The Eagle’s Egg! The source of all magic. It was beautiful, and as she came close to it Jianna felt all weariness leave her body.
The voice of Memnon whispered into her mind.
We are close, Highness. Is Skilgannon with you?
“I killed him,” she said, aloud. Again her stomach knotted.
Excellent.
A door opened on the far side of the chamber, and she saw Decado step through, the Swords of Blood and Fire in his hands. Blood dripped from the blades.
He looked up and saw her, but did not smile. Behind him came Memnon. He was not wearing his familiar robes, but dressed in riding clothes, a dark blue tunic, purple leggings, and exquisitely designed boots of lizard skin. He advanced into the room and did not bow.
For all her grief and self-absorption Jianna had not lost her intellect, nor her blade-sharp sense of danger.
“Do I catch the scent of treachery here, my dear?” she asked, moving to the silver railing and gazing down on the two men.
“Treachery, Highness?” responded Memnon. “Let us pause for a moment and examine the question. Would you say that I have served you loyally, and with devotion? Can you offer a single shred of evidence that I have ever conspired to cause you harm?”
“Not until now,” she said.
“Ah, but I did not know then what I know now. All these years you have been murdering my children, preventing me from acquiring the benefits of true longevity. In these last moments of your immortal life perhaps you would tell me why?”
Jianna laughed. “You already know why. As a mortal you served me. As an Immortal you would have been a threat to me. As with so much else, Memnon, it all comes down to self-survival. I take it you have already killed my other Reborns?”
“The last one died an hour ago. Your reign ends here, Highness. An apt place, don’t you think?”
Transferring her gaze to Decado, she smiled. “And it will be you, sweet lover, who delivers the death blow?”
“Is it a difficult choice for me?” asked Decado. “On the one hand there is the treacherous bitch who ordered me murdered. On the other . . . oh wait . . . it’s still the treacherous bitch who sanctioned my death. No, I can honestly say I am quite looking forward to it.”
Jianna drew her saber. Decado laughed aloud. “We have fenced before, you and I. In happier times. Fighting me will buy you no more than a few heartbeats of life. However, I am in a charitable mood today. So let us even the odds a little.” Sliding the Sword of Fire back into its scabbard, he raised the Sword of Blood. “I shall fight you left-handed. I am marginally less skilled with my left.”
“That is true,” said a voice. “Like watching a child swatting bees with a stick.”
Jianna spun to see Skilgannon standing in the far doorway, the Swords of Night and Day in his hands.
“Oh now my joy is complete,” said Decado, happily. “I get to kill the great hero.”
D espite his lightness of tone Decado was troubled. It was not fear that concerned him. Decado feared no living man, and was utterly sure he could kill Skilgannon. It was more the coalescing of doubts that had been growing ever since Memnon’s spirit contacted him, after the first fight with the Shadows.
He had ridden away from Skilgannon and the others, heading up into the hills, to think and to plan. Later that night, in a shallow cave, Memnon had appeared to him. Decado had seen this magical trick before, and, after the initial shock as the swirling image materialized, he merely added another stick to his fire. “Send as many Shadows as you have,” he said. “I will kill them all.”
“Oh be calm, my boy,” chided Memnon. “You know how anger brings on your headaches. I sought you because I was concerned for you.”
“You showed your concern so well last night. They almost had me.”
“I sent the oldest and slowest. It was all that I could do. The Eternal ordered your death. I have always been your friend, Decado. You know this to be true.”
“Aye,” he admitted, “you have always been most kind to me, Memnon. When I come for the bitch I will not kill you.”
“She has become an evil creature,” agreed Memnon. “Her turning on you has stretched my loyalty to the breaking point. Together we could bring her down. You and I need to meet. Will you trust me and stay where you are until I reach you?”
“Trust the man who tried to kill me? I think not, Memnon.”
“Think on this: I have located you. Had I wished I could merely have sent more Shadows to kill you while you slept. Not so?”
“That is true. Very well. I will wait.”
It was almost a full day before Memnon rode up the hillside to the cave. “How is your head?” Memnon had asked even as he dismounted.
“It has been good.”
“Excellent. I have brought some narcotic to aid you, should it return.”
Once inside the cave Memnon had given him the jeweled necklet and instructed him to pass it to the mountain girl, Askari.
“What will it do?”
“When the time is right I shall—through the magic in the jewel—assist the Eternal to possess Askari’s body. This will place Jianna at the heart of our enemies. It will also separate her from her Guard. You will join with Skilgannon and assist him in every way.”
“Why?”
“Because he just may find a way to bring back the temple. There is so much there that we could use, Decado. Greater artifacts, with incredible power. I will continue to commune with you, and we will make our plans, depending on how the situation changes. And now I must return.” Memnon rose. Decado stared up at him.
“Before you go, Memnon, tell me honestly: Was it just her treatment of me that led you to this course?”
Memnon dropped to one knee and laid his hand on Decado’s shoulder. “Yes, my boy. It hurt me greatly when you were sentenced. I look upon you as a son.”
The sincerity in his voice had touched Decado.
He had suffered no problem of morality when he joined Skilgannon. There was no sense of disloyalty. Yet while traveling with the man he had grown to like him, and he felt a kinship with the riders of the Drenai. Even the merchant, Stavut. They were men on a mission, and it had nothing to do with material wealth, or revenge, or glory. They merely wanted to protect their world from a powerful evil, and were willing to die for it. Decado had found a sense of camaraderie among them, and an emotional warmth he had never before experienced.
Fighting alongside Skilgannon, in a just cause, had been the greatest moment of his life, and he had felt torn when Memnon’s voice whispered in his mind following the battle. “Leave them now, my boy. I have traversed a pass beyond the battle road, and am waiting close to the temple site. Skilgannon will come soon. Jianna will be with him. Victory is within our grasp.”
They had hidden among the rocks close to the crater, and Decado had felt a sinking of the heart when Skilgannon and Jianna rode to the rim. He truly did not want to kill this man, and in that moment he wished he had ignored Memnon and had waited with the Drenai for the last battle. None of this had felt like treachery until then. The queen had betrayed him and sought his death. His hunting down of her was merely revenge. But now Skilgannon was walking into danger, not knowing that the woman beside him was intent on his death and that two more enemies were close behind.
He had remembered then his last conversation with his kinsman.
“Well, good luck to you, Decado.”
“No pleas for me to stay? No appeal to my loyalty?”
“No. I thank you for your help today. You are a fine warrior. Perhaps we will meet again, in happier times.”
Happier times?
He and Memnon had watched Skilgannon and Jianna make their way across the rim—and then disappear. Decado had run down to the crater, drawn his own swords, and seen the hidden pathway. Using the same method as Skilgannon he had—with Memnon behind him—made it to the open doorway and entered the temple. Once inside Memnon had crouched down, closed his eyes, and gone into a trance. It had
lasted some time. While Decado waited, swords in hand, he heard the screams of beasts and a wailing death cry. Memnon had stood. “Lead the way,” he said. “I will direct you. We need to get to the uppermost levels. Walk warily. There are beasts everywhere.”
They had been attacked three times. The first was a huge, deformed hound. Decado had slain it with ease. The second had proved more durable. It was a hideous creature with two heads and four arms. One of the heads was gray and decomposing; the other constantly shrieked. The beast had charged at Decado, arms flailing. In one of its hands it held a jagged length of twisted metal. The flailing arms, and the club, made it difficult for the swordsman to deliver a death blow. Also, the space in the corridor was narrow. He had fought the beast off with slashing cuts that tore through its flesh, and had then used a trick he had practiced many times back in Diranan. Stepping back, he held out his sword, the blade pointing upward—and released it. As the sword dropped he lifted his foot, catching the hilt on the toe of his boot. Then his leg lashed out. The sword flew like a spear into the creature’s pale chest. As it staggered back, its limbs no longer flailing, Decado ran in and cut the living head from its shoulders.
The third attack had been—potentially—the most deadly. Scores of the beasts had gathered. Decado and Memnon had run to a narrow winding stair, made of metal, and climbed swiftly. The beasts had gathered around the base. Not following them at first, Decado had glanced back. Several hound creatures began bounding up after them.
At the top was a doorway. Memnon opened it and stepped through. He and Decado pushed it shut. There was a wooden lock bar set against the wall. Together they heaved it into the brackets. Even as they did so the door juddered, dust spraying out from the frame.
“I don’t know how long that will hold,” said Decado.
“Then we should press on,” said Memnon.
They had climbed two further flights of stairs, emerging at last into this chamber with its golden column and flashing lights.
Here Decado’s heart had sunk farther. He heard Memnon talk of the murders of my children and realized his mentor had not betrayed the queen for him. He was merely a tool for Memnon’s revenge.
Then Skilgannon had come, and Decado’s emotional misery deepened. He heard himself say: “Oh now my joy is complete. I get to kill the great hero.”
Regret washed over him like a dark river.
J ianna watched as the two swordsmen circled one another. Olek was holding his blades in the Naashanite manner, right-hand sword trailing, left-hand blade held across the chest. As Decado sought an opening Olek suddenly switched the blades, the left snapping down and out, the right moving to the chest defense. It was a technique Malanek had taught centuries ago in his training school. The trailing blade was used for the riposte. Fully ambidextrous fighters like Olek could switch back and forth, keeping the opponent confused as to where the attack was to originate. Decado leapt in, the Sword of Blood lancing toward Olek’s chest. Olek parried it easily and swept out a riposte that Decado blocked with the Sword of Fire. The flickering blades then came together, the blows, lunges, and blocks coming faster and faster. The song of the swords echoed in the chamber. Jianna was mesmerized by the speed and skill of the two men. She had seen Olek in action before, but never against a man with Decado’s speed and talent. They were moving now like dancers, as if every strike and counterstrike were elaborately and carefully choreographed. The glittering blades sometimes moved so fast that Jianna could not follow the action. It was only when fresh blood appeared on Decado’s upper arm that she even realized he had been cut. The frantic pace could not last, and the two swordsmen moved back and began to circle again. Now Jianna saw that Olek was also cut, at the base of the neck and across the chest, where his shirt had been sliced. The neck cut had missed his jugular by a hairbreadth. Now Skilgannon moved from defense to attack, surging forward, both blades flashing. Decado blocked desperately and backed away. His footwork was incredible, and not once did he lose his perfection of balance. Blocking an overhead cut, he tried a riposte, which Skilgannon blocked. As the two men came closer together Skilgannon suddenly head-butted Decado, sending him staggering back, blood spurting from a cut above his right eyebrow.
“Not a move they taught us in training school,” said Decado. “I must remember it.”
“You won’t have to remember it long, boy,” Skilgannon told him.
Decado laughed. “Nice try, kinsman,” he said, circling again, “but, as you know, anger is the third enemy in any duel.”
With lightning speed he launched a counterattack. Now it was Skilgannon’s footwork that kept him alive, as he backed away, defending desperately. Decado’s sword lanced out, slicing through Skilgannon’s long coat. Jianna thought it was a death blow—and gasped. The Sword of Night swept up. Decado blocked it. Skilgannon hooked his foot around Decado’s and shoulder-charged him. Decado fell, but rolled to his feet as Skilgannon moved in for the kill.
They circled again.
Just then the door behind Memnon crashed open, the top hinges parting, the frame splintering. A massive form, blocking the light from beyond the door, ducked its head and lurched into the chamber. It was grotesquely malformed, with three arms, one growing from its chest. The head was elongated, the mouth lipless and wide, showing two rows of sharp fangs. As it entered other beasts poured in through the shattered doorway. Two huge hounds, larger than lions, surged at Memnon. The Shadowlord ran for the dais and leapt. Instinctively Jianna threw out her arm, grabbing his wrist and hauling him over the railing.
“Thank you, Highness,” he said—ramming his dagger into her side. Jianna cried out and fell back. As she did so a huge hound leapt the dais. Jianna saw its great jaws close on Memnon’s head, and heard the crunching of bone. Blood and brains sprayed from the beast’s mouth. Ignoring Jianna it lifted the dead Memnon in its mouth and strutted from the dais.
Jianna stared down at the dagger hilt jutting from her body. Judging by the angle of entry the blade was close to her heart. Her rib cage was burning, her head spinning. I ought to be dead, she thought. Then she looked at the beautiful crystal, slowly spinning within the swirling smoke. It is keeping me alive, she realized. Grabbing the dais rail, she hauled herself to her feet. Decado and Skilgannon, no longer fighting each other, were battling against the beasts back to back. Decado’s tunic was blood drenched, and she could see he was growing weaker. They could not survive for long.
Swinging back, she looked again at the crystal. Skilgannon and the Legend riders had risked all to destroy this marvel. She stared at it. Rainbow lights flickered around her. Pain lanced through her. She knew then that the power of the crystal was trying to heal her body, the flesh forming around the dagger blade in her chest. Gripping the hilt she prepared to pull it clear. Then she paused and glanced back at Skilgannon. He was fighting desperately. Decado half fell. Skilgannon leapt in front of him, plunging his sword into the chest of a towering Jiamad.
While this crystal survived Jianna would always be the Eternal, and men like Skilgannon would fight and die to bring her down.
Gasping for breath Jianna took up her saber and hammered it against the glass cylinder protecting the crystal. The blade bounced clear. Twice more she struck it. To no effect.
Her strength failing she turned toward Skilgannon.
“Olek!” she shouted. “I cannot destroy it! Throw me a sword!”
A three-armed creature lunged at Skilgannon. Ducking under a murderous punch, he clove the Sword of Day into the creature’s heart. Even as the beast fell Skilgannon dragged the blade clear, spun away from another attack, then threw the Sword of Night toward Jianna. The razor-sharp blade spun through the air. Jianna judged the flight—then her arm swept out, her fingers closing around the ivory hilt.
Darkness was closing in on her and she fought it back.
The Sword of Night hammered against the glass. A small crack appeared in the cylinder. Then another. With the third stroke the cylinder disintegrated. Colored smoke billow
ed from it, flowing out into the room. The floating crystal dropped to the base of the golden column with a dull thud. With the last of her strength Jianna raised the Sword of Night and hammered it down on the crystal. The massive gem shattered in a blinding blaze of multicolored light.
As the shards of crystal exploded outward all the lights in the Shrine dimmed, and the floor ceased to hum and vibrate. All was silence. Around the room the beasts were standing very still. Then, one by one, they toppled to the floor. Some writhed for a while. Then there was no movement.
It grew darker. Soon the only light in the Shrine came from moonlight shining through a high window. Jianna dropped the Sword of Night and looked around for Skilgannon. He was kneeling beside the fallen Decado. Jianna staggered from the dais and made her way to the two men. Decado was conscious. Moonlight glistened on the length of blood-smeared metal jutting from his belly. “There’s no pain,” said Decado. “Which I must say is a novel experience for me. And I can’t feel my legs. I take it that is not a good sign?”
“No,” said Skilgannon. “Tell me why you didn’t kill me.”
“You were too good, kinsman.”
“I know how good I am,” said Skilgannon. “But, as my old tutor once taught me, there is always someone better. You were that man. Three times you had me. Three times you ignored the death blow. Why?”
Suddenly more figures entered the room. Skilgannon surged to his feet, his sword held high.
“W hoa there, laddie,” said Druss. Beyond him came Alahir and several Legend riders. Skilgannon knelt again by Decado’s side. “Tell me,” he said. “I need to know.”
But Decado was dead.
He glanced at Jianna. “Do you know why?”
He saw that her face was unnaturally pale. She swayed and sagged forward into his arms. His hand touched the dagger. Gazing down, he saw the black hilt, the blade buried deep in her chest. Jianna’s face settled against his shoulder. “I . . . thought I had . . . killed you,” she whispered.