Skilgannon took a deep breath. The air was fresh and cold, and he felt suddenly at peace. More memories flowed then. The chubby priest had been called Braygan. Skilgannon had left him in the war-torn city of Mellicane, before he and Druss the Legend and a group of fighters had set off to rescue the child, Elanin, held in a citadel by Nadir warriors.
A savage exultation coursed through Skilgannon, drowning the frustration of these last few days. He could not remember everything, but he knew he had fought no dragons. There was no winged horse. Nine-tenths of the stories of his life were legends, and the rest were stretched and twisted beyond recognition.
Landis Khan came alongside him and gratefully stepped down from the saddle. “You had us worried,” he said.
“I met some of your Joinings. They are less fearsome than those I recall.”
Landis looked at him closely. “You are recovering your memories?”
“Not all. There are large gaps. But I know a great deal more now.”
“That is good, my friend. Then you should meet Gamal.”
“Who is he?”
“An old man—the wisest of us. I invited him to live in my home when he finally lost his sight last spring. It was he who found your soul in the Void and brought you back to us.”
Skilgannon shivered suddenly. A sharp image came to him, of a slate-gray sky and a landscape devoid of trees or plants. Then it was gone.
They walked together, Landis leading the chestnut. A line of women came into sight, moving up the hillside toward the timberline. All conversation ceased as they came close to Landis Khan and his “guest.” The women passed by with eyes downcast. Skilgannon saw they were carrying baskets of food. Landis noticed his interest. “They are bringing food to the loggers working beyond the timberline,” he said.
“A wagon and a single driver would be more effective, surely,” observed Skilgannon. “Or do the women bring more than just food?”
Landis smiled. “Some of them are wed to loggers, and perhaps they creep off into the undergrowth for a while. In the main, however, they just bring food. You speak of effectiveness. Yes, a wagon would bring more supplies, more swiftly, with considerably better economy of effort. It would not, though, encourage a sense of community, of mutual caring.”
“That is a good principle,” said Skilgannon. “How does it equate with the fact that when they passed here none of them spoke, and not one of them looked up at us?”
“A good question,” observed Landis, “and I am sure you already know the answer. It is important to encourage a sense of community. People need to feel valued. It would be exceedingly foolish, however, for a leader to join in. He needs to set himself apart from his followers. If he were to sit among them, and chat to them, and share with them, eventually someone would ask him why he was the leader. By what right did he rule? No leader wishes to engage in that conversation. No, I am like the shepherd, Skilgannon. I muster the sheep and lead them to good grazing land. I do not, however, feel the need to squat down and munch grass with them. Was it so different in your day?”
“For many years I served a warrior queen,” replied Skilgannon. “She would tolerate no defiance to her will. Those who spoke against her—those she even thought were speaking against her—died. In many ways the society prospered. The Drenai, on the other hand, had no kings. All their leaders were elected by the votes of the people. Yet they also prospered for many centuries.”
“Yet in the end both fell,” said Landis.
“All empires fall. The good, the bad, the cruel, and the inspired. For every dawn there is a sunset, Landis.”
Back at the palace a groom led away the chestnut and Landis and Skilgannon climbed to the uppermost level, entering a high circular tower. “Gamal is very old,” Landis told Skilgannon. “He is blind now, and frail. He is, however, an Empath and versed in the ancient shamanic skills.”
Landis pushed open a door and the two men stepped into a circular chamber, the floor scattered with rugs. Gamal was sitting in an old leather chair, a blanket around his thin shoulders. His head came up, and Skilgannon saw that his eyes were the color of pale opals. “Welcome, warrior, to the new world,” he said. “Pull up a chair and sit with me for a while.”
Skilgannon settled himself in another armchair. Landis was about to do the same when the old man spoke again. “No, Landis, my dear, you must leave Skilgannon and I alone for a little while. Come back in an hour and we will all talk.”
Landis looked surprised, and a little concerned, but he forced a smile. “Of course,” he said.
After Landis had gone the old man leaned forward. “Do you know yet who you are?”
“I know.”
“I will be honest with you, Skilgannon. I am not a man who places great faith in prophecies. Landis—dear though he is to me—is a man obsessed. I brought your soul back because he asked me to. However, like so much in our modern world, it is against nature to do such a thing. Worse than that, it was morally wrong of me. I should have resisted it.”
“Why did you not?”
The old man gave a rueful smile. “A question that deserves a better answer than I can give. Landis asked it of me, and I could not refuse.” Gamal sighed. “You must understand, Skilgannon, Landis is trying to protect this land and its people. He is right to fear for the future. The Rebel Armies are currently fighting among themselves. But that war is nearing its conclusion. When it is won the Eternal could turn her eyes toward these mountains. Landis would do anything to prevent his people being enslaved. Can you blame him?”
“No. It is the nature of strong men to fight invaders. Tell me of the Eternal.”
Gamal smiled. “I could tell you all I know, and that would be but a fraction of all there is to know. Suffice to say she is the queen of all the lands between here and the southern seas and the far western mountains. Her armies are now fighting battles on two continents. We live in a world that has been at war for more than five hundred years. For most of that time the Eternal has ruled. She is, like you and I, Skilgannon, a Reborn. I would imagine she has lost count of the number of bodies she has worn and discarded.”
Gamal fell silent, lost in thought. Skilgannon waited for the old man to continue. After a while Gamal drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He shivered. “I served her for five lifetimes. In those three hundred and thirty years I almost lost my humanity. Just as she has. We are not created to be immortal, Skilgannon. I do not fully understand it even now, but I know that death is necessary. Perhaps it is merely that we need the contrast. Without the darkness of night how can we fully appreciate the glory of the sunrise?”
Skilgannon ignored the philosophical question. “If she has ruled all this time, why is it that Landis Khan has not been troubled before?”
“He served her faithfully. These lands were his reward.”
“No,” said Skilgannon. “I think there is more to it. That is why you did not want Landis here when we spoke.”
The old man hesitated. “Yes, there is,” he said, finally. “You are very astute. Landis and I developed a talent for discovering artifacts of the ancient world—the world long, long before you fought your battles, Skilgannon. The elder races had powers beyond imagination. Despite all our discoveries we still know very little. Like finding part of a rotted leaf, and trying to extrapolate from it what the tree might have been like. What we do know is that the ancients destroyed themselves. How or why remains a mystery.”
“All this is fascinating,” said Skilgannon, “but can we hold to the path?”
“Of course, my boy. Forgive me. The mind wanders. You want to know why Landis has been so favored.” Gamal paused, then drew in a long breath. “He discovered her bones. He fought for her right to a new life, and when he succeeded, he and I went on to refine and improve the power of the artifacts, giving her immortality. We created the Eternal.”
“I can see why she would reward you,” said Skilgannon. “Why do you now fear her?”
“One answer to that would be you, my
boy. The Blessed Priestess and her prophecy. You know of whom I speak?”
“Ustarte,” said Skilgannon. “She came to me before the last battle. She told me I was to die, and she asked me to grant her a wish.”
“She wanted the right to conduct your burial,” said Gamal.
“Yes.”
“Was she as wise as the legends tell us?”
“I have not read all your legends. Those concerning me are ridiculous and far-fetched. But, yes, Ustarte was wise. She told me she had seen many futures, and some of them were bleak beyond despair.”
“Did she tell you why she wanted your body?”
“No. Nor did I ask. My concerns were for the battle against the Zharn. She assured me that I would win it.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
“You had put aside the Swords of Night and Day for more than ten years. Why did you wield them again?”
“I had no choice. I was fifty-four years old and long past my prime. They aided me.”
“They also cursed you, Skilgannon.”
“I know.”
“It is why you were wandering in the Void for all those centuries. You could not pass on to the green fields.”
“That is not why. None of the legends of my life you have here tell of the evils I committed.”
“You are speaking of the massacre at Perapolis.”
Skilgannon was surprised. “How is it that you know of it?”
“I know many things I have not yet shared with Landis. You and I spoke in the Void. You were reluctant to return at first. There was a great part of your soul that desired the punishment the Void offered. Yet when the demons attacked, you fought them. You would not willingly let your soul be extinguished.”
“I have no memories of this.”
“Some will come back. You are now a creature of the flesh once more. Memories of the flesh return far more swiftly than the recollections of the spirit.”
“Why am I here, Gamal? What does Landis think I can do?”
The old man shrugged. “He does not truly know. I do not know. Perhaps you can do nothing. It seems to me that even were you to take up the swords again, you would not be able to turn back Jiamad armies. It is a mystery, Skilgannon. Life is full of mysteries.” Holding tightly to the blanket around his shoulders, the old man rose to his feet and tottered out to the balcony. Skilgannon followed him. Gamal settled himself into a wicker chair, a thick cushion against his lower back. “Beautiful, is it not?” he said, waving a thin hand toward the distant mountains.
“Yes,” Skilgannon agreed.
“I can still see them in my mind, though if I need to I can float my spirit free. I did so earlier, and observed your meeting with some of our Jiamads. You are not a man who scares easily.”
“Whom did they kill?”
“I think you know the answer to that. Longbear killed the one you downed. Tore out his throat.” Gamal sighed. “Once—a long time ago—Longbear was a friend of mine. A good man.”
“Yet you turned him into a beast.”
“Yes, we did. Needs must when the wolves gather.” Gamal gave a weak laugh. “I gave him the name Longbear. He was a man who admired bears. The admiration he felt for them was what killed him. He used to observe them. Full of confidence, he would walk the high country, learning all he could about their habits. He wrote many of them down. One day he was watching a female leading her cubs to one of the upper waterfalls. She suddenly turned on him. Have you ever seen a bear attack?”
“Yes. For creatures so large their speed is terrifying.”
“As he discovered. He was mauled by it. A group of hunters found him. They brought him back, but there was nothing we could do. Not only were the wounds hideous, but they became infected. When he was dying he offered himself for the joining. We melded him with a young bear.”
“Does he remember who he was?” asked Skilgannon.
Gamal shook his head. “Some Jiamads do. They do not last long. They are driven mad. Mostly a new personality emerges. Some things remain, though we do not understand why. A loyal man will become a loyal beast. A sly man will remain untrustworthy. Yet another mystery.”
“Are all your Joinings volunteers?”
“No. Most are criminals—outlaws, thieves, rapists, killers. They are condemned to die by the judges, and, upon their deaths, they are melded.”
“It does not seem wise,” said Skilgannon, “to make a killer even more powerful.”
“No, it does not,” agreed Gamal, “and that is where the jewels come in. You saw that they had stones embedded into their skulls?”
“Yes.”
“Through them we control the Jiamads. We can administer pleasure or pain, keep them alive or kill them. They know this. It keeps them subservient. The Eternal’s Jiamads have no such stones. But then she cares nothing if they go on a rampage and slay peasants.”
A light breeze whispered over the balcony wall. Gamal shivered and returned to his room. There was a fire lit. The old man went to it and knelt before the dying flames. Holding out his hand he gauged the heat, then fumbled for a log, which he added to the blaze. “Being blind is such a bore,” he said.
“It seems to me that if you have the magic to meld man and beast, you should be able to heal your eyes,” observed Skilgannon.
“And we can. But I will use it no more,” said Gamal. Returning to his chair, he sat down and sighed. “I have lived for many lifetimes. I was arrogant, and believed in the greater good. It was a deceit. Reborns deceive themselves so easily. We are immortal and therefore, somehow, important. Such a nonsense. But let us talk of you. What do you desire now?”
“I don’t know yet. Not another war. That is certain.”
“And understandable. You have been fighting in the Void for a thousand years. Enough, I feel, for any man.”
“What was I fighting?”
“Demons, and the dark souls of the cursed. The Void is a terrible place for those condemned to walk there. Most pass through it swiftly; some wander for a while. Few accomplish what you did. But then you had help. You recall?”
“No.”
“When I was with you, a shining figure came. He helped you in a fight against several demons that had cornered you in a ravine.”
“As I said I have no knowledge of the Void. Nor—I think—do I wish to recall it. You ask what I desire here. What if I were to tell you that I desire to leave? To journey back to lands I remember?”
“Then I would wish you well, Skilgannon, and furnish you with coin, and weapons, and a sound horse. I fear, however, you would not get far. This war is being waged across two continents. Death and desolation are everywhere. There are roving bands of renegade Jiamads; there are men who have given themselves over to the darkest beasts of their own natures. Some areas are now desolate of life, others suffer famine and disease. War is dreadful at any time, but this war is particularly vile. If you leave here alone it will be much as the Void was to you—save there will be no shining figure to help you.”
“Even so I think I will risk it,” said Skilgannon. “I have been studying maps in Landis’s library. Petar is not on them. Where are we now, in relation to Naashan?”
“In your time this would have been Drenai land, bordering the Sathuli realm. Naashan is across the sea. You can sail from Draspartha . . . I believe it was called Dros Purdol in the past. However, might I ask a favor before you go?”
“You can ask.”
“Give it one month before you decide. You are a young man again. A month is not a long time.”
“I will think on it,” Skilgannon told him.
“Good. In the meantime there is a mystery you can help us solve. Tomorrow Landis will take you up into the hills. There is a man there I would dearly like you to meet.”
“What is the mystery?”
“Bear with me, Skilgannon. Meet the man, and then we will talk again.”
“You still have not told me why you now fear the Eternal,” said Skilgannon. ?
??Nor why you did not wish Landis to be here when we spoke.”
“Forgive me, my boy. I am very tired now. I will tell you all when next we speak. I promise you.”
W hen the fight started Harad walked away. It was none of his concern. The loggers from the upper valleys were arrogant men, and argumentative. Harad usually ignored them, and they, in turn, wanted no trouble with him. Truth was, no one wanted any trouble with the man now known as Harad Bone Breaker. It was not a title the huge, black-bearded young logger had sought, nor was it one that he liked. It had proved effective, however, and life was generally more calm. He had not been provoked into breaking anyone’s bones for more than five months now. People avoided him—which was exactly how he preferred it.
Moving back from the fight, Harad sat down on a felled tree and took up his meal pack. Fresh bread and strong cheese. The bread was just as he liked it, slightly overbaked, the crust dark and crisp, the center soft and full of flavor. Tearing off a chunk, he chewed slowly, trying to ignore the sounds of fists on flesh and the shouting of the watchers. The cheese was disappointing. There was no tang to the flavor. Good cheese would cause the tongue to cleave to the roof of the mouth, and the eyes to water.
A slim, golden-haired young woman approached him. “You have bread crumbs in your beard,” she said. Harad brushed them away. He could feel his tension rising. Charis had not walked across the clearing to talk about crumbs. “Someone should stop this fight,” she said.
“Then go and stop it,” snapped Harad. Charis ignored the tone and sat down on the log beside him. He tried not to look at her, and struggled to avoid reacting to the fact that her leg was touching his. It was impossible. With a heavy sigh he put down his bread.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, trying to sound angry.
“They are going to hurt him,” she said. “It is not right.”
Harad glanced across to the fight. The young logger, Arin, was battling gamely, but the High Valley man he was fighting was taller and heavier. There was blood on Arin’s cheek, and his lower lip had been split. A crowd had gathered. They were shouting encouragement to the fighters.