He felt unsteady on his feet, and a growing queasiness hit his stomach. Stavut swallowed hard and decided this would be a good time to return to camp. Then he noticed that none of the Jiamads was feeding. They were all staring at him. Nothing moved. Stavut became aware that something was expected of him, but he had no idea what. Then Shakul bent over a dead deer. His taloned arm flashed out, ripping aside ribs and exposing the chest cavity. Reaching in, he tore a section of lung clear, then strode over to Stavut, the bloody flesh dripping gore. “Bloodshirt eat first,” said Shakul. Stavut wanted to explain that hunger was the last thing on his mind, but he sensed the importance of this gesture. Reaching out, he took the warm flesh from Shakul’s taloned grasp, lifted it to his mouth, and tried to bite the greasy meat. Blood smeared his mouth and he gagged. The Jiamads sent up a roar, and then proceeded to tear into two of the dead deer.
“You great hunter,” said Shakul. Stavut found himself staring at the dead stag. As fierce jaws tore into its body, its head flopped back and forth, the wide brown eyes staring at Stavut accusingly.
Shakul returned to the first carcass, pushed aside one of the Jiamads, then crouched down to eat.
On trembling legs Stavut returned to the fallen log and slumped down. Realizing he still held the ghastly flesh Shakul had given him, he hurled it away. He felt drained, but then a rather pleasant thought struck him. Not only had his idea proved successful, it had been spectacular. He had saved his horses and the villagers, and taught the Jiamads how to hunt. Not bad for a merchant with no knowledge of hunting. This day would go down as one of the few when everything had worked out perfectly. He relaxed and planned how he would regale Alahir with this adventure the next time they met. “Bloodshirt, they called me. The Great Hunter.” He tried hard to picture an admiring look on Alahir’s face, but couldn’t quite pull it off. It didn’t matter. Nothing could blight this glorious moment of achievement.
Feeling better, he rose to leave.
Just then nine Jiamads emerged from the trees to his left. They wore no shreds of uniform, but still carried long clubs embedded with iron nails.
Shakul and his troop of six saw them and rose from their feeding. They began to snarl and spread out. Only one of Shakul’s Jiamads carried a club; the others had obviously ditched their weapons following the fight in the cave. If a pitched battle followed, it was possible that the new Jiamads would win it; then Stavut and the villagers would face a fresh threat.
“Let’s all stay calm,” Stavut heard himself say. “It is a beautiful day and the sun is shining.” Slowly he walked toward the two groups. The Jiamad at the head of the newcomers was taller than the others, towering over seven feet. The fur of its face and head was black but paled to a mottled gray on its shoulders, chest, and arms. Its mouth was severely elongated, with two long incisors jutting over his lower lip. “Who are you?” asked Stavut. The creature stared hard at the small man. Its green eyes glinted with hatred.
“I kill Skins,” it said, raising its club.
“We kill deer,” said Stavut, swiftly. “We hunt. We feast. How long since you tasted deer meat?” He glanced at the other Jiamads. They looked scrawny, and their tongues were lolling, their nostrils quivering at the scent of fresh meat.
“We take your meat!” snarled the leader.
“And then what?” said Stavut. “Then you starve again. I can show you how to hunt.”
“You die!” The club flashed out. Stavut hurled himself backward. In that moment Shakul leapt upon the leader and the two fell to the ground. Their jaws snapped at one another, their taloned claws ripping through fur and flesh. The leader lost its grip on its club and they fought with tooth and claw, snarling and growling. The fight was brief, bloody, and vicious. It ended when Shakul’s massive jaws closed on the leader’s throat. Shakul’s head surged up. Fur and flesh parted, and the leader’s jugular sprayed blood into the air. Shakul reared up above the dying beast and hammered his taloned hands into its chest, smashing ribs and ripping open a huge wound. From the wound Shakul ripped out the heart and held it high over his head.
Dashing it to the ground, Shakul tensed and made ready to charge into the eight others.
“Wait, Shakul!” shouted Stavut. “Everyone wait!” Shakul relaxed, his great head turning toward Stavut. “With a bigger pack you could hunt better. Sixteen . . . er fifteen”—he corrected himself as he saw the blood dripping from Shakul’s jaws—“fifteen is a good number for a pack. Let them join you. There is enough meat here for all. You can teach them to hunt with you.”
“Bloodshirt wants these things to live? They are enemy.”
“No, Shakul. They were enemy. The truth is that they are runaway Jiamads like you. They will be hunted—just like you. You need each other. You will hunt better with fifteen than with seven. Let them live. Let them feed. Think on what I have said.”
Shakul’s great bear head tilted, and he made several small, growling sounds. Then he walked to the first of the other Jiamads. “You fight?” he growled. The beast dropped to all fours and turned its back on Shakul. One by one the others repeated the same maneuver. Shakul strode among them, growling. Then he walked back to Stavut. “It is done,” he said. “They can feed. Tell them.”
“Go and eat,” said Stavut. The eight half-starved Jiamads rose to their feet and ran to the deer carcasses.
“Our pack now is bigger,” said Shakul.
“Your pack,” corrected Stavut, uneasily.
“Bloodshirt’s pack,” said Shakul.
A thousand soldiers, marching in lines of three, entered Petar at midday, followed by a regiment of forty-five hundred Jiamads. They were followed by fifty supply wagons, with a hundred more on the road some way behind. Three hundred cavalrymen, in white-plumed helms and armor of polished iron, escorted the Eternal up the slope toward the palace of Landis Khan.
Jianna, the former Witch Queen of Naashan, rode a strange horse, pure white and eighteen hands tall, its head adorned with two horns that curled back over its ears like those of a mountain goat. The Eternal’s helm, shaped from gleaming silver, sported identical horns, and sunlight glinted from the delicate chain-mail shoulder guard she wore over a sleeveless shirt of thin, black leather. The slim and beautiful woman on the horned horse drew rein and stared out over the settlement, her dark eyes angry as she took in the burned-out buildings and the remains of funeral pyres. There were some people moving around the settlement, but little sign of the thriving town it had been only a few days before.
Touching her heels to the flanks of her mount, she rode on toward the palace.
Unwallis was waiting for her at the entrance. He bowed deeply. In the sunlight he looked old, the lines on his face deeply chiseled, his eyes weary. For a brief moment Jianna remembered the young man she had taken to her bed half a century before. He had been witty and good company, though she could recall nothing of his skills as a lover. Unwallis had merely been one of hundreds of fleeting affairs to lift the boredom. Most had been disappointing, some had offered ephemeral joys, a few had made a mark on her memories. Landis Khan’s devotion had been appealing at first, but had soon become cloying.
The hooves of the horned horse clattered on the stone paving slabs before the entrance. The Eternal drew up before Unwallis, who bowed once more. He was dressed in an ankle-length tunic of gray, embroidered at the shoulder with the head of a silver eagle.
The Eternal felt a moment of regret. She had last seen this clothing worn by Landis Khan ten years ago at the palace in Diranan.
I should have killed him then, she thought.
Jianna stepped down from the saddle. A cavalryman rode alongside, taking the reins of the horned horse and leading it away.
“You look like death,” she told Unwallis.
“As ever, my queen, you look radiant,” he responded.
Jianna did not feel radiant. This current body was approaching forty years of age, and though there were few visible signs of age she could feel them. The long ride had been tiring, and her
lower back was aching. She looked into Unwallis’s eyes. The man was more nervous than she had expected.
“Where is Decado?”
“In the wilderness somewhere, Highness. Still seeking Gamal.”
“What happened here?”
“I was not here for the . . . the problems, Highness. Decado says the villagers sought to hide Gamal. He found it necessary to kill a few. The rest panicked and fled. Jiamads ran riot. Houses burned. It is as you see. Some villagers have been encouraged to return. More will do so—assuming there is not more violence. I have had rooms prepared for you, Highness. There are still no servants, but some semblance of normality is returning.”
Despite his attempt at forced neutrality, Jianna caught the implied criticism. Decado had bungled this simple task, producing exactly the result she had warned him against. It was almost time to put him aside. Even as she thought it she realized that Decado would not be like her other lovers. He would not tolerate being dismissed. Ah well, she thought, it will have to be death then. When Memnon arrived she would discuss it with him.
“You have a bath prepared?” she asked Unwallis.
“Yes, Highness, the water is being prepared as we speak. However . . .”
And there was that look of nervousness again.
“What is it?”
“Something you should see. A matter of some urgency, I believe.”
“Show me,” she ordered him. Unwallis bowed once more, then led Jianna into the palace and down to the long library. Moving through it, he brought her to the small study Landis Khan had used.
A lantern was burning in the windowless room, and the heat was oppressive. Upon the desk lay a picture frame. For the first time in centuries Jianna felt a shock so great that it caused her legs to tremble. Reaching out, she supported herself on the desk, and stood staring down at the tattooed skin stretched out in the frame.
“He found Skilgannon, Highness. I believe he brought him back.”
She laid her hand tenderly on the tattooed eagle. “A Reborn?”
“More than that. In his notes Landis talks of Gamal finding Skilgannon’s soul.”
Jianna struggled to contain her feelings. Her mind swam with images, her emotions surging. Keeping her voice as calm as she could, she turned toward Unwallis. “This is all fascinating,” she told him. “We will talk later. First I will bathe. Send a rider out to meet the Black Wagon. Memnon should be here by dusk.”
On leaden legs Jianna followed Unwallis to a first-floor bathroom. Soldiers were moving back and forth, pouring hot water into a blue-veined bath of marble. Unwallis walked to a nearby shelf upon which stood jars of perfumed oils. Lifting each of the glass lids, he sniffed deeply before deciding on the scent of lavender. Carrying it to the water’s edge, the gray-haired ambassador poured a small amount of oil into the steaming water. The bath was only half full, the water lapping at the second of four steps. Dipping his hand into the bath, he withdrew it swiftly. “Fetch more buckets of cold water,” he told the soldiers.
Jianna moved out onto a wide balcony overlooking the mountains. Reaching up, she lifted clear her horned helm, laying it on a wicker table. Her long, dark hair fell free. She wanted to ask so many questions, but they would show how important she regarded the rebirth of Skilgannon. There could be no show of such weakness with anyone—even one as loyal as Unwallis.
She thought of the last time she had seen Olek Skilgannon. He had fought a vicious duel with the traitor Boranius and was standing on a battlement, high above the rocks below. A madwoman also stood there, armed with an ornate black crossbow. She had tried to jump, but Skilgannon had leapt from the high ramparts, catching her, and then making a wild grab for a jutting rock. Jianna had run to the battlement’s edge and peered down. He was hanging on grimly, but he could not hold her. Her weight was dragging them both to their deaths.
“Let the girl go. I’ll haul you up.”
“I cannot.”
“Damn you, Olek! You’ll both die!”
“She is . . . the last survivor . . . of Perapolis.” His blood-covered hand was giving way. He grunted and tried to cling on.
Jianna climbed over the ramparts, lowering herself to the thin ledge. Holding to a crenallation, she reached down, clamping her hand over his wrist. “Now we all go, idiot!” she said. Then the weight lessened. Looking down she saw that Druss the Legend had climbed out of the window of the Roof Hall and was standing on the ledge below, supporting the unconscious girl. “Let her go, laddie! I have her.” Freed of the weight Skilgannon swung his left arm over the lip of stone and, as Jianna made way for him, climbed back to the battlement.
Jianna took his hand and wiped away the blood. His fingers were deeply gashed, and more blood pumped from the wounds. “We almost died. Was she worth it?” she asked, softly.
“Worth more than the Witch Queen and the Damned? I would say so.”
“Then you are still the fool, Olek,” she snapped. “I have no time for fools.” Yet she did not move away.
“We need to say good-bye,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to say it,” she told him. Leaning in, he kissed her lips. Malanek and several soldiers arrived on the battlement. They stood back respectfully as Jianna put her arms around Skilgannon’s neck.
“We are both fools,” she whispered.
With that she had swung away from him. She had looked back only once as she rode from the citadel. High on the ramparts Skilgannon was standing with Druss.
She never saw him again, though she had followed his adventures.
At the last, when she learned he was preparing to face the might of the Zharn, she had led a Naashanite army against them, crushing two of their armies. She had thought it might give him a chance to survive.
She never knew in life whether she had succeeded. On the night after the battle she had felt unwell. Pains struck her chest, flowing down her left arm. Her strength had failed, and she had taken to her bed. At some point, though she could not now recall it, her life had flickered and failed.
On the balcony she shivered, remembering the dread times in the vastness of the Void. Demons had sought to kill her, and for a while she believed they would succeed. Then had come help from a bizarre quarter. Surrounded by scaled beasts, with black eyes and taloned fingers, a bright light had appeared. Fire swept through the demons, killing several and scattering the others. Jianna had stood very still, her dagger raised. From the smoke came the Old Woman. “Love blinds us to peril,” said the hag, with a harsh laugh.
“You said that when I killed you,” Jianna told her. “I didn’t know what it meant then, and I do not now.”
“Come sit in my cave, child, and we will talk.”
“If you want revenge do it now. I am in no mood for conversation.”
“Revenge? Ah, Jianna, my dove. I would never have harmed you in life, and I will not harm your spirit now. What did I mean, after you plunged the Sword of Fire into my back? I meant that I had loved you for all your life. As I loved your mother. You are blood of my blood. You are my descendant, child. The last of the line of Hewla. Now come with me. I will keep you safe.”
“You tried to kill Olek. He was the great love of my life.”
“No, he wasn’t, Jianna. Be honest with yourself. You loved power more. Otherwise you would have given it all up just to be with him. The woman in you loved him, the queen in you knew he was a danger. And so he proved. You were unwell in the palace, before leading the army against the Zharn. Your own physicians warned you to stay home and rest. You ignored them, in a vain bid to save him. He died anyway, child.”
“Did he win, though?”
“Of course he won. He was Skilgannon.”
“Then he is here? Somewhere?”
Fire flashed from the Old Woman’s fingers. A demon screeched, and darkness fell again.
“Let us talk somewhere safer.”
Jianna had followed her up a steep hillside and into a deep cave. The Old Woman gestured at the entrance, and a wall of fl
ame closed over it. By its light she sat on a rock shelf and stared at Jianna. “It is as well there are no mirrors here, Jianna. I fear you would not like what you would see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at your arm.”
In the firelight Jianna saw that, like the beasts that had attacked her, her skin was gray and scaled. “Why do I look like this?” she asked, sheathing the dagger and reaching up to feel the ridged skin of her face.
“The evil that we do follows us. Here our spirit mirrors our true selves.”
“You are not scaled, and yet you lived a life of appalling evil.”
“Magic still operates here, child, though not as powerfully as in the world of flesh. But I am scaled and grotesque. I merely disguised it so that you would not recoil and run from me. Or worse, strike me down with the dagger I gave you.”
“What happens now? Is there somewhere we must go to escape this horror?”
The Old Woman shook her head. “Nowhere for souls like us, kinswoman. This is where we dwell now. Yet I have hopes for you. Your bones were placed in a vault beneath the statue of you in the palace gardens. Those bones may be the key to returning to the flesh. We will see. We will survive.”
“The bath is ready, Highness,” said Unwallis.
Jianna strode back into the bathroom and removed her clothes. Then she climbed into the perfumed water.
“So what became of the reborn Skilgannon?” she asked. “Did Decado kill him?”
“He was gone, Highness, when Decado came for Landis. He is somewhere in the forests with another Reborn.”
“Another?”
“Apparently Landis experimented with bones found in a locket in Skilgannon’s tomb.”
“His wife, Dayan,” said Jianna. “It was his dream to bring her back to life.”
“No, Highness. It was a man. Landis described him as a brooding giant, immensely powerful and short tempered. The last notes talk of a double-headed silver ax that Landis asked Skilgannon to give to the man. This, too, was found in the tomb.”