The Swords of Night and Day Page 6

  It was an odd question, and Harad didn’t know what it meant. He would tell the lord that he dreamed of mountains, of woods. Landis Khan was disappointed.

  Borak was killed in a freak accident when Harad was nine. A felled tree crashed to the ground, and a dead branch snapped upon impact. A shard of sharp wood flew through the air, piercing Borak’s eye, embedding itself in his brain. He did not die swiftly. Paralyzed, he was carried down to the palace, where Landis Khan himself fought to save him. Harad still remembered when the lord rode up to the cabin with the news that Borak had died. Strangely his mother shed no tears.

  Alanis herself had died three years ago when Harad was seventeen. There was no drama. She said good night and went to her bed. In the morning Harad tried to wake her. He brought her a tisane of sweet mint and placed it by her bedside. Then he had touched her shoulder. As he looked into her face he knew she had gone. There was no movement, no flicker of life.

  That was the first moment Harad felt truly alone.

  He had run his hand through his mother’s dark, graying hair, wanting to say something by way of farewell. There were no words. Their relationship had never been tactile, but each night she would kiss his brow, and say: “May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, my son.” Harad cherished these moments. Once she had stroked his cheek as he lay abed, his body battling a fever. This was the single greatest moment of his childhood.

  So on that last day, he stroked his mother’s cheek. “May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, Mother,” he said.

  Then he walked down to the village and reported her death.

  After that he lived alone. His strength, and an awesome stamina, made him a highly valuable asset as a logger. Yet that same strength still caused him problems. Other men would feel compelled to test that strength against their own. Like young bulls vying for supremacy. Harad traveled throughout the timberlands. Everywhere it was the same. At some point someone would engineer a disagreement, no matter how hard he tried to avoid confrontation.

  He thought this bleak period in his life had ended last year, when he broke Masselian’s jaw. Masselian was a fist-fighting legend in the high country. After that Harad had been left alone. In some strange way he had transcended the other “bulls,” reaching a plateau that made him untouchable.

  Now, however, he had earned the enmity of Lathar and his brothers. He had told the overseer, Balish, that the brothers would do nothing. He had said it to end the conversation with Balish, a man he didn’t like. As he sat in the dark he knew it wasn’t true.

  They would come seeking revenge.

  If only Charis hadn’t been there that morning. He could have enjoyed his meal, finished his work, and even now be sleeping dreamlessly.

  Harad swore softly. Thoughts of Charis filled his mind. He tried to think of other things, but it was no use. If Harad found the company of men difficult, he found women impossible. He never knew what to say. Words would catch in his throat, and he would grunt some inanity.

  Worse, he found much of the conversation of women incomprehensible. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? It makes one feel good to be alive.” What did that mean? It was always good to be alive. Naturally it was more comfortable when the sun shone, but did that make it beautiful? Charis had once asked him: “Do you ever wonder about the stars?” That question had haunted him all last winter. What was there to wonder about? Stars were stars. Bright little points in the sky. Night after night he had left his cabin and sat on the porch staring malevolently up at the heavens. He found no answers. But then Charis was like that. She would say things that seeded themselves in his brain, causing him endless discomfort.

  Last week she had brought him some food and sat down beside him. She had picked up an acorn. “Isn’t it wonderful to think that an oak tree can grow from this little thing?”

  “Yes,” he said, simply to say something that might end this conversation before it wormed its way into his brain.

  “The acorn, though, comes from the oak tree.”

  “Of course it comes from the oak tree,” he said.

  “So how did the first oak tree grow?”

  “What?”

  “Well, if the oak tree makes the acorn, and the acorn makes the oak tree, what made the first oak tree? There couldn’t have been any acorns, could there?”

  And there it was. Yet another seed, whose growing roots would torment his mind through the long cold winter ahead.

  The night breeze rustled the leaves above him, and he sighed. Perhaps when Charis married she would lose interest in tormenting him. This was a new thought for Harad. It made him uneasy, though he couldn’t understand why. His mood darkened. Uncomfortable now, he rose to his feet and walked to the stream. Squatting down, he cupped his hands in the water and drank. In that moment he heard stealthy sounds in the undergrowth. Harad sighed. Rising silently, he walked to a nearby tree and leaned against it, waiting.

  The first of the brothers, the bearded Garik, crept out of the darkness. He was holding a three-foot length of stout wood, which Harad saw was an ax handle. Behind him came Lathar and Vaska. Moonlight suddenly bathed the area as the clouds parted above. The men stood stock still, then Garik pointed the ax handle at Harad’s blanket by the tree. In that moment Harad realized he did not want to break any bones tonight. He stepped forward.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful night,” said Harad. “Makes one feel good to be alive.” All three men swung around in shock. “Have you ever wondered about acorns?” continued Harad, moving away from the tree and toward the waiting men. “If an oak grows from an acorn, and acorns grow from the oak, then how did the first oak tree grow?”

  He crossed the small clearing until he was standing directly before them. “Acorns?” said Lathar, mystified. “What did you say about acorns?”

  “Did you want to see me?” asked Harad, ignoring the question.

  “We were just . . . out walking,” said Vaska, suddenly frightened.

  “Ah,” said Harad, stepping forward and laying his huge hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good night for it. Lots of stars. Have you ever wondered about the stars?”

  “Gods, what is he talking about?” Garik asked Lathar. Lathar shrugged and backed away.

  “Forget it, Garik. Let’s go.” Garik stood there confused, the ax handle hanging to the ground.

  “I thought—”

  “I said forget it!”

  The three men ambled away into the darkness. Harad chuckled and returned to his blankets.

  Then he slept, deeply and without dreams.

  T hough there were many gaps in his memory, Skilgannon was beginning now to feel more complete. He recalled his childhood back in Naashan, the death of his father, Decado Firefist, his upbringing with the gentle actor, Greavas, and the middle-aged couple, Sperian and Molaire. He remembered their deaths at the hands of Boranius, and his subsequent flight with Jianna, the princess, and the long battles to restore her throne.

  He recalled also the death of his wife, Dayan, and his search for the Temple of the Resurrection, a place steeped in mystery and myth. It had been his quest to bring Dayan back to life. Memories of those years of searching were vague, misty. Disconnected recollections flashed before his eyes, so swiftly his mind could not make sense of them. An old man in crimson robes. A tall room with walls of white marble and metal, lights glittering on gems set in the walls.

  So many other memories spilled across his mind like scattered pearls. Many were of wars and battles, or long journeys by land and sea. He remembered a warlord he had fought alongside, a powerful man . . . he struggled for a name . . . Ulric. The Khan of Wolves.

  Moving to the balcony, Skilgannon drew in a deep breath and began to work through a series of stretching exercises. His body was more supple now, the young muscles stretching easily into the Eagle pose, the left foot hooked behind the right ankle, the right arm raised, the left arm wrapped around it, the backs of the hands pressed together. Motionless he stood, in perfect balance. A long
time ago this exercise would have brought with it a sense of peace. He could not find it now.

  I should not be here, he thought.

  I lived and I died. My journey was complete.

  A beast leapt at him from behind a jumble of boulders. It was scaled like a snake, but the face was human. A sword lashed toward his neck. Swaying back, he drew the Swords of Night and Day and slew the demon. Others were gathering.

  The memory was sudden and jarring.

  His journey had not been complete. He had wandered the Void for what Gamal told him was a thousand years. He shuddered as more memories of that cold, gray soulless place filled his mind. Then he smiled grimly. Soulless? It was exactly the opposite. It was full of souls—souls like his own. Skilgannon the Damned, in a world of the Damned.

  The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky. Skilgannon moved to the balcony wall and drew in a deep breath. He could almost taste the sweetness of life upon the breeze as his lungs filled with cold, crisp air.

  Why am I here? he thought. If the Void had been a punishment, was this some kind of reward? If so for what? It made no sense.

  He heard a knocking at his door and went back into the apartment. It was Landis Khan. He smiled as he entered, but Skilgannon sensed nervousness in him. “How are you feeling, my friend?”

  “I am well, Landis. And do not use the word friend so lightly. Friendship is either bestowed or earned.”

  “Yes, of course. My apologies.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for. Gamal says there is someone I should meet. Something about a mystery.”

  “Indeed so. I have horses being prepared.”

  “Is it far?”

  “About an hour’s ride.”

  “Would you prefer to walk?”

  Landis grinned. It made him look younger. “You noticed my lack of skill? Yes, I would prefer to walk, but I have many duties today. So I must bounce upon the saddle and endure more bruises.”

  Half an hour later they were riding over the hills toward the upper timberland. “Who is this mysterious person?” asked Skilgannon as they reached a long level stretch and the horses slowed.

  “Forgive me, Skilgannon, but I would prefer it if you waited until we get there. Then I will answer all questions. Might I ask a favor of you?”

  “There is no harm in asking, Landis.”

  “We have visitors coming in tomorrow from Outside. I would like you to be with me when I meet them. It will be vital, however, for your name not to be mentioned. I will, by your leave, introduce you as my nephew, Callan.”

  “Who are they, these people?”

  Landis sighed. “They serve the Eternal. May we walk for a while?” he said, suddenly. “I feel as if my spine is a foot shorter than when we began.” Drawing rein, he climbed clumsily from the saddle. Skilgannon joined him, and they walked on, leading their mounts.

  “This world is suffering, Skilgannon, in a way that is unnatural and perverse. We had the chance, I think, to make it a garden, a place of infinite beauty, without threat of famine or disease. Even death could be held back. Instead we have the grotesque violence of a terrible war, fought by unnatural beast against unnatural beast, and by men against men. The suffering Outside is prodigious. Disease, pestilence, and starvation, murder and horror abound. How one man was supposed to put an end to this I do not know. As I said, I was swept up in the prophecy. I truly believed—believe,” he added, hastily, “that the Blessed Priestess did know the role you would play.”

  “And this prophecy promised I would overthrow the Eternal?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did it say?”

  “It was written in an archaic tongue, and in a form of verse. There have been several translations, all subtly different, in that they sought to create rhyme in the modern tongue. The one I prefer begins: Hero Reborn, torn from the gray, reunited with blades, of Night and of Day. The rest of it is deliberately obscure and allegorical. Almost whimsical. The Hero Reborn will steal or destroy the magical egg of a vain silver eagle, battle a mountain giant bearing the golden shield of the gods, and bring about the death of an Immortal, restoring the world to balance and harmony.”

  “A vain eagle?” asked Skilgannon.

  “In love with its own reflection,” said Landis. “As I said, some of the ancient texts were expanded, or exaggerated. In full, however, the story indicates that Ustarte knew the nature of the evil we now face. In some of the ancient texts she talks of an undead queen and armies of Joinings. By her reckoning the world of men would face ruin. The Blessed Priestess predicted that only you, and the Swords of Night and Day, could defeat them. I believe she had truly seen the future, Skilgannon.”

  “I knew her, Landis. She spoke of many futures. Every decision we make, or refuse to make, creates a different future. None of them is carved in stone. She knew this.”

  “I accept that. Gamal has made similar points. But she predicted the Eternal, and the monsters that now serve her. So perhaps she was also right in naming you as the savior.”

  Skilgannon saw the hope flicker in the man’s face and said nothing. He walked on. Landis hurried alongside. “What was she like? Was she beautiful, as the legends say?”

  “Aye, she was beautiful. She was also—to use your own description—a Jiamad.”

  Landis stopped abruptly. “No! How was that possible?”

  “I can give you no answers. When we went to her we had a Joining with us. He had once been a friend of one of our company. We were hoping that Ustarte could separate him from the beast he had become. She said it was not possible. If it were she would have done it for herself. She showed me then her arm, which was covered in fur. She was part tiger, part wolf, as I recall.”

  Skilgannon saw that Landis Khan had grown pale. The older man walked on in silence for a while. Then he turned to Skilgannon. “Do not mention this to anyone else, I beseech you. The Priestess is venerated now. People pray to her, worship her.”

  “Why should it make a difference? She was who she was. Nothing is changed except her form.”

  “Nothing and everything,” said Landis, sadly. “Let us ride on. We are almost there.”

  S kilgannon had little experience with lumber camps, but it seemed to him that this one was well organized, teams of men felling trees, others stripping away branches. He saw one long trunk being dragged by two shaggy ponies toward an area where wagons were waiting. Here there were loggers wielding two-man bow saws. The trunks were shortened before being lifted by pulleys to the backs of wagons. The work was swift and efficient, and there was a sweet smell in the air, the perfume of pine.

  Landis Khan drew rein a little way back from the workmen and waited. A tall, round-shouldered man made his way through the workers and bowed to him. “Welcome, Lord. The work, as you see, is going well.”

  “I am sure that it is, Balish. This is my nephew, Callan. He is visiting for a while.”

  Balish bowed to Skilgannon. “Where will we find Harad?” asked Landis Khan.

  The man looked suddenly frightened. “There was little I could do to stop the fight, Lord,” he said. “It happened so swiftly. No one was seriously hurt. I have spoken to Harad and warned him about his behavior.”

  “Yes, yes, but where is he?”

  Balish pointed toward the west. “Shall I have him brought here?”

  “Yes. We will be a little way down the slope there. Where the stream forks.”

  So saying, Landis Khan swung his horse and rode away from the camp. Skilgannon followed him, and the two men dismounted by the stream. “Balish is a good organizer,” said Landis Khan, “but weak and mean spirited. He does not like Harad.”

  Skilgannon said nothing. He stared at the mountains and watched two eagles soaring on the thermals. For some reason the sight of the birds filled him with a sense of emptiness, and a longing to be free of this place. Much as he respected Ustarte, she was long dead now, and he felt no obligation to be the savior of a world that was not his. Soon he would leave an
d see if he could find a way back to what was once Naashan. His studies in the library during the past few days had taught him that Naashan was across the sea to the east. To get there he would have to journey to the port now called Draspartha, though in Skilgannon’s time it had been Dros Purdol.

  Landis Khan was still talking, and Skilgannon wrenched his mind from thoughts of travel. “I am going to ask Harad to show you the high country,” said Landis Khan. “He is a dour man and does not talk much. Gamal feels a little time away from—” He chuckled. “—away from civilization will help you to readjust to this new life.”

  “Why Harad?”

  Landis Khan looked away. “He knows the high country as well as anyone.”

  Skilgannon knew this was—at least in part—a lie, but he let it pass. “Ah, here he comes,” said Landis Khan. Skilgannon swung to meet the newcomer—and his breath caught in his throat. He felt his heart beating hard and struggled for calm. He glanced at Landis Khan, anger in his gaze. “Say nothing for the moment!” insisted Landis.

  The black-bearded logger strode down to where the two men waited. “It is good to see you, my friend,” said Landis. “This is my nephew, Callan.” The logger merely nodded and turned his pale eyes on Skilgannon. Landis Khan spoke again, “I would like you to act as his guide, up into the mountains.”

  “I am working here,” said Harad.

  “You will receive the same wages, my boy. I would take it as a personal favor if you would agree.”

  Harad stared hard at Skilgannon. “No horses,” he said. “It will be a long walk.”

  “I can walk,” said Skilgannon. “However, if you would prefer not to guide me, I will understand.”

  Harad swung to Landis Khan. “How long do you want me to guide him?”

  “Three . . . four days.”

  “When?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Meet me here at sunup,” said Harad to Skilgannon. With that he nodded to Landis Khan and strode back toward the logging camp.

  After he had gone Landis stood silently alongside Skilgannon, who sensed the man’s unease. “Are you angry?” Landis asked, at last.