “I can hear them tearing at the rock. I don’t think they are far away.”
“Better and better,” said Stavut.
“Can you shoot a bow?” she asked.
“Why? How many bows do we have?”
She stepped in close and lowered her voice. “We have only one. Our only escape is up there, through the opening and out onto the cliff face. I need to know if there are more of them still out there. I can’t climb and hold the bow ready to shoot.”
“I always hate disappointing women,” said Stavut, “but I’d be just as likely to shoot you. Marksmanship was never my strong point.”
“What is?” she snapped, turning away from him.
“Mending kettles,” he said softly. Another small stone dislodged itself from the rocks at the rear of the cave and clattered to the floor. Stavut took a deep breath, then walked to the far wall beneath the opening some fifteen feet above him. The wall was jagged, with jutting sections that made for easy climbing. Something cold settled inside Stavut. His mind cleared. There were twelve beasts left. Most would be needed to clear the boulders from the rear of the cave. How many would be waiting at the other two exits, the narrow tunnel and this high window? Probably only one at each of them. All he needed to do was to climb out, grab the beast, and lever himself from the rock face, dragging the Jiamad to its death. That would clear the way for Askari to escape. And without the burden of protecting him she would likely survive. He began to climb. Askari ran alongside him, grabbing his arm and hauling him back.
“What are you doing?” she said, her dark eyes showing her concern. He told her his plan, and she stood looking into his eyes. Then she gave a soft smile and stroked his cheek.
“No, Stavi. We fight for life as long as we can.”
He sighed, then took a deep breath. “Very well. When I reach that narrow shelf below the opening I want you to throw the spear up to me.”
“You can’t fight with a spear up there.”
“I don’t intend to fight with it. Now do as I ask.” Returning to the wall, he picked up the spear and, using the hem of his shirt, polished the blade. He passed the weapon to the bemused Askari and climbed swiftly until he reached the shelf of rock. Cool air was blowing through the opening. Crouching down, he half turned. Askari flipped the spear up through the air. Stavut caught the haft, then levered himself higher. The opening widened toward the outside, becoming some six feet tall and five feet long. It would make no sense for a Jiamad to be above or below the opening. From above it would not be able to reach out and grab someone who was swift enough to clamber out and begin a fast descent. And from below it could be dislodged by someone appearing above it. No, the beast—or beasts—would be either left or right of the opening. Or both, he realized glumly.
Leaning into the rock face, Stavut allowed the spear haft to slide through his fingers until the curved iron head was just below his hand. As silently as he could, he eased the spear into the opening, his keen eyes fixed to the polished head, using it as a mirror. Inching the spear forward, he saw the stars reflected on the blade. Tilting the weapon slightly, he could just make out the sheer cliff wall to the left of the opening. There was no beast there. He had to withdraw the weapon in order to climb across to the right and repeat the maneuver. Slowly he slid the spear along the length of the opening.
A massive, taloned hand swept down, grabbing the spear. Stavut jerked and almost lost his hold on the rock. The Jiamad hauled itself into the opening with incredible speed. Stavut saw long yellow fangs and a gaping maw hurtling toward his face. He froze.
An arrow slammed into the beast’s open
mouth, driving through the soft palate. It reared up in shock, its head slamming into the rock above it. Another arrow punctured its throat, and it sagged down, its head mere inches from Stavut’s own. He found himself staring into golden eyes. The creature was blinking fast. Blood gushed from its mouth. Then the eyes closed. The body all but filled the opening. Reaching up, Stavut tried to pull it clear, but it was too heavy. Askari, her bow looped over her shoulder, came alongside him, and together they hauled the body out. It thumped to the floor below. At the rear of the cave a larger rock came tumbling clear.
“They are almost through,” said Askari, levering herself into the opening and pulling Stavut up beside her. “Come on!”
She moved toward the lip of the opening. Stavut followed her and gazed down. The sheer cliff wall fell away for around two hundred feet. Stavut shrank back, nausea almost overwhelming him. He pushed his back against the wall and sat, eyes closed.
“Come on, Stavi!”
“Can’t do it,” he whispered.
“We’ll die here if we don’t!”
“I’m sorry. You go. Go on.”
“You can do it!”
He opened his eyes and sighed. “No, Askari, I cannot. My legs are trembling and I can’t move them. Go! Please just go.”
“If all else fails I will do exactly that,” she said, easing back past him and into the cave once more. With easy grace she climbed across to the shelf of rock where Stavut had rested earlier. Here she removed her quiver of arrows, laying them alongside her. Then she lifted her bow clear and nocked a shaft to the string.
“You can’t take them all,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Please don’t die because of me!” he begged her.
The rear cave wall suddenly sagged and fell. Dust filled the air. Two Jiamads came running into the cave. Askari shot the first through the skull. The second staggered back, a shaft in its shoulder. Then eight more swarmed forward. Stavut, realizing that Askari would not leave if he still lived, grabbed the spear, hauled it out, then leapt down to the cave floor.
Two huge Jiamads charged him. He stabbed the spear at the first, who brushed it away. Then he was flung against the cave wall, striking his head.
Merciful darkness followed.
9
S kilgannon went first to the body of the dead Jiamad at the base of the cliff. From the angle of entry of the shafts, they had been fired from directly above. He glanced up and, in the predawn light, could just make out the narrow line of a ledge. “That is where we have to go,” he told Harad. The black-bearded logger stared up, his expression doubtful.
“Do you fear heights?” asked Skilgannon.
“Of course not,” growled Harad. “I was just wondering how I can climb that, and still carry Snaga.” The ax blades were too wide and too wickedly sharp for the logger to push the haft into his belt. The wrong move, or a slip, could see the pointed upper or lower blades pierce his flesh.
“We will pass it between us,” said Skilgannon. Stretching to the first handhold, he then placed his foot on a jut of rock and levered himself upward. “Hand me the ax,” he said. “Then you climb.”
It was painstaking and slow, but they reached the ledge safely, then followed it around until they came to a chimney of rock. This proved an easier climb, and at the top they came to a dark tunnel. Skilgannon crouched down at the entrance and peered inside. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep, slow breath through his nostrils. “The beasts passed this way,” he said, softly. Then he glanced at Harad. “Every step from here must be considered carefully,” he whispered.
“We find them and kill them,” said Harad, with the confidence of the young.
Skilgannon looked into his gray-blue eyes. This man is not Druss, he told himself. He is young and callow, and overconfident. “Listen to me, Harad! You killed a Jiamad back at the village. But it knocked you from your feet, and you lost your grip on the ax. Had there been a second close by it would have torn your throat out. We are about to face up to fourteen of these creatures. The chances of getting out alive are remote. So walk warily. Do not charge in unless there is no other way. Follow my lead, and stay behind me.” Moving stealthily, they followed the tunnel, but it soon branched off into a series of deep, impenetrable caves. Twice Harad stumbled in the darkness. Then they heard the sound of crashing rocks from some way to their left. Skilgannon drew the Swords of Night and Day and angled toward the sound. A thin shaft of light was shining through a crack in the high, domed cavern roof. Skilgannon stood for a while, scanning the area ahead. Harad moved around him. “It’s coming from ahead. Is it a landslide, do you think? I wouldn’t want to get trapped in here.”
“Don’t speak,” hissed Skilgannon. “Sound carries far in caves like this.”
Harad said nothing, but stepped past Skilgannon and moved out into a wider section of tunnel.
Something dark and huge suddenly loomed over him. Harad spun, the ax slashing out, but the Jiamad was upon him and all that struck it was Snaga’s haft. The Jiamad’s weight bore Harad back. Losing his footing the young logger fell, the beast upon him. Harad’s left hand slammed into the creature’s throat, his fingers trying to prevent the long, vicious fangs from tearing at his face. But the power in the beast was astounding. Harad twisted under it, seeking to find a way to bring Snaga to bear. It was no use. His right arm was pinned beneath the Jiamad, and the strength in his left was fading. The fangs inched nearer to his throat. Glittering silver flashed above the Jiamad, and the beast’s body spasmed. It flashed again. The head came loose in Harad’s hand, blood from the severed jugular gushing over the front of his jerkin and splashing his face. With a grunt he heaved the head aside, then kicked himself free of the decapitated corpse.
“I’ll say it again,” said Skilgannon softly. “Stay behind me. There is no room in the tunnels to swing that ax.”
Skilgannon moved forward stealthily, swords in hand. The tunnel widened, then branched off to the left. The sound of crashing rocks was louder now, and dust filled the air. Another, taller, tunnel beckoned. Skilgannon paused at the entrance and peered around the corner. Some thirty feet away he saw light appear as a huge boulder was pushed clear of a blocked opening. In that light was a group of ten Jiamads. Three of them were throwing their weight against another massive boulder. It must have weighed several tons. A screeching sound came from the stone. Then it toppled. A chorus of growls greeted the move, and the Jiamads rushed into the wide, dawn-lit cave beyond.
Skilgannon took a deep breath. A sensible man would withdraw at this point, he knew. He glanced at Harad. “What are we waiting for?” whispered the logger.
“We can’t kill them all, Harad. To go in there is to die.”
“Protect the weak against the evil strong,” quoted Harad. “It didn’t say anything about doing it only when you think you can win.”
Skilgannon gave a tight smile. “True!”
With that he swung and ran down the tunnel, Harad behind him. Just as they emerged into the cave entrance Skilgannon saw a young man, in red tunic and leggings, hurl himself down into the mass of beasts. A young woman, her features in shadow, was shooting arrows down into the surging Jiamads.
Harad gave a great shout and charged. Several of the Jiamads were swarming up the rock face trying to reach the woman. One fell, an arrow through its skull. Others roared their defiance and rushed at Harad. The great ax smashed one from its feet, its neck torn open; a second fell to a reverse cut that clove through its ribs.
Just as a third bore down on the young axman Skilgannon leapt in, sending a slashing cut into its face. The creature stumbled back, fell, and rolled to its feet.
For a few heartbeats no one moved. The Jiamads, surprised by the sudden arrival of the newcomers, pulled back to regroup. Harad was about to charge again. Skilgannon seized the moment. “Hold, Harad!” he shouted. Then he called up to the woman. “Loose no more shafts!” His voice rang with authority, but he knew the situation was fragile. Blood had been spilled, a
nd the tension in the cave was palpable. One wrong word. One wrong move and the killing would begain again. “Who commands here?” he said, stepping toward the seven remaining beasts.
“Shakul leads,” grunted a huge Jiamad, its fur darker than the rest, and its snout more rounded. More bear than wolf in this one, thought Skilgannon. The creature was tense, its taloned hands clenching and unclenching.
“What are your orders, Shakul?” The beast took a step toward him, but Skilgannon did not back away. He looked up into the creature’s enormous eyes. “Your orders?” he repeated.
Shakul hesitated. The beast was torn between his desire to rend flesh and kill, and his training to be obedient to the wishes of humans. “Take woman,” he said, at last.
“Where?”
“Corvin. Captain.”
“Corvin is dead. Both your officers are dead. Your comrades outside this cave are dead. There is no one to take the woman to. You now have a decision to make.”
Skilgannon saw the beast’s golden eyes flicker. His head tilted, and he gave a low growl. Skilgannon quelled the urge to speak again. It was best to keep matters simple and wait. The moment was pivotal. Shakul swung to look at the remaining Jiamads, who were standing now, calmly awaiting his orders. Then the great beast glanced at the bodies of the Jiamads on the cave floor. His head shook, as if insects were buzzing around his eyes. “You soldier?” he asked.
“I am Skilgannon.”
Shakul began to sway, his golden eyes on the swords in Skilgannon’s hand. His talons opened and closed. Skilgannon sensed he was about to attack.
“We could kill each other,” said Skilgannon. “Or not. You choose.” Shakul wavered. He glanced up at the woman with the deadly bow, then at the axman standing ready. Skilgannon waited. And the tension eased.
“Corvin dead?”
“Yes.”
“You kill Corvin?”
“Yes.”
“Fight no more,” said Shakul. “We go.”
“Do no harm to the villagers, Shakul,” said Skilgannon. “Either go back to your regiment or head north. No more killing here. Do I have your word?”
The Swords of Night and Day Page 17
