This made the deceit even harder to bear.
Skilgannon had talked of ending the magic, and thereby the reign of the Eternal. What he had not said was that, in doing so, it was possible that the Jiamads, melded by magic, would die in their thousands. This meant that Shakul and his pack might unknowingly be fighting for their own doom.
Guilt nagged at the man Skilgannon, but the strategist Skilgannon knew that the Jiamads could mean the difference between success and failure. In war, he told himself, hard decisions had to be made.
And how does this make me different from the Eternal? he wondered.
Sadness touched him, merging with the guilt. He thought of the elderly abbot, Cethelin, a man who believed love was the way to change the world. The man had been prepared to die, cut down by a vengeful mob, rather than compromise his beliefs. Skilgannon had not allowed his sacrifice—and had butchered the ringleaders. Those moments of horrifying violence had ended his own attempts to become a monk, and had left Cethelin alive, but heartbroken.
Skilgannon had promised the Legend riders he would help them change the world. It was a lie. The world would not be changed by swords. In theory Cethelin was right. The greatest change could only occur when all men refused to take up swords; when war was seen not as glorious, but as obscene.
It would never happen, he knew. He glanced around the campsite at the sleeping beasts. We are Pack, Shakul had said. It was not only wolves and Jiamads that followed this hierarchical pattern. Man was the same. The strongest male would fight to rise in the pack, to dominate lesser males. It could be seen endlessly in the natural play of children. The weak and the sensitive were brushed aside by the brutish and the powerful.
Just then, in the far distance, he heard a high-pitched series of unnatural cries. On the far side of the camp Shakul stirred and sat up. Skilgannon rose to his feet and walked to his horse. Askari rolled from her bed and called out to him. “Where are you going?”
“The Shadows are abroad,” he said. “There is no room to fight here.”
Askari rose and stood by as he hefted the saddle onto the stallion’s back. Tightening the cinch, he looked at Askari and smiled. “Do not look so concerned. I shall ride out to open ground and deal with them.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
“You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon. These creatures move with terrifying speed. You are not a god, you know.”
“No, I am not. But I am a killer.” Stepping into the saddle, he touched heels to the stallion’s flanks.
Skilgannon rode out of the woods and down the hill to the flatland, constantly scanning the surrounding countryside. A quarter of a mile to the west there was a rounded hillock. From its summit he would have a clear field of vision. Against creatures of such speed he needed to be able to see them coming. Skilgannon dismounted at the top and tethered the stallion. Then he eased himself through a series of exercises, loosening his muscles and preparing his mind. The moon was low in the sky, and there was little breeze. Drawing his swords, he waited.
You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.
This was true. The Shadows may not even be coming for me, he realized. They could be looking for Decado, or Alahir, or even Askari. This thought was an uncomfortable one. If the latter was true, then he had left her unprotected. The Jiamads may be huge and powerful, but they were cumbersome and would not prevent an attack. On the other hand the Shadows paralyzed their victims. They would not have the strength to carry Askari away from the likes of Shakul. This reasoning calmed him. She would be safe with them.
And if it was Decado they were hunting? Well, in many ways that would be a problem solved.
His exercises complete, he continued to cast his gaze over the grassland, seeking not to focus on any one spot, but allowing his peripheral vision to pick up movement. Slowly the moonlight began to fade. He glanced at the sky. There were few clouds and the stars were bright, but the moon itself would soon be behind the distant peaks.
The stallion suddenly reared, its tethered front feet thumping down on the hillock. “I know, Greatheart,” he said, softly. “They are coming.”
Yet still there was nothing to be seen on the swaying grassland.
As Malanek had taught him so many centuries before, he slipped into the Illusion of Elsewhere, freeing his body to act and react instantly without need for conscious thought. This simple mind trick enabled him to cut down reaction time. His eyes continued to watch the land, but his mind concentrated on a single memory from the past. He saw himself standing with Druss the Legend on the high parapet of Boranius’s tower, after the rescue of the child Elanin. Druss had been fifty years old, his beard more gray than black, his eyes a piercing winter blue. The golden-haired little girl had been standing beside him, her small hand engulfed by his own huge fist. He had talked of returning to his cabin in the mountains, and retiring from wars and battles. Skilgannon had laughed.
“I am serious, laddie. I’ll hang Snaga on the wall and put my helm and jerkin and gauntlets into a chest. By heaven, I’ll even padlock it and throw away the key.”
“So,” said Skilgannon, “I have witnessed the last battle of Druss the Legend?”
“Druss the Legend? You know I have always hated to be called that.”
“I’m hungry, Uncle Druss,” said Elanin, tugging on his arm.
“Now that is a title I do like,” said the old warrior, lifting the child into his arms. “That is who I will be. Druss the Uncle. Druss the Farmer. And a pox on prophecies!”
“What prophecy?”
Druss had grinned. “A long time ago a seer told me I would die in battle at Dros Delnoch. It was always a nonsense. Delnoch is the greatest fortress ever built, six massive walls and a keep. There’s not an army in the world could take it—and not a leader insane enough to try.”
The grassland still seemed empty, and Druss’s last words echoed through his mind. A pox on prophecies, he had said. And yet, ten years later, the sixty-year-old Druss had stood on the walls of Dros Delnoch, defying one of the largest armies ever seen in the world.
Skilgannon had been in a tavern in Gulgothir when he had heard Druss was back, training the recruits at Delnoch. He had seen the Great Khan riding out with his army two days before, and had known the fortress would fall. Ulric was a brilliant strategist and a charismatic leader. The armies of the Drenai had been largely dismantled by a political leadership that believed this was the best way to avoid war. It was a reasonable theory. Lessen the strength of the army and you gave the clearest indication to neighboring countries that you were not planning to invade them. The problem with the theory was that it required potential enemies to be equally reasonable. For all his great skills and his enormous courage Ulric was not a reasonable man. And his problems were uniquely different from those of the rich Drenai southerners. Ulric had a vast army. Armies need to be fed and paid. The larger the force, the greater the drain on the treasury. Huge armies needed plunder. Ulric had already destroyed the Gothir. The Drenai, by reducing their fighting forces, were now virtually defenseless against him. One decrepit fortress, manned by raw recruits, farmers, and peasants, against a horde of Nadir warriors, fearless and valiant. There was only one outcome.
Skilgannon had been emotionally torn when he heard Druss was among those defenders. He loved the old man, but he also owed Ulric his life. The man had risked everything to save him when they had fought together. Two friends on opposite sides. Skilgannon could not help them both, save by staying clear of the conflict.
The decision was a heavy burden to bear.
A flicker of movement on the grassland caused his head to turn. There was nothing to be seen. He glanced at the stallion. Its ears were flat back against its skull now, and it was tense and nervous.
Returning his gaze to the darkening grassland, he saw a small, dark patch of earth some two hundred paces from him. Movement flickered again to his left, but he kept his eyes on the dark patch. Suddenly it moved, with blistering speed.
Skilgannon saw then that it was a slender figure in a hooded dark robe. Another movement to his right. They moved so fast it seemed they disappeared from one place only to appear in another, as if they were moving through invisible gateways.
Skilgannon walked several steps away from his horse, giving himself room to swing his blades. He could not beat these creatures for speed, so he watched them move across the flatland, heading inexorably for the hillock, and gauged their style of movement. Their attack was designed to confound the eye. One would move and drop to the ground. Another would move fractions of a heartbeat after the first. The victim would continue to seek out movement, and never quite be able to focus on any one Shadow. By now Skilgannon knew there were three of the creatures. He felt his heartbeat quicken with the thought of battle, and quelled the rising excitement. If they were to pierce him with the paralyzing darts, or get close enough to bite, then he didn’t want the venom to be pumped swiftly through his system by a fast heartbeat. Many years ago when his father’s retainer, Sperian, had been bitten by a snake, he had lain very still while his wife, Molaire, ran for the local apothecary. The nine-year-old Skilgannon had sat beside Sperian, who closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. Later, after the apothecary had administered an antidote, Skilgannon asked him how he could have stayed so calm. “Only way to stay alive, boy. Fear causes the heart to beat faster, and that pushes the poison around the blood faster. Don’t want that. Too much of it in the heart itself and that’s it. Life’s over.”
Moonlight had almost gone now and Skilgannon calmly awaited the attack.
It came suddenly. Something bright flashed before his eyes. The Sword of Day swept up. A dart cannoned from the blade, spinning off across the hillock. Skilgannon dived to his left. A second dart missed his face by inches. Rolling to his feet he lunged—the sword cutting into a dark robe, and slicing through it. Skilgannon rolled again, coming up fast.
The Sword of Night swept out, biting through flesh and bone. Skilgannon had not even seen the creature’s approach. The cut had been an automatic response. The Shadow fell writhing to the ground. Something sharp bit into Skilgannon’s shoulder. He staggered back, feeling the venom in his system. He stood very still, then toppled to his knees, his arms outstretched, his sword tips resting on the earth. Staying calm, he slowed his heartbeat once more, concentrating deeply. He did not blink or move. The remaining two creatures came into sight, no longer darting. They watched him. Then they moved forward, lips drawn back. One had a thick, single curved fang, which jutted over its lower lip; the other boasted two slender fangs. Their mouths widened as they approached him, squatting down. The Swords of Night and Day swept up. One sliced through the first creature’s throat, the second almost missed as the Shadow hurled itself backward. But the Sword of Night cut through its ribs and across its stomach, disemboweling it. The creature tried to run, then stumbled and fell, twitching, to the earth.
Skilgannon’s limbs were getting heavy now. The Swords dropped from his fingers.
Numbness crept through his limbs. Slowly he toppled sideways, not able to feel the cold grass against his cheek. Despite the paralysis he felt a sense of exultation. The three Shadows were dead, and he had won again!
His eyes were still open—and he saw a fourth Shadow moving up the hillside.
You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.
Oh how true it felt at that precise moment.
The Shadow approached him and squatted down, staring at him with baleful eyes. Then it drew a wickedly curved dagger. “Eat your heart,” it said.
Skilgannon could not reply. In a bewildering instant the creature was suddenly looming over him, the dagger resting on Skilgannon’s chest. He could see the dagger, but could no longer see the creature above him. He heard it grunt, though, as it slumped across him. He wondered what was happening. Was it biting through his paralyzed, unfeeling neck?
Then its body was hauled away and dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Skilgannon could see that a long shaft had shattered its temple, the point emerging on the other side.
Askari sat down beside him. “Well, well,” she said, brightly, “what have we here? It cannot be the legendary, invincible warrior. The man who fights alone and never loses. The man who needs no help. Must be someone who looks like him.”
The ground drifted away from him, and Skilgannon became aware he was being lifted. His body was hauled up, his head falling against Shakul’s chest.
“You are going to have the worst headache of your life when you awaken, Skilgannon. However, you deserve it,” said Askari, leaning in toward him and closing his eyes.
O nce back in his apartments Memnon removed his clothes and washed the blood from his hands and arms. His satin shirt was ruined. Bloodstains rarely completely vanished from the fragile cloth. It was a shame, for the shirt was one of his favorites, dark blue, with gold trim. Once he had cleaned himself and donned fresh clothing, he called for a servant to summon Oranin.
The young man arrived an hour later, bowing deeply and offering profuse apologies. “I was not in my room, Lord, so it took them some time to find me.”
“No matter,” said Memnon. “You will be working alone for a while. I require you to search through the journals, looking for any reference to the technique Landis Khan used to create me. You understand?”
“Of course, Lord. Is Patiacus returning to Diranan?”
“Patiacus is dead. He betrayed me. Parts of him are still littering the laboratory floor. Clean them up yourself. The sight of his remains would disturb the servants. I shall be leaving tomorrow, to join the Eternal. You will work diligently while I am gone. I expect to see a successful conclusion to your studies.”
“And you shall, Lord,” said Oranin, bowing once more. “Might I ask how Patiacus betrayed you?”
“Why?”
“So that I do not make the same mistake,” replied the man, with transparent honesty.
Memnon sighed. “It was not a small oversight, Oranin. I did not kill him out of pique. He poisoned my Reborns. I should have expected something of the kind. Always been a problem of mine to see the best in people.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” asked Oranin, appalled.
“On the orders of the Eternal. It is so obvious, really. As a mortal I could serve her diligently. As an Immortal I might have become a threat. Understandable. I don’t doubt, had the situation been reversed, that I, too, might have come to the same conclusion.”
“You are not angry with her, Lord?”
“I do not become angry, Oranin. She is the Eternal. It is not for me to question her on grounds of loyalty, or treachery. The virtues of the one are ephemeral, the vices of the other debatable. It is merely the nature of politics, Oranin. Go now, and do as I have bid.”
Alone once more Memnon stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. It took him time to release his spirit, but once he had done so he soared up over the palace and sped north. He hovered for a while over the tent of the Eternal. Guards patrolled outside, while inside she slept. He gazed at her face, enjoying the exquisite beauty of her. Then he moved on.
Some twenty miles north of the encamped army he found Decado, asleep in the midst of a group of soldiers. There was no sign of Skilgannon. Memnon circled the area, at last heading east over wide grassland. He almost missed the dead Shadows, only seeing the bodies at the last moment when one of them screeched in pain. Memnon floated down above it. Its skinny legs were drawn up, its clawed, blood-covered hands seeking to stem the flow of blood from its gutted belly.
Four bodies there were—one with an arrow through the skull.
It was unheard of. Four Shadows killed in a single night. He floated closer. Three had been killed by a sharp blade, the last by a shaft. They would not have attacked had the victim not been alone, or vulnerable. Far off to the right Memnon saw a twinkling campfire. His spirit sped to it.
There were Jiamads there, and several humans. One was the Eternal’s Reborn, the other a bearded man in clothes
of bright crimson. Memnon admired the tunic shirt, which was beautifully cut, though the cloth was not of the highest quality. The third human was Skilgannon, who was lying down, apparently asleep.
“Might have been better had they killed him,” said the man in the red shirt.
“Don’t say that, Stavi!”
“I didn’t mean it. Well . . . not entirely. Because of him my lads are going into danger.”
“That is not fair. They are going because of you. You could always stay here. After we succeed I will come back and find you.”
“I love the optimism. You are going to find a temple that no longer exists and destroy the source of a magic you don’t understand. What does it really look like, this thing you call an egg? How will you know it when you see it? Silver eagles, magic shields! None of it makes any sense.”
“It does, as Skilgannon explained it to me. The ancients could and did work miracles that we no longer understand. They created the magic. It doesn’t matter how it works, the fact is that it does. Now bear with me. The artifacts of the elders were just that, for a long while. Empty and dead. Suddenly they had life. Something woke them, powered them. Something at the temple. The legend says that all this power comes from the silver eagle in the sky.”
“Metal birds,” muttered the man, scornfully.
“Forget birds. Something metal was raised into the sky by the ancients. Whatever it was gave them the power to work magic. Now somewhere, way back in the olden days, that power suddenly stopped. It no longer reached the artifacts. They all stopped. They . . . slept . . . would be the best way to describe it. Then something happened, and the power returned. You understand?”
“I understand this is making my head hurt.”
“Think of it this way. There is a cup that is empty. It does nothing. It sits. It has no uses. Then someone goes to a well and fills the cup with water. Now it is useful again. You can drink from it.”