‘How much further?’ asked the young swordsman.
‘We should make contact with their scouts within an hour,’ answered Unwallis. ‘Landis Kan will make us welcome.’
‘I do not see why we did not merely bring a regiment and take the damned place,’ said Decado.
‘Landis Kan served the Eternal well for many lifetimes. She wishes to give him the opportunity to declare his loyalty anew.’
‘He is creating Jiamads. That makes him a traitor.’
Unwallis sighed. ‘His role was to create Jiamads. His expertise is in creating Jiamads. The Eternal knows this. It was unlikely he would retire here and spend his days growing vegetables.’
‘So, you are to ask him to renew his vow of loyalty?’
‘That is one of our missions.’
‘Ah yes, the hunt for the long dead hero,’ said Decado, with a laugh. ‘The one. It is a nonsense.’
Unwallis gazed at the young killer. How curious, he thought. You are jealous of a man who has been dead for a thousand years. ‘He was an interesting figure,’ said Unwallis, innocently, knowing that talk of Skilgannon would irritate the swordsman. ‘It is said that no-one could stand against him, blade to blade.
Even in middle age he was deadly.’
‘All legends say that about heroes,’ snapped Decado, rubbing at his eyes.
‘True. However, the Eternal herself says there was no man like him.’
‘As far as I can tell he killed a few primitive Jiamads, and won a few battles. It doesn’t make him a god, Unwallis. I don’t doubt he was a good swordsman. But I could have taken him. Have you ever seen anyone as skilled as me?’
‘No,’ admitted Unwallis. ‘You are exceptional, Decado. As indeed are the blades you carry,’ he added, glancing at the single scabbard hanging on the man’s back, twin swords sheathed in it. ‘I would imagine there is no-one in the world today who could stand against you.’
‘There never will be anyone to stand against me.’
‘Indeed, let us hope you are correct,’ said Unwallis. The young, he thought, have such arrogance.
They assume they will never suffer the ravages of age. He glanced at Decado. Will you still have such a belief in twenty years’ time, he wondered? Or thirty, when your muscles are stretched, and your joints rheumatic? But then again, he thought, the Eternal might not tire of you, and offer you longer life. She had done this with Unwallis for a few decades. Extended youth had been a wondrous gift. Sadly it had mostly been enjoyed in retrospect. Only when that youth began to fade had he truly appreciated its wonder.
By then the Eternal had tired of him as a lover, and he became. . what had he become? A friend?
No. The Eternal had no friends. What then? Sadly he had to accept he had become merely another follower, a servant, a slave to her whims. In truth, however, there was no cause for complaint. In a world savaged by war, pestilence and disease Unwallis had a palace and servants, and riches enough to last any man for several lifetimes. Not that he had several lifetimes. He was a ninety-year-old man, in a fifty-year-old body. He looked again at Decado. What will you do when she abandons you, he wondered?
They rode on for some time. Then there came a shout from the lead rider.
Two Jiamads stepped from the shadows of the trees, and stood waiting. Unwallis rode up to them.
Both were quite primitive melds, obviously wolves. Landis Kan had clearly not acquired enough artefacts to hone the process. ‘I am Unwallis,’ he told the pair. ‘The lord Landis Kan is expecting me.’
‘No soldiers,’ said the first Jiamad, the words slurring in his misshapen mouth. ‘You ride on. They stay.’
Unwallis had expected this, but the young Decado was furious.
Edging his horse forward he reached up to one of the swords that hung between his shoulder blades.
In that moment other Jiamads appeared from behind the trees. They outnumbered Unwallis’s force by more than two to one. The situation was tense. Unwallis heeled his horse forward. ‘The soldiers will await us here,’ he said. ‘Myself and my companion will ride up to meet the Lord Landis Kan.’
‘This is intolerable,’ said Decado.
‘No, my friend, it is merely inconvenient,’ said Unwallis. Swinging in the saddle he called back to the captain of the Eternal Guard: ‘We will return tomorrow. I shall have food sent down to you.’
With that he heeled his horse past the Jiamads. Decado rode silently beside him. He knew what the young man was thinking. Their own force, though outnumbered, could have defeated these primitive melds. The Jiamads of the Eternal were bigger, stronger and more delicately honed than those of Landis Kan. Decado was a warrior. He had fought in a score of battles. He had, Unwallis believed, the simplistic nature of the fighting man. Enemies were to be slain wherever they were found. There was little understanding of intrigue, or the necessity to nurture one’s enemies, either making them friends, or lulling them into complacence for later annihilation. As far as Decado was concerned Landis Kan represented a small threat, and one easily crushed. This, of course, was to miss the point. The war was finely balanced.
The Eternal had the advantage on this side of the ocean, and, barring unforeseen disasters, would gain the final victory sometime this year. This would allow a seaborne invasion of the east next year, and a final victory perhaps the year after. An eastern invasion now, however, would leave forces on this side of the ocean thinly spread. Which was why Landis Kan had become an important factor. If the Eternal needed to use her regiments to destroy Landis and his Jiamads, it would strengthen her chances of a swift victory on this side of the ocean, but delay her invasion of the east. Such a delay might allow the enemy to regroup. The balance of power could then shift.
Landis Kan needed to be neutralized without the cost of a time-consuming campaign.
Unwallis rode on, coming at last to a stretch of open ground between two high crags. A new wall had been built here, some twelve feet high, a bronze reinforced gate set at the centre. As the riders approached, the gate was drawn open and a horseman rode out to meet them.
‘Unwallis, my dear old friend,’ said Landis Kan. ‘You are most welcome.’
Skilgannon watched from his balcony window as Landis Kan rode from the palace, heading south to meet the messengers. Then, his expression grim, he left his rooms and walked down to the long library.
He did not pause by the bookshelves, nor seek out any tomes. Moving through the archway into the rear of the library he approached the locked door to Landis Kan’s private study. The door was solid oak.
Skilgannon paused before it, closing his eyes and gathering his strength and concentration. Leaning to his left he hammered his right foot against the lock. Three times more he repeated the manoeuvre. Then he waited, drawing in deep, calming breaths. His boot crashed against the frame twice more — and the door sprang open.
Striding inside, he began to search the room. There were papers scattered upon the desk. Skilgannon scanned them, seeing references to his own history. He searched the drawer of the desk, but found nothing of importance. At the rear of the room was another door. This too was locked. But the timber was thinner and Skilgannon splintered the wood around the lock with a single kick.