“The Moon has been growing weaker,” said the old priest, his voice a dry whisper. “It is because I have not taken it to the Shrine to pray. It always gleamed when I did that.”
“You allowed me to take all its power,” said Skilgannon. “Why?”
“To pay a debt. I am the oldest of the brethren, Skilgannon. The last of them. You look at me now and you see a twisted ancient. I looked different when you rescued me from the Nadir. I was young then, and full of idealism. Did you keep in touch with little Dayan?”
“No.”
“A sweet girl. She wed a young man and went to live in Virinis. I visited her there several times. She had seven children. Her life was happy, and she gave joy to all who knew her. She was over eighty when she died. A full life, I think.”
“That is good to know.”
“Do not let the evil one desecrate the Shrine.”
“Her evil will end today. I promise you that.”
Skilgannon rose, drew the Swords of Night and Day, and walked from the room.
Outside the sun was beginning to set.
21
I t took several hours for columns of unarmed men to climb the high road and carry away the Guard dead and wounded. Stavut walked back to the poolside, where a number of the veterans were trying to stanch the wounds of the Drenai injured. Many of the older riders carried needle and thread, but so great were the numbers of wounded that many were unattended. Stavut removed his hauberk and helm, casting aside his saber. He moved to a young man who was trying vainly to stitch a wound in his own side. The cut extended over his hip and around to his back. Stavut ordered the man to lie down, then took the needle from his hand. “The chain mail parted,” said the soldier.
“Lie still.”
“It was made for my great-grandfather. Some of the rings were badly worn.”
“There’ll be plenty of mail to choose from after today,” Stavut told him, glancing across to the pile of hauberks that had been removed from the dead and stacked against the cliff wall. Stavut drew the last flaps of flesh together, drawing the thread tight and then knotting it. Taking the man’s knife from his belt, he cut the excess thread clear. The rider’s face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his face.
“My thanks to you, Stavut,” he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt of pain.
“Where are you going?”
“To find a new hauberk.” The man staggered off. Stavut saw him sifting through the discarded armor.
Stavut moved on to the next wounded man, only to find that he had bled to death. A number of the injured had broken arms or legs. Several Drenai soldiers brought enemy shields back to the poolside and began breaking them up to make splints. Even as he stitched wounds and offered comfort to the bleeding men, Stavut found himself wondering why. The beasts were coming, and there was no way they could be turned back. All this effort was a waste of energy. Every man here would be killed when the end came. Yet around him he could hear wounded men making jokes and chatting to one another.
He worked on. Druss came by to talk to the wounded, then stripped off his armor and waded into the pool, washing the blood from his face and body.
Druss.
Stavut no longer thought of him as Harad. How could he? What he had seen today had been awesome. The axman had stood like a great rock against an onrushing sea. The immovable against the unstoppable. Druss emerged from the pool and sat in the sunshine for a while. Then, once dry, pulled on his clothing and hauberk. There was still blood upon his face. The water had washed away the forming scabs. Stavut walked over to him. “I’ll stitch those cuts,” he said.
“Just the one above the eye,” said Druss. “It was damned annoying trying to fight and blink away the blood.”
“What will happen to Harad?” asked Stavut.
“Do not fret, laddie. When this day is done he will return. I am not a thief.”
“I didn’t think you were. Not for a heartbeat,” said Stavut with a smile.
“He didn’t have the experience to survive this—especially not with a cracked skull.”
Stavut suddenly laughed. “You really still think we are going to win?”
Druss looked at him. “Winning is not everything, Stavut. Men like to think it is. Sometimes it is more important to stand against evil than to worry about beating it. When I was a young man, serving with Gorben’s Immortals, we took a city. The ruler there was a vile man. I heard a story there. His soldiers had rounded up a group of Source priests, and they decided to burn them all. One citizen stepped out from the crowd and spoke against the deed. He told them that what they were doing was evil, and that they should be ashamed of themselves.”
“And did he save the priests?”
“No. And they killed him, too. But that’s what I am saying, laddie. I remembered that man’s deed, and it inspired me. Others who saw it would have been inspired. Evil will always have the worst weapons. Evil will gather the greatest armies. They will burn, and plunder, and kill. But that’s not the worst of it. They will try to make us believe that the only way to destroy them is by becoming like them. That is the true vileness of evil. It is contagious. That one man reminded me of that, and helped me keep to the code.”
Stavut inserted the needle into the split flesh above Druss’s eye and carefully sealed the cut. “You believe that you can defeat evil with an ax? Is that not a contradiction in terms?”
“Of course it is, laddie. That’s always the danger. However, in this instance I am merely standing my ground. If they come at me I will cut them down. I am not invading their land, or burning their cities, or ravaging their women. I am not trying to force them to bend the knee, or accept my philosophy or religion. Do I think we can win today? I think we have already won. I have seen it in the eyes of the Guard. Will we die? Probably.”
Stavut tied the knot in the stitch, then cut the thread.
“Almost time,” said Druss, glancing at the sky. “Best get your armor on.”
“I don’t think so, Druss. I shall help the wounded. I’ll stand my ground without a sword in my hand.”
“Good for you, laddie,” said the axman.
Taking up his ax, he strode away toward the road.
A lahir stood and watched as the last of the bodies was carried down the hill road. The battleground was clear again, and if Druss was right, the Jiamads would come next. There were less than a hundred Drenai warriors to face them, and many of those were carrying wounds. Even those who had escaped injury were exhausted. Had the troop been at full strength it was unlikely they would be able to defeat a hundred Jiamads. Alahir’s heart grew heavy. He had learned so much in these last few days, about leadership, and courage, and the nobility of spirit that so often characterized fighting men. He had also learned what separated the ordinary warrior from legends like Druss. Earlier today he had been knocked from his feet, and a warrior had loomed over him, ready for the death blow. In that moment Alahir saw Druss glance in his direction. But the axman did not come to his aid. Instead it had been Gilden who flung himself at the attacker, blocking the blow and killing the Guardsman. After the battle Alahir had replayed the scene in his mind. Druss was holding his ground. To turn away and aid Alahir would have meant showing his back to the enemy. He had made an instant judgment. Alahir’s death, while hopefully regrettable, was less important than containing the Guard. Such intensity of focus was beyond Alahir. In fact it is beyond most men, he thought. Druss in combat was a killing machine of relentless power and determination. He radiated a kind of invincibility that cowed those facing him. Alahir hoped he would have the same effect on the Jiamads.
Even as the thought came to him, he glanced down the long road. The Jiamads were forming up. Many of them carried huge swords, others clubs. Swinging around, Alahir called out: “Form ranks!”
Drenai soldiers gathered up their bows and ran along the road. Druss approached, walking past Alahir and scanning the advancing beasts. “We need to hit them from here, then fall back, line by line,
to the poolside,” said Druss. “The entrance is narrow. Easier to defend.” Alahir agreed, and issued orders to his riders. Forty men gathered, nocking shafts to the string. Twenty paces behind them fifteen more bowmen stood in line. Alahir organized three other ranks of fifteen, spaced all the way back to the pool entrance. Then he walked back to stand with the first group, leaving Druss standing by the entrance.
The Jiamads were halfway up the slope when the Drenai sent the first volley sailing through the air. The arrows rose and curved, then flew down into the Jiamad ranks. The range was long, and only two Jiamads fell, and one of those rose again. Others ignored the arrows jutting from their flesh, or ripped them clear. Then they began to run. Another volley hit them. This time three went down and did not rise.
They were closer now, and their roaring echoed through the mountains. As they neared the defenders, the arrows struck them harder, and with more penetrating force. Alahir counted at least ten dead.
Not enough, he thought.
One last volley struck them. They were only twenty paces away when the shafts struck.
“Back!” bellowed Alahir.
The archers spun on their heels and sprinted up the road, moving between the next rank, who loosed another volley before themselves turning and running.
The beasts charged, their speed incredible. They overran the fourth rank of bowmen, smashing through them. One archer was dragged from his feet and hurled out over the precipice. Others were ripped or hacked to pieces. Throwing aside their bows, the Drenai who had made it to the pool entrance drew their sabers. Druss hefted Snaga. The first of the beasts rushed at the waiting men. Druss leapt to meet it, Snaga crunching through its skull. As it fell Druss wrenched the ax clear, sweeping it out in a murderous cut that clove through the rib cage of a second beast. Alahir surged foward to support the axman, spearing his golden blade through the heart of a huge creature bearing a massive sword. In its death throes the beast hammered his weapon against the bronze breastplate. Alahir was lifted from his feet and thrown against the cliff wall. Around him the soldiers were fighting courageously, but the dead were mounting. The beasts were just too large and powerful. Only Druss was able to hold his ground. Two of the creatures burst through the Drenai lines and, maddened by the smell of blood from the wounded, raced into the pool area. Several of the wounded, armed with bows, shot them down.
Alahir struggled to regain his feet. Someone reached down and hauled him up. It was Stavut. The merchant was not wearing armor, but had a saber in his hand. There was no time to speak. Alahir pushed forward, hacking and stabbing.
Instinctively he knew it was to no avail. They had but moments left before the line broke and the beasts swept through.
Then he saw the giant form of Shakul appear behind the Jiamad lines. An enemy beast was hurled from its feet, a second lifted high and pitched from the precipice. Others of Stavut’s pack appeared. They tore into the enemy ranks, forcing back the Jiamads. “Now!” yelled Druss. “Attack!”
It was a pivotal moment. Alahir knew it, and Druss had voiced it. Raising the golden sword, Alahir bellowed: “On Drenai! Victory!” The surviving defenders surged out of the entrance. Ahead Alahir saw the mighty Shakul, his body pierced by two huge spears, still fighting. A sword smashed into his side, bringing a roar of pain. Druss, coming alongside, killed the wielder. Stavut ran past Alahir, heading for the stricken Shakul. Alahir tried to call him back, but the merchant was not listening.
“Shak!” he cried out. “Shak! I am with you!”
As he tried to reach the beast a Jiamad thrust a spear into his back. Stavut staggered and fell. Shakul leapt upon the spear wielder, flinging him aside. Another spear plunged into him. This time even Shakul’s mighty strength gave out. Falling first to his knees, he pitched sideways to the ground. Alahir and several Legend riders charged into the beasts around him.
And the remaining Jiamads broke and ran.
Members of Stavut’s pack gave chase. Alahir swung around to see Stavut crawling to Shakul’s side, leaving a trail of blood as he moved. Alahir ran to him. Stavut reached Shakul and struggled to his knees. The great beast rolled to his back, two spears embedded in his chest. “Oh Shakul,” said Stavut, “why did you come back? I wanted you to run free.” Blood was flowing fast from the death wound in Stavut’s back and the exit wound in his belly. As his strength failed, he sagged across Shakul’s chest. Alahir was joined by Gilden and some of the other riders, and they stood staring down at the dead man and the dying Jiamad. Shakul’s arm came up around Stavut. “Run free . . . now,” he said.
Alahir knelt beside Shakul. “I thank you, my friend,” he said. “We all thank you.”
Gilden came alongside. Reaching out, he touched his finger to one of the wounds in Shakul’s chest. Then he lifted it to his mouth. “Carry with us,” said Gilden. Shakul’s golden eyes stared at the man. Then they closed. Others of Stavut’s pack gathered around. One by one they each took blood from the wound. Alahir rose.
“Good-bye, Tinker,” he said. “I shall miss you.” A stoop-shouldered Jiamad approached Alahir. It spoke, and Alahir struggled to understand it. Slowly the beast repeated the words.
“Go now. Hunt deer.”
With that he led the fifteen surviving members of the pack away. As they left Alahir saw Druss waving to him from the narrow point in the road. Alahir walked down to him. The axman pointed down to the Guard’s camp. Their Jiamads had fled, and there was no indication of another attack.
“I think we won, laddie,” said Druss.
“Aye, we did, but what a cost. I feel a great sense of shame, Druss. All our lives we have been taught Drenai legends. Nobility, bravery, truth. Part of that truth was that Jiamads were soulless beasts, devils in flesh. Yet they came back and died for us.” He looked at Druss and asked: “Were there animals in the Void?”
“No. Just human souls.”
“Then they have nowhere to go when they die.”
“I didn’t say that,” Druss told him. “I don’t know the answer, but my heart tells me that there is a place for them. A place for all living things. Nothing truly dies, Alahir.”
Gilden called out from above them, and pointed down into the valley below.
Alahir and Druss walked to the edge.
Where the crater had been now stood a mountain. Shining bright upon its peak was a dazzling shield of gold.
J ianna walked out of the room, leaving Skilgannon dying on the floor. Stabbing him had been instinctive rather than planned, and as she walked on the full horror of it seeped through the centuries of emotional barriers she had constructed in her mind.
She felt a tightness in her stomach and a lump in her throat. Tears welled. In truth Jianna had known she would have to kill him. Olek would never have compromised. This realization clashed with her promise to bring him back. Another twenty years in the Void, while a new Reborn was cast from his bones, would do nothing to change who he was, what he believed in.
You just killed the man you loved.
The thought was sickening. One by one the barriers crumbled. The first to fall was Justification. She had always told herself that she never set out to become the Eternal. Her first actions had been to save the temple. Everything after that had become self-perpetuating. She saw now that it was untrue. She had gloried in her new life, building armies and conquering cities. She had adored the near worship she inspired in her followers. In the beginning she had convinced herself she would build a new world, perfect and peaceful, and she would one day bring Skilgannon back to rule by her side. They would be happy. They would have the life she always believed she had dreamed of.
Another lie.
Jianna stood head bowed at the foot of a high circular stairwell.
Back in Naashan, in those early days, when she first met Olek, she had also been full of dreams. She remembered them talking in the gardens of Olek’s house, about the need for hospitals and schools, and clean water for the center of the city, where disease was rife. About building a b
etter Naashan, where the people would be happy and content, secure in the knowledge that their leader cared for them. The naive dreams of the young, she had told herself later. Dreams that were crushed by the harsh reality of betrayal, and the unbridled ambition of those who sought to usurp her. A ruler needed to be cool and detached, ever alert to treachery. The people needed to respect that ruler, and respect was bought by fear.
Now, in the aftermath of the killing, she knew that this was also largely a lie.
Alahir and his men had ridden into peril for Skilgannon, not because they feared him, but because they were inspired by him. The beasts had followed Stavut not because he would kill them if they didn’t, but because he loved them.
Jianna let out a long breath and wiped away the tears. The crowning achievement of her five hundred years of power was the murder of the one man she had truly loved.
Her thoughts somber, she climbed the stairwell, the rusting metal steps groaning under her tread. At the top she came to another doorway. This was unlocked, and she stepped into the Crystal Shrine. The room was vast and circular, the walls decorated with bright metal, full of flickering lights, displaying arcane symbols in reds and greens. At the center, on a raised dais, circled with a silver railing, was a golden column, rising up through the vaulted ceiling. As she walked in Jianna became aware of a tingling in her skin and a faint vibration from the floor beneath her. Drawn to the dais, she climbed the ten steps that led to it and gazed at the base of the golden column. Brightly colored swirls of smoke writhed within a three-foot-high transparent tube. At the center of the tube a massive white crystal was slowly spinning, light reflecting from its facets and casting rainbow colors across the high, vaulted ceiling.