But they did not.
Fear flared in him, but he quelled it savagely. ‘You are not a man given to panic,’ he said, aloud.
How would you know? The thought was unsettling.
‘Stay calm and think,’ he said.
The snarling faces came again. Hostile warriors all around him, hacking and slashing. He fought them with two deadly, razor sharp blades. The enemy fell back. He did not seek to escape then, but hurled himself at them, seeking to reach. . to reach. .
The memory faded. Anger swelled, but he let it flow over him and away. Holding to the memory of the scene, he analysed what he did remember. He had been bone weary, his swords unnaturally heavy. No, he realized, not just weary.
I was old!
The shock of the memory made him rise again and return to the mirror. The face he saw was young, the skin unlined, the close-cropped hair dark and shining with health.
The image returned with sickening intensity.
A broad-bladed spear plunged into his side. He winced at the pain of it, the hot, agonizing rush of blood over ripped flesh. The spear all but disembowelled him. A mortal wound. He killed the wielder with a reverse cut, and staggered on. The Zharn king screamed at his guards to protect him. Four of them charged — huge men bearing bronze axes. They died bravely. The last managed to bury an axe blade into his right shoulder, almost severing the arm. The Zharn king shouted a war cry and leapt to attack him. Mortally wounded, he swayed from the king’s plunging spear, the sword in his left hand cleaving through the king’s side, slicing through his backbone. With an awful cry of pain and despair the Zharn king fell.
The man looked down at the skin of his shoulder. It was unmarked. As was his side. There was not a scar upon his flesh. Was he seeing visions of the future, then? Was this how he was to die?
A cold breeze blew in from the balcony. He rose and searched the room. By the far wall was a tall chest of drawers. The top drawer contained carefully folded clothing. Removing the first item, he saw that it was a thigh-length tunic of fine blue wool. He pulled it on, then opened the second drawer. Here he found several pairs of leggings, some in wool, others in soft leather. Choosing a pair in dark, polished leather, he donned them. They fitted perfectly.
Hearing footsteps outside his door he stepped away from the chest and waited, his mind tense, his body relaxed.
An elderly man entered, bearing a tray on which was set a plate of cured meats, and smoked cheeses.
The man glanced at him nervously, but said nothing. He moved to the larger table, set down the tray and backed away towards the door.
‘Wait!’
The elderly man stopped, eyes downcast.
‘Who are you?’
Mumbling something under his breath, the tray-bearer rushed from the room. Only after he had departed did the man manage to piece together the answer he had given. The words were familiar, but somehow mangled. He had said: ‘Just a servant, sir.’ The man had heard: ‘Jezzesarvanser.’
Moments later a second figure appeared in the doorway, a tall man with iron grey hair, receding at the temples. He was lean, and slightly round-shouldered, his eyes deep and piercingly green. His clothes were sombre, a tunic shirt of grey satin and leggings of black wool. He smiled nervously. ‘Mataianter?’
he asked.
Might I enter. The man in the bedroom gestured for him to step inside.
The newcomer began to speak swiftly. The man held up his hand and spoke. ‘I am having difficulty understanding your dialect. Speak slowly.’
‘Of course. Language shifts, changes and grows. Can you understand me now?’ the other asked, speaking clearly and enunciating his words. The man nodded. T know you will have many questions,’
said the newcomer, pulling shut the door behind him, ‘and they will all be answered in time.’ He glanced down at the man’s bare feet. ‘There are several pairs of shoes and two pairs of boots in the closet yonder,’ he said, pointing to a panel against the far wall. ‘You will find all the clothes fit you well.’
‘What am I doing here?’
‘An interesting first question. I hope you will not think me rude if I respond with one of my own. Do you know yet who you are?’
‘No.’
The grey-haired man nodded. ‘That is understandable. It will come back to you. I assure you of that.
As to what you are doing here. .’ he smiled again, ‘you will understand better once you have remembered your name. So let us begin with my name. I am Landis Kan, and this is my home. The town you see beyond is Petar. It is, you might say, a part of my domain. I want you to think of me as a friend, someone who seeks to help you.’
‘Why have I no memory?’
‘You have been — shall we say — asleep for a long time. A very long time. That you are here at all is a miracle. We must take things slowly. Trust me on this.’
‘Was I injured in some way?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘I recall… a battle. Painted Zharn tribesmen. I was stabbed. Yet I have no scars.’
‘Excellent,’ said Landis Kan. ‘The Zharn! That is excellent.’ He seemed massively relieved.
‘What is excellent?’
‘That you recall the Zharn. It tells me we have succeeded. That you are… the man we sought.’
‘How so?’
‘The Zharn faded from history long ago. Only shreds of legend remain. One such legend tells of a great warrior who stood against them. He and his men led a desperate charge against the centre of a huge Zharn army. It was said to have been magnificent. They charged to their deaths, in order to slay the Zharn king.’
‘How would I recall an event that happened long ago?’
Landis Kan rose. ‘Find yourself some footwear and let me show you the palace and its grounds.’
‘I would appreciate some answers,’ said the man, an edge creeping into his voice.
‘And I would like nothing more than to sit down now and supply them all. It would not be wise, however. You need to arrive at your own answers. Believe me, they will come. It is important for you that we do this in a careful manner. Will you trust me?’
‘I am not a trusting man. When I asked you why I had no memory you said I had been asleep for a long time. More accurately, you said shall we say you have been asleep. Answer this one question and I will consider trusting you: how long have I been asleep?’
‘A thousand years,’ said Landis Kan.
At first the man laughed, but then he realized there was no trace of amusement to be found on Landis Kan’s face. ‘I may have lost my memory, but not my intelligence. No-one sleeps for a thousand years.’
‘I used the word sleep, because that is the closest to the actuality. Your. . soul, if you like, has been wandering the Void for the past ten centuries. Your first body was slain in that battle with the Zharn. This is your new body — fashioned from the bones we discovered in your hidden tomb.’ Landis Kan reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt. From it he took a small, golden locket, and a long slender chain.
‘What does this mean to you?’ he asked.
The man took the locket, his fingers closing gently around it. ‘It is mine,’ he said softly. ‘I cannot say how I know this to be true.’
‘Say a name — if you can.’
The man hesitated and closed his eyes. ‘Dayan,’ he said, at last.