Shakul rose and let out a howl which brought the other Jiamads to their feet. ‘Run fast,’ said Shakul.
‘Bloodshirt slow. Shakul carry Bloodshirt.’
The suggestion put Stavut in a quandary. He knew it was the only sensible choice. The Jiamads could move at terrifying speed, and if they waited for him it would be a long, slow, and pointless journey. If the villagers were in danger now that peril would be long past by the time the group reached them. On the other hand there were only two ways Stavut could be carried by Shakul. Either like a babe in arms, or clinging to the fur on his back. The first would be ludicrous, and would — Stavut believed — severely dent his authority among the beasts. The second would be equally risible, for Stavut’s arms were not powerful, and he knew he could not hang on to the fur for a long journey. This left the prospect of falling off a number of times, and then having to revert to the first ghastly option, that of being carried like a babe.
‘Right,’ said Stavut, buying time to think. ‘Let’s be sure of what we are all doing. We are seeking my comrades, who may be in danger. If they are we must rescue them. I want no-one rushing in. We get close enough to see what the situation is, then I shall give orders. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ said Shakul. ‘Now leave?’
Stavut gazed round at the pack. There were over forty Jiamads now. Some still carried iron-studded clubs, others heavy swords. A few retained long staffs. Several of them still wore wide baldrics on their shoulders, from which hung empty scabbards. Stavut crossed to two of them, and told them to remove their baldrics. The beasts did so without question, handing them to Stavut. Both had broad brass buckles.
He buckled them together and walked back to Shakul. ‘Bend forward,’ he said. Shakul obeyed instantly.
Stavut slipped the double-size baldric over his head. Shakul was larger than any of the Jiamads, and the leather hung to just above his hips. ‘Stand still,’ said Stavut, lifting his leg and placing it on the lowest part of the loop. Then he stood and took hold of the long fur on Shakul’s massive shoulders. ‘Now we go!’
he said.
Shakul took off at a great pace, and Stavut was briefly thrown back. He clung on grimly, seeking to read the rhythm of the great beast’s running style. Within a very short space of time he began to feel sick.
It was almost as bad as the first time he had gone to sea. With iron resolve he willed his belly to hold on to its contents, and tried to think of other things as the run continued. This was hard, for with each heavy running step Shakul took Stavut’s belly heaved.
Just when he felt he could hold on no longer he saw a sight that took all thoughts of sickness from him.
Shakul ran into the campsite they had left yesterday. Stavut’s wagon was still there, his beloved horses, Longshanks and Brightstar — or what was left of them — still tethered. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. Shakul came to a stop and Stavut leapt down. His legs almost gave way, and the ground seemed to be rocking as he gazed down at the dead beasts. He saw a movement in the trees nearby, and two grey wolves padded back from sight. The villagers had left his wagon behind, not thinking that, with the brake applied, the tethered horses would have no way to escape a wolf pack.
Shakul loomed alongside him. ‘I loved those horses,’ Stavut told him. The great beast looked nonplussed. Stavut sighed. Two Jiamads approached the dead beasts. Shakul snarled at them, ordering them back.
‘Time to move on,’ said Stavut.
This time he felt no sickness. His heart was heavy, and all he wanted was to find the villagers safe.
Then he would turn the pack over to Shakul, seek out new horses and head north.
He realized Shakul was speaking to him, and leaned forward to catch what he was saying.
‘Blood in air,’ said Shakul. ‘Skin blood.’
The trio rested up for most of that day, and the one following. Harad said little. He sat by Charis’s grave, his expression bleak, his eyes distant. Skilgannon did not intrude on his grief, and Askari left the two men, and set off to hunt for food. She returned at dusk on the second day with three hares, which she skinned.
‘The meat is better when left to hang for a while,’ she said, as they ate.
Skilgannon thanked her for the meal, then walked out into the moonlight. His mind flowed back to the dream meeting with Memnon. Now there was a dangerous man. No anger, no hatred; a cold mind and eyes which glittered with intelligence. He was an enemy to fear.
He suddenly laughed aloud. All across this war-torn land there were enemies to fear: armies of Joinings, cavalry, foot soldiers, archers. Memnon was merely one more to add to the list, along with Jianna and Decado — and who knew who else.
He glanced back to where Harad sat by the fire and sighed. The young man had lost the woman he loved, and his world was in ruins. Skilgannon felt for him, recalling the cold day he had heard of Jianna’s death. Would Harad ever be the man he once was, Skilgannon wondered? He had not touched the axe all day. It lay against the cliff wall, forgotten.
Askari strolled out. ‘You want to be alone?’ she asked.
‘No. We must set out tomorrow, and find Kinyon. Or if not Kinyon, then someone who can offer directions to the Rostrias. I am sure that if I find the river, I can locate the temple.’
They heard a horse whinny in the darkness. Askari reached for her bow, and notched a shaft. A figure rode into sight. It was Decado.
His clothing was travel-stained, a layer of dust dulling the black jerkin he wore. He seemed surprised to see them, and drew rein.
Askari drew back on the string, but Skilgannon reached out and touched her arm. ‘Do not kill him yet,’ he said.
‘Nice of you,’ said Decado, lifting his leg over the saddle pommel and jumping lightly to the ground.
His dark eyes stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘So, you are my ancestor. To be honest I see no resemblance.’
‘I do,’ Skilgannon told him. ‘It is in the haunted look, and the fear of the blades.’
‘I fear nothing,’ said Decado. ‘Not you, not the beauty with the bow, not the Shadows. Nothing.’
‘A poor lie,’ Skilgannon replied. ‘You fear losing those blades. You do not like them out of your sight.
When you sit in the evenings you make sure they are beside you. You reach out and touch them endlessly. In the mornings the first action you take is to caress the hilts.’
Decado gave a cold smile. ‘True,’ he said, reaching up and pressing an emerald stud on the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. With one smooth pull the Sword of Fire slid from its scabbard. Skilgannon stepped back and drew his own blades.
‘You have come a long way just to die here, boy,’ said Skilgannon.
Decado’s second blade appeared in his hand. ‘A man has to die somewhere. Keep the bow notched,’
he said to Askari, ‘and move back away from us. Stand as close to the cliff wall as you can.’
Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. It was an odd thing to say. He watched Decado loosen the muscles of his arms, sweeping the swords back and forth. ‘You see the clouds gathering?’ said Decado.
Skilgannon glanced at the sky. Harad, axe in hand, had moved out into the open.
‘Be ready when they cover the moon,’ said Decado. ‘I don’t know how good you are, kinsman, but death is very close if you are less than superb.’
‘You think you are that good?’
Decado smiled. ‘Oh, I know how good I am, but it is not me you need to concern yourself with at this moment. The Shadows are here.’
Darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon closed his eyes, slipping into the Illusion of Elsewhere. There came a sudden hissing sound, like a breeze blowing through a window crack. Skilgannon spun, the Sword of Night slicing through the air. The blade struck something metallic, which then fell against his shoulder. He heard Askari cry out. Then came a high-pitched screech of pain. The darkness was total. Skilgannon leapt to his right, then spun again, blades extended. He heard the slightest whisper of movement. Instantly he dropped to one knee and slashed out with the Sword of Day. The blade struck something soft, then cut through. The clouds began to clear the moon. Sight returned. Skilgannon blinked. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw a pale form some twenty feet away. Then it was gone — only to appear alongside him. A dark dagger plunged towards his chest. The Sword of Night swept up. The creature ducked and moved with incredible speed. The Sword of Day snaked out, the very tip of the blade slicing across the creature’s throat. It sped away, staggered, then fell.