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 it’s 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 more 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 uncomfortable, though he couldn’t understand why. His mood darkened. Restless 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 axe 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 axe 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 it’s good to be alive.’ All three men swung round in shock. ‘Have you ever wondered about acorns?’ continued Harad, moving away from the tree and towards 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 axe 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.
Though 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 towards 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, grey 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 Kan. 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. Horses are being prepared.’
‘Is it far?’
‘About an hour’s ride.’