Then he saw a flickering campfire set in a wooded hollow. It was well placed and could not have been seen from ground level. Memnon floated down to hover above the trio sitting quietly by the fire. He gazed at Skilgannon. The man’s expression was stern and distant. Close by the Eternal Reborn kept glancing at him. Beyond them both was the huge peasant with the ancient ax.
“How did you die . . . the first time?” he heard the woman ask.
“Painfully,” replied Skilgannon. He glanced across at the peasant. “How are you faring, Harad?”
“I’m hungry,” answered the man. He looked up. “Did you see Druss in the Void when you were there?”
“I do not remember. It is all hazy now.”
“Why did you not pass to the Golden Valley he spoke of?”
“The evils of my life prevented me. All I remember is that I did not look as you see me now. My arms were scaled. There were no mirrors there, but I would guess my face was scaled also. The evil do not cross the Valley.”
“What do they do?” asked the woman.
“They fight to survive.”
“But they are already dead,” said the woman. “What more can happen to them?”
Skilgannon shrugged. “I do not have the answer to that. When you kill a beast in the Void it simply disappears. Ceases to exist perhaps.”
“And these beasts attack those who . . . who are not scaled?” asked Harad.
“Yes.”
“Hardly seems fair,” pointed out the woman. “Someone good dies, enters the Void, and is then killed again by a demon.”
Skilgannon laughed. “Fair? In my previous life I heard that so often. I would like to meet the man who first suggested that life was fair. It is not. It is just life. Some people are lucky. Some are not. Fairness has nothing to do with it. And if that is the situation in life, then why should the Void operate any differently?”
“Do you fear returning to it?”
“Would it make a difference?” he responded. “I do not fear the inevitable.”
“Druss said he would take Charis to the Golden Valley,” said Harad.
“Then he will,” said Skilgannon. “Be assured of that.”
“I wish that I had been killed with her,” said Harad. “We would be together then.”
“One day you will be together,” said the woman.
That day will be soon, thought Memnon. Judging by the distance his spirit had traveled, it would take the Shadows no more than three nights to reach them. Memnon was about to return to his body when the woman spoke again, this time to Skilgannon.
“Do you regret loving the Eternal?”
He smiled. “One fact I learned in my life is that we should never regret love. In many ways it is what defines us. In that respect I have been lucky. I have been loved, and I have loved. Ultimately that is all that counts. The dreams of men all come to dust. If I did not know that in my first life, I know it now. Nothing remains of the world I knew—not even its history. All is fable and shadow.”
“The Eternal remains,” she said.
“For now,” he told her.
“You really believe we can end her reign?”
“Askari, there are many areas of my life that have fallen short of what could have been. There were—and there are—men more clever, more powerful, more wise than I. But I have never been defeated in life or in war. Ustarte—whom you call the Blessed Priestess—said I would change this world. And I trust her wisdom.”
Arrogant man, thought Memnon, but then he looked into the sapphire eyes.
And felt a stab of fear.
G ilden rode down the slope and onto the flatland. The troop was some little way behind him, and Gilden had volunteered to scout the area. Some way ahead was a thick, wooded area that could conceal enemy troops. Gilden rode slowly toward it, his bow in his left hand, an arrow nocked. As he approached the trees the wind changed. His mount’s ears pricked up, and it veered to the left. Calming the horse, he stared into the wood. At first there was nothing to be seen. Then came a movement, as the undergrowth rustled. A Jiamad stepped out and stood staring at the rider. It was a big beast, maybe seven and a half feet tall, with a massive breadth of shoulder. Gently pulling back on the reins, Gilden walked his horse backward, creating space between himself and the monster. Over short distances a Jiamad could run down a horse. Another Jiamad appeared. Then another. They made no hostile move toward him, but they watched him. None of them was wearing a baldric or other indications of army apparel. It was likely they were runaways.
Suddenly a familiar voice called out: “Is that you, Gilden?” Before he could answer he saw the young merchant Stavut emerge from the trees. He strolled past the beasts and out into the open. “Good to see you. Is Alahir with you?”
It was like a dream. There was no sense to it. “What are you doing here?” asked Gilden, staring at the merchant. His clothes were filthy, stained with what looked like dried blood. He was unshaven but as jaunty as ever.
“It is a long story. You can relax. Not one of my lads will attack you.”
“Your lads?”
“As I said, it is a long story. I’ve been teaching them how to hunt.”
Gilden’s horse backed away as more Jiamads emerged from the trees. Gilden watched them. There were more than forty beasts. “These are all yours?”
“Not mine exactly. They are free, you see.”
“Oh yes, I see. I also see you have blood on your clothes. Did you get that bringing down a deer, Stavut?”
Stavut sighed. “No. We were in a battle. We killed the soldiers who had massacred some villagers. It was not pretty.”
“Why don’t you climb up behind me, Stavut?” said Gilden, softly. “I’ll ride you away from here. We’ll see Alahir together.”
“Can’t leave my lads,” said Stavut. “Did you know there is an army marching from the south? We saw them. Must be twenty, thirty thousand strong. That’s why we are moving north. Keeping out of their way.”
If Gilden had been surprised to find Stavut with a pack of beasts he was even more amazed moments later. Two huge Jiamads came into sight, pulling Stavut’s wagon behind them. They paused at the tree line. Stavut turned. “Wolves killed my horses,” he said.
“I don’t understand any of this,” admitted Gilden. “I think you should ride with me. You may think these beasts are tame, Stavut, but you are in great danger. You can’t trust them. They are vermin.”
“Vermin? Did you know they don’t even like killing people?” said Stavut, his eyes angry. “They don’t taste good. They kill us because they are bred to do that, trained to do that, ordered to do that. By men. Vermin? We are the vermin, Gilden. I am not in danger from them. Go and tell Alahir we need to talk. We’ll wait here.”
Gilden took a deep breath. “You are not thinking straight, boy. Our job is to kill these monsters. What do you think is going to happen when Alahir gets here? You think he’s going to talk? Of course he isn’t. He hates these beasts as much as any of us. Come on, Stavut! See sense. Just ride with me.”
“I would be glad to see Alahir. He is my friend. As you are, Gilden. I wanted to tell him of the army approaching. However, you can do that. I shall stay with my lads.” Stavut turned as if to walk away. Then he swung back. “We will do you no harm. We are merely moving north. You come after us, Gilden, and you will regret it.”
“You are siding with them against us? Are you mad?”
“Put up your bow and ride away, Gilden.”
“You know we will be back.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” hissed Stavut. “I know your patrols usually number around fifty men. I have fifty Jiamads. Now it may just be that you Legend riders are all great heroes, with the strength of ten. But we just wiped out around your number of the Eternal’s soldiers. Killed them all. We lost no one. Come after us at your peril.”
“You would send these beasts against your friends?” said Gilden, aghast.
Gilden looked into Stavut’s eyes and saw they we
re glittering strangely. “You come after my lads,” he said, “and I’ll rip your heart out myself.”
“I shall remember that, renegade, when next we meet,” said Gilden, tugging on the reins and riding back to the hills.
S kilgannon could scarce believe it when he saw the horse. It was pure white and beautiful, strong limbed, with powerful hindquarters. Its neck was long, its eyes fierce and proud. It was standing with six other mounts, all saddled, with no riders in sight.
Telling Askari and Harad to remain where they were, for fear of causing the horses to bolt, Skilgannon walked slowly down the hillside toward them. He could not take his eyes off the white stallion. He had not seen such a horse in this world, and knew instantly it was a Ventrian purebred. In his own time it would have cost hundreds of gold Raq. It was a mount for princes, kings, or conquerors.
As he approached he saw all the mounts staring at him, ears pulled back. Slowly he sat on the grass and began to speak to them, in a soft, soothing voice. “How is it that you are here, my beauties?” he said. “And where are the lucky men who rode you? Hmmm?” Reaching down, he tugged a handful of long grass from the earth, then another. Keeping his movements slow and unthreatening, he angled toward the mounts, holding out the grass. “You should be eating grain,” he said, “but this will have to suffice.” His easy manner calmed them, though the great white horse—he estimated almost seventeen hands tall—eyed him warily. “Come, eat with me, Greatheart,” he said, offering the grass. The horse dipped its head and took the grass from his hand. Skilgannon stroked its sleek neck and noted there was dried blood upon the ornate, silver-mounted saddle. Two of the other horses carried cuts, and one had a broken arrow hanging loosely from the skin of its flanks. “Ah, you have been in a battle,” said Skilgannon. “And your riders were slain, or unhorsed.” Moving alongside the white, he carried on stroking it while taking hold of the long, snowy mane. Then he raised his foot into the stirrup. The white immediately reared and bolted. Skilgannon heaved himself up and swung his leg over the saddle, seeking out the second stirrup. The speed of the gallop both astonished and exhilarated Skilgannon. In his previous life he had possessed some truly great horses, and this stallion would take his place among the best of them. He had no idea yet as to the beast’s temperament, but its power was outstanding. Gently, but firmly, he guided the horse into a wide turn, heading back up the hill toward the waiting Askari and Harad. Drawing on the rein brought an instant response. The horse slowed and stood quietly. Just as Skilgannon relaxed it leapt and bucked. He was almost unseated, but clung on. The stallion bolted once more, leaping and twisting. Then it slowed once more. Skilgannon sensed what was coming. Kicking his feet from the stirrups just as the horse rolled, he leapt clear. As the stallion struggled to regain its feet, Skilgannon vaulted back into the saddle. “Nice try, Greatheart,” he said, patting the stallion’s long sleek neck. “Are we done now? Do we know each other yet?”
They did not. The stallion bounded off again.
Askari watched in silent wonder, struck by the awesome beauty of the horse and the almost uncanny skill of the rider. She had ridden only twice in her life, and had enjoyed the experience. However, the horse she had borrowed from Kinyon was a swayback more used to pulling carts. There was no comparison between old Shavu and this magnificent creature. She glanced at Harad. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful horse?”
“It is big,” he said.
“Have you ever ridden?”
He smiled. “Once when I was a lad. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t find the rhythm. After an hour I was wearing my arse round my shoulders.”
Askari laughed, then leaned in and kissed Harad’s bearded cheek.
“What was that for?”
“Good to see you smile, Harad,” she told him.
His face darkened, and she thought she had offended him. Then she saw he was staring down the hillside. A group of heavily armed riders had emerged from the trees and had spread out as they rode toward Skilgannon.
T he Armor of Bronze, wrapped in blankets, was being carried on the back of one of the spare mounts, and Alahir had once more donned his own armor. The chain-mail hauberk had been worn by his grandfather at the Battle of Larness, and by his father at the Siege of Raboas. The coif head-and-neck protector had been a gift from his uncle, the warrior Elingel, and he had worn it proudly during the Four Year War that saw the end of the Gothir Successors. His saber was the oldest piece in his armory, and was said to date back to the War of the Twins, though this conflict was now considered to be mostly fable. Alahir felt more comfortable in his own armor.
Not in a physical way, he realized. The Armor of Bronze, as the voice had promised, fitted him perfectly. It was lighter than his own chain mail. Truth was, it just felt wrong to be wearing it. Regnak, the Great Earl, had first donned this at Dros Delnoch, in the mighty war that claimed the life of Druss the Legend. Other heroes had donned it. That a farmer’s son from the high country should now be in possession of it seemed almost sacrilegious. He was also uncomfortable with the way the men reacted to him; men he had known since childhood seemed in awe, and responded to his every word with undue courtesy.
Alahir had become a man apart. And he didn’t like it.
After the second quake they had all waited for him to make a decision as to their actions now. Were they to ride back to camp, or was there some wondrous plan that the new earl now had for them? It was all too much for Alahir.
Then he remembered the white horse.
Was it an omen? Was this horse meant to be ridden by the new earl of Bronze?
Alahir had no idea, but tracking a runaway stallion at least gave the men something to think about. Indeed it gave Alahir time to think about all that had happened.
He was no nearer a conclusion when Gilden came riding back over the brow of the hill. The veteran rode up and saluted—something Alahir could never remember him doing before.
“What are you doing back here, Gil?” he asked. “Is there trouble ahead?”
“Could be. I just saw your friend Stavut.”
Alahir’s mood brightened. Stavut was a clever man. He might offer some answers to the problems Alahir faced.
“Why did you not bring him with you? This is dangerous land for a merchant.”
Gilden removed his helm, pushed back his coif, and brushed his fingers through his sweat-streaked gray hair. “I offered to. You should know he’s traveling with a large pack of Jiamad runaways. Calls them my lads. I tried to tell him its our job to hunt them down, and you know what he said? He said he’d cut my heart out himself if anyone attacked them. What do you think of that?”
“Stavut said that? We are talking about the same Stavut? Small man, wagon, scared rigid of Jiamads?”
“Aye, the same. Only he’s not scared now. Must have fifty of the beasts with him. Been teaching them to hunt, he told me.”
Alahir burst out laughing. “What is so funny?” asked Gilden, eyes narrowing.
“This is a good jest, Gil. And you sold it well. I never realized you had such a dry sense of humor. So where is he? Is he following you?”
“I wish it was a jest. His clothes are covered in dried blood. He even has two Jiamads pulling his wagon—and don’t you dare laugh again. This is all true. What are we to do? Our orders are clear when we come across Jems.”
“Our orders no longer apply, Gil. Not since we found the Armor.”
“It’s not right letting those beasts walk free. I think Stavut is deranged. They’ll kill him as soon as hunger takes them.”
“I hate the creatures as much as you, Gil. But he was in no danger when you saw him. What else did he say?”
“He said there’s an army moving from the south, thousands of men. Looks like the final confrontation is coming.”
“Let’s find the horse, then we’ll swing north.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Gilden, glumly.
The troop rode on for just under an hour, entering a thinly wooded area of flatland. As th
ey emerged onto open ground they saw the white horse and its rider. Alahir’s breath caught in his throat. The beast was majestic, thundering across the land, seeking to unseat the man. The rider also was magnificent, reading the stallion’s every move. When the horse rolled, and the rider leapt clear, only to vault back into the saddle as it rose, Alahir felt like applauding. Every man in the troop watched with admiration as the contest of wills continued. At last the horse realized it had met its match, and the rider put it through a series of sharp turns and sudden sprints. Only then did he look up and see the Legend riders. Patting the horse’s neck he rode toward them, drawing rein and sitting silently. Alahir stared at the man. His face was lean and handsome, his eyes ferociously blue. He did not seem ill at ease. Heeling his own mount forward, Alahir spoke. “Thank you for finding my horse,” he said.
“It is not your horse,” said the man. The words were not spoken angrily; nor was there any sense of confrontation. They were just spoken, matter-of-factly.
“How do you arrive at that conclusion?”
The man smiled and pointed to the riders around Alahir. “You all have the same saddle designs, stirrup protectors, horns from which to hang your bows. This saddle has no such designs. Added to which there was blood upon it. My guess is the rider was killed.”
“Very astute,” said Alahir, “and entirely right. However, the horse is mine by right of conquest, since I killed its rider.”
“Ah well,” replied the man, “that sets an interesting precedent. Are you intending to conquer me also?”
“You think we cannot?”
“I would be a fool to believe I could beat forty armed soldiers. No, there is no doubt that the survivors would claim the horse.” His voice hardened. “You, however, would not be among the survivors. Nor the two riding with you. I am not sure how many others I could take with me on the Swans’ Path. Three or four probably. Even so it might be worth the risk. It is a fine horse.”
Alahir laughed. “Then you think we should attack you for it?”