A movement came from the right. Skilgannon turned toward it. A massive creature lunged from the shadows, jaws open. Skilgannon leapt aside, the golden Sword of Day slashing in a wide, glittering arc. The blade sliced into the creature’s shoulder, and down through the powerful collarbone, exiting at the chest. It did not halt its charge, and its powerful body cannoned into Skilgannon, hurling him from his feet. Snaga swept up and down, cleaving through the Joining’s skull. It slumped to the cavern floor. Skilgannon rolled to his feet, drawing the Sword of Night as he did so. The dead beast was covered in thick, black fur. Skilgannon did not know whether to be relieved that it wasn’t Orastes, or disappointed. Had it been Orastes they could have left this grisly tomb.
“Orastes!” called out Druss. “Come forth. It is I, Druss.”
Another shadow moved. Skilgannon readied himself for an attack. Moonlight fell on a great gray beast, with huge hunched shoulders. It was standing beside a stalactite, and staring at the two men, its golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
“We have come to help you, Orastes,” said Druss, laying down his ax and stepping forward. The creature gave out a low growl, and Skilgannon saw it tense for the charge.
“Druss, be careful,” warned Skilgannon.
“We know you are looking for Elanin,” said Druss. At the sound of the girl’s name the beast seemed to shudder. Its massive head twisted, and it gave out an ear-splitting howl. “She is close by,” said Druss. “She has been taken to a citadel.” Now the creature backed away a few paces. Its eyes narrowed. It was preparing to attack.
“Say the girl’s name again, Druss,” advised Skilgannon.
“Elanin. Your daughter Elanin. Listen to me Orastes. We need to rescue Elanin.” The beast roared again, and Skilgannon almost believed he could hear anguish in the sound. Then it smashed its fist against a stalactite, shattering it. The beast backed away into the shadows.
Druss took another step away from his ax. “Trust me, Orastes. We know of a temple where they may be able to bring you back. Then you could come with us when we rescue Elanin.”
The gray beast roared and charged. Its shoulder struck Druss, sending him hurtling from his feet. Then it bore down on Skilgannon, who hurled himself to his right, landing on his shoulder and rolling to his feet. The swords came up. Orastes or no he would kill it if it came for him. But it did not. The Joining ran off into the darkness. Druss made to follow, but Skilgannon stepped into his path.
“No, Druss,” he said. “Even a hero should know when he has lost.”
Druss stood for a moment, then gave a deep sigh. “It was Orastes. I know that for sure now.”
“You did all you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Druss walked to where Snaga lay and recovered it. “Let’s get back to where the air is clean,” he said.
For the next two days Druss continued to walk the mountains seeking Orastes. This time he went alone. The company remained in the settlement of Khalid Khan. Diagoras, who had some skill with wounds, helped with the injured. Seven men and three women had been killed by the beasts, and eight others carried injuries, five from bites and slashes, three from broken bones. The nomads made no attempt to skin the dead beasts. Instead they were dragged from the camp, covered in brushwood and set alight. By the morning of the third day Khalid Khan’s men began dismantling their tents.
“We are moving further into the mountains,” Khalid told Skilgannon. “This is now a place of ill omen.”
Garianne came into the settlement, a bighorn sheep across her shoulders. She left it with several of the nomad women, then walked to a spot in the shade and sat down alongside Skilgannon.
“We need to leave,” she said. “The Old Woman spoke to us. She told us in a dream that enemies are coming.”
Skilgannon glanced at the young woman. She was staring ahead, her face set. He had learned not to ask questions of her, so merely waited. “The Nadir shaman with Ironmask is now aware of Old Uncle. He has sent riders to waylay him. Many riders. They will be here by tomorrow morning. The Old Woman says to head northwest. To leave Old Uncle to his fate.”
“She told Druss she wanted Ironmask dead,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “That is . . . Old Uncle’s . . . quest. Yet now she is content to see him killed, so that we may survive. That seems strange to me.”
“We do not know what she desires,” said Garianne. “We only know what she told us.”
“Perhaps it was just a dream, and the Old Woman did not appear to you.”
“It was the Old Woman,” said Garianne. “It is how she speaks with us when we are far away.”
Skilgannon believed her, but the Old Woman’s advice made little sense. If she wanted Ironmask dead, as she had indicated, then why encourage the company to split up? Leaning back against the rock wall, Skilgannon closed his eyes. The Old Woman was a dark mystery. She had come to the aid of Jianna, ensuring her escape from the capital. Yet never, to Skilgannon’s knowledge, had she come for the gold she had requested for the service. Perhaps Jianna had paid her secretly. In all the stories of the Old Woman that he knew, there was one common factor. Betrayal. Yet Jianna had suffered no such fate. And why did the hag want Ironmask dead? What had he done to earn her hatred? There were no answers. He had insufficient information. Her request for the company to leave Druss to his fate meant that she desired them to survive. Why? Irritated now he opened his eyes and stared out over the encampment. Most of the tents were down, and rolled. The few pack animals owned by the nomads were being loaded.
“I will not leave Druss,” he said.
“We are glad,” Garianne told him. “We love Old Uncle.”
Still being careful with his words, he spoke again. “Yet had I gone away you would have come with me.”
“Yes.”
“Not, I think, because you love me.”
“No, we do not love you. We hate you.” The words were said without passion or regret. They were merely spoken. It seemed to Skilgannon that she might well have been talking about a change in the breeze.
“You stay with me because the Old Woman requires you to.”
“We do not wish to speak further,” said Garianne, rising smoothly to her feet and walking away. He sat where he was. Her hatred was not a surprise. As the Damned he had seeded hatred across three nations. Every man or woman or child who had been killed by his troops would have had relatives or friends. Far easier for them to hate a single general than a vast, faceless army. He had heard it before. Once, on his travels, he had sat quietly in a tavern. Men were sitting close by discussing the war. “The Damned killed my son,” he heard a man say. Skilgannon had listened carefully. As the conversation went on he learned that the boy had been killed in a skirmish, some twenty miles from the battlefield where Skilgannon had fought. Wherever he went he heard people discussing the evils of the Damned. Some of the stories were hideously twisted, others merely ludicrous. The Damned had filed his teeth to sharp points and dined on human flesh. His eyes had become red as blood after he sold his soul to a demon. The stories grew and grew, becoming mythic. It was one of the reasons he could travel without being recognized. Who would suspect the handsome young man with the eyes of sapphire blue? He had learned that people needed evil to have an ugly face.
Skilgannon sighed, his spirits low.
A month ago he had been a novice priest in a quiet community, the days of war and death behind him. He realized he had no longing anymore for those days, and yet there was an edge of regret that they had passed. Idly he stroked the locket around his neck. Would anything change if he managed to restore Dayan to life? Would his guilts be lessened? Skilgannon didn’t know. “You deserve life, Dayan,” he said, aloud. As always, thoughts of Dayan merged into memories of Jianna. He pushed himself to his feet.
The Old Woman’s advice was good. He should leave Druss to his fate.
Skilgannon strode up the mountainside and into the cavern of the hidden lake. Here it was cool and he swam for a while. Levering himself fro
m the water, he sat on a rock. After that one night of lovemaking with Jianna in the forest, his life had changed. He had lived only for the day when he could restore her to her throne. Looking back he felt both foolish and naÏve. He had believed that once she was safe, and the realm was hers, they would be together once more. Skilgannon did not care if she could not wed him. He had allowed himself to dream of being her consort, and her lover. And that’s what it was. A wishful dream.
The truth was that—if she loved him at all—she loved power more. Jianna would never be content. If she became queen of all the world she would stare longingly at the stars and dream of conquering Heaven.
The harsh reality had come home to him on the day they defeated Bokram. Skilgannon could still recall the fear he had experienced on the night before the final battle. Yet again it was the Old Woman who had given birth to it. She had walked into the battle camp, passed the guards and the sentries, and entered the queen’s tent. Skilgannon had been with Jianna, Askelus, and Malanek, discussing the proposed course of the battle. Malanek had leapt to his feet, drawing a dagger. Jianna told him to sit down. Then she had stood and walked to the Old Woman, taking her hand and kissing it. The thought still made Skilgannon shudder. That those beautiful lips should have touched the skin of something so vile. “Welcome,” said Jianna. “Come, join us.”
“No need for that, my dear. I have no head for battle plans.”
“Then why are you here?” Skilgannon had asked, his voice harsher than he intended.
“To wish you well, of course. I have read the runes. Tomorrow will be a bad day for Bokram. It may even be a bad day for you, Olek. Did you know that Boranius employed a seer? He cast the bones for him. According to his prediction Boranius will kill you tomorrow. Still, I expect you are willing to die for your queen, Olek.”
“Indeed I am.”
“Boranius also has swords of power. Ancient blades given to him by Bokram. They are called the Swords of Blood and Fire. I would love to have acquired them. Much of the magic I used to create your own swords was based upon spells woven around Blood and Fire. The two of you will meet on the battlefield. That much I have seen.”
“And was the seer correct?” asked Jianna. “Will Boranius . . . conquer?” she added, unwilling to speak openly about Skilgannon’s death.
The Old Woman shrugged. “The seer has been right before. Perhaps this time he is wrong.”
“Then you must stay back tomorrow,” said Jianna, turning toward Skilgannon. “I do not want to lose you, Olek.”
The Old Woman smiled. “That is touching, my dear. But if Olek does not fight then I fear the battle will be lost.”
It was in that moment that Skilgannon learned that Jianna loved power more than she loved him. He saw her face change. She looked at him, waiting for him to speak.
“I shall fight,” he said, simply. Jianna protested, but weakly, and he saw the relief in her eyes.
“Such a fight it will be,” said the Old Woman, happily. Then she had bowed to Jianna and left the tent.
“You will beat him, Olek,” said Jianna. “No one is as good as you.”
Skilgannon had glanced at Malanek, who had trained Boranius. “You have seen us both. What do you think?”
Malanek looked uncomfortable. “In a fight anything can happen, Olek. A man may stumble, or be more tired than his opponent. His sword might break. It is too close to call.”
“Do you have no respect for me, old friend?”
Malanek seemed shocked. “Of course I have.”
“Then do not use weasel words. Speak your mind.”
Malanek took a deep breath. “I don’t think you can beat him, Olek. There is something inhuman about the man. His great strength, the weight of his muscles, should limit his speed. Yet, it does not. He is ferociously fast, and utterly fearless. You should take the queen’s advice and stay back tomorrow. The Old Woman is wrong. We can win without you.”
Fear had been strong upon him the following morning. He was on the verge of fulfilling his dream. The queen would regain her father’s throne, and he, Skilgannon, would take her in his arms once more. Yet, a seer had prophesied that Boranius would kill him. The thought made him shudder.
With the battle at its height Skilgannon had seen Boranius. He was fighting on foot, cleaving his swords left and right, men falling before him. Time froze in that moment. Every instinct told him to avoid the man. He was surrounded by soldiers who would eventually drag him down. Let them do it. Then you will be free!
The coward is never free, he told himself, spurring his horse and riding toward his enemy. He had leapt from the saddle and shouted for the soldiers to fall back. They had parted then, and he had looked into the eyes of Boranius. The golden-haired warrior had grinned at him. “Have you come to race me again, Olek? Be careful. I have no injured ankle this time.” Skilgannon had drawn his swords. Boranius laughed. “Pretty. They are copies, you know. In my hands are the originals.” He raised the Swords of Blood and Fire. “Come to me, Olek. I will kill you a piece at a time. Like I killed your friends. Oh, you should have heard them squeal and beg.”
“Don’t tell me. Show me,” said Skilgannon.
Boranius had attacked with blistering speed. Even with Malanek’s warning the awesome speed of the man was a surprise. Skilgannon parried desperately, weaving and moving. He knew in those first moments that Boranius was a better swordsman, and that the seer was right. He fought on, blocking and moving, the Swords of Blood and Fire glittering as they sought his flesh.
Many of the soldiers watching could see their general was doomed. One of them raised a spear and hurled it. It struck Boranius high on the right shoulder, surprising him. Skilgannon launched an attack, the Sword of Night flashing in a searing arc for Boranius’s throat. The rebel warrior threw himself back. The blade struck his cheekbone, shearing through his lips and nose. The Sword of Day plunged into Boranius’s chest, and the rebel fell.
The relief Skilgannon felt was colossal. Enemy cavalry began a counterattack. Skilgannon ordered the waiting soldiers to regroup and ran to his horse. Within an hour the battle was over. Bokram was dead, his head raised on a pike, his surviving soldiers in flight through the valleys.
It should have been the day of his greatest triumph. He had avenged Greavas, and Sperian and Molaire. He had returned Jianna to her rightful place.
And yet he had not attended the feast of celebration that night. Instead the queen had sent him out, harrying the fleeing troops. That night, as he had learned later, she took another general to her bed, the prince Peshel Bar, whose cavalry had held the right, and whose power had allowed Jianna to raise her army.
The same Peshel Bar she later had murdered.
Rising from the waterside, Skilgannon dressed and returned to the open air. A convoy of nomads was heading deeper into the mountains. Khalid Khan had remained behind and was talking to Druss. Skilgannon strolled down to join them.
Khalid Khan embraced the axman, then turned and walked away. Diagoras, Rabalyn, Garianne, and the twins were close by. Skilgannon approached Druss. “Have you spoken with Garianne?” he asked.
Druss nodded. His face was gray with exhaustion. He had not slept in days. “Nadir warriors are coming. She says the Old Woman advised you to move on. Good advice, laddie.”
“I don’t live my life on her advice. We know which direction they are coming from. I’ll ride out and scout the land. I’ll find a battleground that suits us.”
Druss grinned. “She says there are around thirty of them. You plan to attack?”
“I plan to win,” said Skilgannon. With that he strode after Khalid Khan and questioned the old nomad about the roads and passes to the northwest, and the water holes and camping places the Nadir would seek out on their way here. They talked for some while, then Skilgannon saddled his gelding and told the company to follow Khalid Khan to a campsite some eight miles northwest. “I will meet you there later tonight,” he said.
Then he rode into the hills.
&
nbsp; Following Khalid Khan’s advice, Skilgannon rode the mountain paths toward the north, the route rising steadily. It was searingly hot in the open, the air heavy and soporific in the shade. Concentration was difficult. Skilgannon struggled to maintain his focus. He rode on, picking a path toward a sharp summit rearing high above the surrounding mountains. From here the land dropped away sharply toward the northwest, the mountain road—such as it was—snaking in a series of half circles around the flanks of the peaks. Skilgannon dismounted and scanned the land, recalling the descriptions Khalid Khan had given him, fixing the terrain in his mind.
Far below him he could see where the road emerged on to flat land before rising again, twisting and curving up into rugged, dusty hills. Here and there were small stands of gnarled trees, too few to offer cover or a line of safe retreat. Remounting, he moved on, seeking out places that offered concealment or a defensive perimeter: somewhere from which he could organize a surprise attack. There were several of these, but none remotely suitable for such a small attacking party. He could rely only on the fighting talents of himself, Druss, Diagoras, Garianne, and the twins. Khalid Khan might choose to fight alongside them. That remained to be seen. The boy Rabalyn was too young and inexperienced. Any Nadir warrior would cut him down in seconds. So, six against thirty. Five opponents each. Then there were other complications. Druss and the twins would be fighting on foot, the Nadir mounted, and probably armed with bows. Garianne might well be deadly with the small crossbow, but that only accounted for two enemies, not six, in the first moments of conflict. It would be necessary for Garianne to scramble to a place of safety to reload.
Bearing all these things in mind Skilgannon rode on, scanning not only the immediate countryside, but also the distant road, seeking sign of the Nadir. If they were to be at the campsite by morning, that probably allowed for a night camp and some rest. It was unlikely they would ride all day and all night before tackling a man like Druss. Though not impossible, he conceded.
Skilgannon had never fought the Nadir, but like most professional soldiers he had studied histories of their race. An offshoot of the Chiatze people, they were nomads, living on the vast steppes of Northern Gothir. Vicious and warlike, they had not proved to be a danger to civilizations like Gothir or the richer nations to their south. This was because they were constantly at war with each other, living out ancient blood feuds, which sapped the strengths of the tribes from generation to generation. They fought mostly from horseback, their mounts being small, hardy steppe ponies. Their preferred weapon was the bow. In close quarters they used short swords or long knives. Lightly armored—a breastplate of hardened leather and a fur-rimmed helm, sometimes of iron, but again, mostly of leather or wood—they could move fast and fight with a fury unequaled. It was said they had no fear of death, believing that the gods would reward a warrior with great wealth and many wives in the next life.
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