“As indeed you can,” she said. “Let us go inside. My old legs are aching and tired. Give me your arm.”
Together they moved back to the garden room. By the light of the many lanterns he saw that her eyes were of a dazzling blue, flecked with gold. He helped her to a weirdly carved piece of furniture. It seemed a cross between a chair and a stool. She slowly knelt upon it, then handed him her staff. He laid it down close to her, then, lifting his scabbard from his back and placing it on the floor beside him, he sat himself on a high-backed chair opposite her.
“So, why did the Old Woman send you here?” she asked.
“I have been giving that a great deal of thought,” he said. “Almost from the moment she sent us on this quest. I think I know the answer—though I hope I am wrong.”
“Tell me.”
“First I have a question of you, lady. If I may?”
“You may.”
“Is it true that you grew a new hand for one of Khalid Khan’s tribesmen?”
“The body is a far more complex and wonderful piece of machinery than most people realize. Each cell contains details of its master plan. But to answer your question simply: yes. We helped him to grow a new hand.”
“Some years ago was a man brought to you whose face had been cut away?” Even as he asked the question Skilgannon felt the tightness of fear in his belly.
“You are speaking of Boranius. Yes, he was brought here.”
“A shame it was you healed him,” he said, bitterly. “The man is evil.”
“We do not pass judgment here, Olek. If we did would we have allowed you inside?”
“No,” he admitted.
“When did you suspect Ironmask was Boranius?”
“Something inside me said he was alive. When we couldn’t find his body after the battle, I knew. Deep down, I knew. Then when I heard of Ironmask I wondered. But then Druss told me he was not mutilated, he merely had an ugly birthmark. Only when I heard of the tribesman with the discolored hand did the thought reoccur. The fear of it has been growing in my mind ever since.”
“That is why the Old Woman did not tell you. She knew you feared this man, and yet she desired you to go after him. She guessed that—once set upon this road—you would not let Druss tackle the evil alone. Was she wrong?”
“No, she was not wrong. Though how Druss can tackle him with a ruined heart I do not know.”
Ustarte smiled. “There is nothing wrong with Druss’s heart—though Heaven alone knows why, considering his love of alcohol and red meat. He contracted an illness in a village south of Mellicane. It attacked his lungs and put great strain upon his heart. Any ordinary man would have taken to his bed for a while and given his body the opportunity to rest and defeat the virus. Instead Druss marched around the country seeking his friend. He exhausted himself and put his heart under enormous strain. He has been given a potion that will eradicate the . . . illness. Tomorrow morning he will be strong again.”
“And the twins?”
Ustarte’s smile faded. “We cannot heal Nian. A year ago perhaps. Six months ago even. Tumors are now erupting all over his body. We cannot deal with them all. He has less than a month to live. We will reduce the pressure on his brain, and he will be himself for a while. Not long, though, I fear. Maybe days. Maybe hours. Then the pressure will increase again. The pain will swell. He will fall into a coma and die. It would be best if he stayed here, where we can administer potions to quell the pain.”
“This will break Jared’s heart,” he said. “I have never seen two brothers so close.”
“They were conjoined for the first three years of their lives. That creates a special bond,” she said. “I performed the operation that separated them. Part knowledge, part magic. It is the magic that is killing him now. In order for them both to survive I had to reengineer Nian’s life codes. They shared a single heart. I manipulated his genetic foundations, causing his body to create a second heart. This manipulation resulted, finally, in the mass of cancers that are now killing him. It grieves me greatly.”
Skilgannon did not understand much of what she told him, but he could see the anguish in her face. “You gave them a chance at life,” he said. “A life they could not have enjoyed without your help.”
“I know this, though I thank you for saying it. What else do you wish to ask of me?”
“What of Garianne?”
“I cannot help her. She is either possessed or insane. You know, of course, that she is in the thrall of the Old Woman.”
“I know.”
“Then you know also her purpose on this quest?”
“She is here to kill me.”
“Do you know why?”
He shrugged. “It is what the Old Woman wants, ultimately. That is reason enough. I doubt she will attempt an assassination until Boranius is dead. I will deal with that when it happens.”
“You will kill her.”
“To save myself? Of course.”
“Ah, yes, of course. That is what warriors do. They fight. They kill. They die. Do you know where Garianne was born?” she asked, suddenly.
“No. She does not take well to questions.”
“That is because she was tortured and abused for some weeks by vile men. They wanted information. They wanted pleasure. They wanted pain. But that came after. Garianne was a normal, healthy young girl. She lived with her family and her friends. She dreamed of a future in which she would be happy. Like all young people she built fantasies in which her life was enriched by love and success, fame and joy. Her tragedy was that she had these dreams in Perapolis.” Skilgannon shuddered, and could no longer gaze into Ustarte’s blue and gold eyes. “When the Naashanite soldiers first breached the walls, Garianne’s father—a stonemason—hid her beneath some rocks behind his workshop. She lay there terrified all that day, listening to the screams of the dying. She heard people she loved begging for their lives. Old men, women, children, husbands, fathers, sons, and daughters. Priests, merchants, nurses, and midwives, doctors and teachers. The loveless and the loved. When night fell she was still there. Only now she was not alone. Her head was filled with voices that would not go away. They just carried on screaming.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. “You must hate me,” he said, at last.
“I hate no one, Olek. Long ago hatred was burned out of me. But I have not yet finished the story of Garianne. I shall not tell you of the horrors she later suffered, when captured by Naashanite troops. When she was brought here there seemed no hope for her. We did all we could to restore some semblance of normality to her. What you see now is a result of our best efforts. She ran away, and somewhere came under the sway of the Old Woman. She managed to give her purpose. She gave her a goal. It may even be that this goal will give her back her life. You see, Garianne believes that the ghosts will find peace when they have been avenged. The ghosts will sleep when the Damned is dead.”
“And will they?” he asked.
“I wish I could say. If the ghosts are real then perhaps they will find peace through revenge. I have never believed that revenge brings peace, but then I have never been a ghost. If her mind is unhinged it may be that completing her mission will free her. It is doubtful—but possible. So you see, if you do kill her you will merely be completing the horror for which you are so aptly named.”
“A fine set of choices,” he said, rising from the chair and gathering up the Swords of Night and Day. Swinging the scabbard to his shoulder, her bowed to her. “I thank you for your time, lady.”
“Those blades are of evil design, Olek. Eventually they will corrupt your soul. They carry as much responsibility for Perapolis as you yourself.”
“My chances of defeating Boranius are not good. Without the Swords of Night and Day they would be nonexistent.”
“Then do not fight him. I do not have the skill to bring back Dayan. Others will. The code of her life is contained in the hair and the bone you carry. There are those who could activate that code. They might also
have the skill to draw her soul back from the Netherworld to reinhabit a new body.”
“Where would I find such people?”
“Beyond the old lands of Kydor, perhaps. Or deep in the Nadir steppes. The Temple of the Resurrectionists does exist. I believe this. There is too much evidence to ignore. Leave Boranius behind. Leave Garianne behind. At least then your quest will be wholly unselfish.”
“That would also mean leaving Druss and Diagoras behind. I cannot do that. What of Druss’s friend, Orastes? Can you bring him out of the beast?”
Ustarte lifted her hand and peeled off her glove. Then she drew back the sleeve of her silk robe. Skilgannon stared at the soft, gray fur which covered her arm, and the talons that glinted on the end of her fingers. “If I could do that for Orastes, would I not do it for myself?” she asked him. “Go now, warrior. I wish to speak to the Legend.”
There were thirty-three windows and three doors in the citadel. The Nadir shaman, Nygor, checked each one of them before retiring to his pallet bed on the fourth level. The ward spells on the main doors were the simplest to reenergize, for here he had hung an ancient relic, the withered hand of Khitain Shak. The dried bones retained much of the power the legendary priest had wielded in life. The windows were more tiring and time-consuming. Some were wide, others mere murder holes—slits through which archers could shoot down on enemies below. Each of these needed a fresh spell daily, fueled by a drop of Nygor’s blood. The wounds on the palms of his hands were troubling him now, itching and irritating. This annoyed him.
For a few days he had managed to use the blood of the stupid woman Ironmask had brought to the citadel. But then the Naashanite had lost his temper and killed her. A waste. He could at least have allowed her to live until Nygor’s hands healed. The child would do. Ironmask would have none of it. He wanted the girl alive until Druss the Axman was in his power. Then he would kill her in front of the Legend. “Can you imagine,” said Ironmask, “how sweet that will be? Druss the Invincible. The Captain of the Ax. The Victor of Skeln. Trussed and chained, and watching the slow death of the child he had come so far to rescue? It will drive him mad.”
“I think you should just kill him, lord,” warned Nygor.
“You have no understanding of the exquisite,” Ironmask had told him.
This was obviously true. Nygor took no enjoyment at all from the suffering of others. Death was sometimes necessary in the pursuit of knowledge. Now, at sixty-one, Nygor was close to understanding the secrets he had yearned for decades to unlock. He had mastered the Meld, one of the greatest of the ancient spells. The concentration needed for the creation of Joinings was prodigious. Soon he would unravel the mysteries of rejuvenation. He would have achieved this by now had it not been for the Old Woman, and her constant seeking for ways to kill him. He could feel her power even now, pushing at the ward spells, tugging upon them, ever searching for a gap in his defenses.
He knew she did not hate him for his own sake. Her true target was Ironmask. Nygor was merely an obstacle in her way. It was a thorny problem. If he left Ironmask she would likely leave him alone. However, if he did quit the service of the warrior he would have no wealth, and no way to pursue his dreams. He could not return to the steppes. Ulric’s shaman, Nosta Khan, would have him killed the instant he set foot on Nadir lands.
So he remained—for the moment—trapped between the hammer of her hatred and the anvil of Ironmask’s ambition. Not for much longer, though. Ironmask had hoped to build the Tantrian nation into a force strong enough to oppose the Witch Queen. He had dreamed of leading an army back into Naashan. Those dreams had withered now. They had begun to fail the moment the Old Woman gave the Tantrian king that cursed sword. It had corrupted his mind, filling him with delusions of greatness. Nygor could see now that this had been her intention all along. When Tantria declared war on Datia and Dospilis it served only the Witch Queen. Ironmask had been ruined. Nygor sighed. He should have quit him when the war went bad, and the Datians were at the gates of Mellicane. But Ironmask had escaped with a large portion of Mellicane’s treasury, and that wealth might still serve Nygor—if he could find a way to steal it.
The shaman moved to the next level and revived the spell on the windows there. His right hand was aching now.
He stood at the murder hole and stared out at the stars. In that moment he sighed, as he thought of his bond woman, Raesha. It was not until she was dead that he realized how great an affection he had for her. Ironmask had demanded the death of the Witch Queen, and Nygor had summoned a demon to slay her. Not a great feat. Not even a difficult one. He had used Raesha as a vessel of summoning. This enhanced Nygor’s power. The demon had sped off in search of its prey. All had been well. What they could not know was that the Old Woman had placed powerful ward spells around the queen. Rebuffed, the demon had returned, seeking blood. Raesha’s heart had been torn from her body. Nygor shuddered at the memory.
There were also ward spells around Druss the Axman and his companions. They made it impossible for Nygor to track them. Now the more traditional attempt on Druss’s life had also failed. Nygor had an ill feeling about Druss. It was surely impossible for the aging axman to assault a fortress manned by ferocious warriors. And yet . . . There was something indomitable about the man, a force that was not entirely human.
Nygor climbed the stairs to the circular battlements and added fresh ward spells to both doors. They would last three days, but he would revive them after two.
Returning to the main building, he almost trod on a large black rat, which scurried past him. Nygor cursed, then made his way down to his own rooms.
The black rat vanished into a hole and emerged out onto the battlements. From here it ran along the edge of the crenellated wall and through another hole that brought it onto one of the domed roof timbers. Its sleek black form scuttled along the timber, coming at last to a torn section of tarred felt. The rat began to gnaw at the felt, creating enough of an opening to squirm beneath. Here there were interlocking planks, and several dead rats.
Tugging aside one of the bodies, the rat began to gnaw at the splintered end of one of the joints, its sharp incisors nibbling at edges of the wood, pulling them clear.
Tirelessly it worked, ripping and gnawing, until its heart gave out and it slumped dead beside the timber. Minutes later another black rat appeared. It too began to bite at the wood.
Finally a sliver of light from below pierced the darkness beneath the roof felt. The rat blinked and shook its head.
It sniffed around for a while, confused. Edging back from the light it scurried away.
Jared returned to the antechamber where the others waited. He sank to a chair, ignoring them. Garianne moved to him, putting her arm around him and kissing his cheek. Diagoras scratched at his trident beard and shivered.
“What is wrong with you, laddie?” asked Druss.
“I am fine, Axman. Never better.”
“You look like a man with a scorpion in his boot.”
“Well, that’s a surprise,” said Diagoras. “I am sitting in a mystic temple, which, it transpires, is entirely manned by Joinings. How curious of me to find this unsettling.”
Druss laughed. “They have done us no harm. Far from it.”
“Up to now,” said Diagoras. “They are animals, Druss. They have no souls.”
“I never was much of a debater,” said Druss. “So I won’t argue with you.”
“Please argue!” insisted Diagoras. “I would love to have my mind put at ease.”
“Far too complex a question for a single debate,” said Skilgannon. “If men have souls then it follows that Ironmask has one. His life has been spent torturing and maiming innocent people. I had a friend once who had a dog. When his house caught fire the dog ran up the stairs, through the smoke and flame, and awoke my friend and his family. They all escaped. The door downstairs was open. The dog could have fled to the safety of the street. It did not. So if the dog was heroic and selfless without a soul, and Ironmask is vi
le and evil with one, then what use is it?”
Druss laughed. “I like that,” he said. “In my view Heaven would be a better place if only dogs dwelt there.”
“They cannot cure him,” said Jared, suddenly. “They can relieve the pressure on his brain. He will be as he once was. They cannot even say for how long. Hours. Days. And he is dying still. Ustarte says he has less than a month.”
“I am sorry, lad,” said Druss.
“You’ll understand, Axman, why we won’t be coming with you to the citadel. I want to spend some time with my brother. We’ll stay here. When the time comes they will have medicines to ease the pain.”
“Ah, it wasn’t your fight anyway, Jared. Don’t concern yourself.”
“We would like to come with you, Uncle,” said Garianne. “We want to see the little girl safe.” Skilgannon saw that Garianne was looking directly at him as she spoke, her gray eyes unflinching. Druss saw it too, and said nothing.
“You desire my company on this journey, I think,” said Skilgannon.
“You must come now,” she said. “You must face Boranius. It is your destiny.”
Skilgannon felt anger stirring in him, but swallowed it down. “The Old Woman does not know my destiny, Garianne. Any more than she knows yours. However, I will travel with you, for my own reasons.”
“Glad to have you, laddie,” put in Druss. “Is there something between the two of you that you’d like to share?” he went on.
Skilgannon shook his head. The door opened and the servant Weldi entered. “I have come to bring you to your rooms,” he said. “You will find clean beds, a little food and water, and a fresh breeze through your windows.”
Later, as Skilgannon lay in his bed staring up at the stars outside his window, the door to the bedroom whispered open, and Garianne entered. She walked to the foot of the bed without a word. In her hand was the crossbow, a single bolt notched.
“You would like to do it now,” he said.
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