‘I never found his tomb,’ he lied. ‘I found the axe and the bones of Druss the Legend.’
‘I remember him,’ said the Eternal. ‘I met him once. Describe the axe.’ Landis did so. The Eternal listened intently. ‘And you sought to bring him back?’
‘Yes. We could not find his soul. All we have is a powerful young man who works as a logger.’
‘Druss would have been beyond you,’ said the Eternal. ‘He did not wander the Void. Very well, Landis, I believe you.’
The door opened. Landis turned to see the young swordsman, Decado, enter the room. The dark-haired warrior smiled at him, then drew one of his swords. Fear engulfed Landis and he backed away. He looked at the shimmering image of the Eternal. ‘You said you would not kill me,’ he said.
‘And I shall not. He will.’ She floated towards Decado. ‘Not a trace of flesh or bone to be left,’ she said. ‘Burn him to ash. I do not want him reborn.’
‘As you order, so shall it be,’ said Decado.
‘Do not make him suffer, Decado. Kill him swiftly, for he was once dear to me. Then find the blind man and kill him too.’
‘The nephew, beloved. He insulted me. I want him too.’
‘Kill him, my dear,’ said the Eternal. ‘But no-one else. Our troops will be here by morning. Try to remember that we will still need people to till the fields, and I would like servants to remain in the palace ready for my arrival. I do not want blind terror causing havoc here.’
The vision swirled, appearing once more before the terrified Landis Kan. ‘You once told me you would die happy if my face was the last thing you were allowed to see. Be happy, Landis Kan.’
Chapter Six
Harad was unnaturally silent as they began their return journey. He strode on ahead tirelessly, despite the weight of his pack, and the double-bladed axe he carried. Skilgannon had no wish for conversation either. The brief meeting with Druss had merely reinforced his feelings of loneliness in this new world. The two men made the long climb back into the mountains. At the top Skilgannon swung to gaze down once more on the old fortress. Then he turned away and followed Harad.
More memories came to him then. He remembered his journeys across the Desert of Namib, in search of the lost temple of the Resurrectionists. Three years he had spent in that desolate land. In order to survive he had joined a band of mercenaries, and fought in several actions near the old Gothir capital of Gulgothir. Roving bands of Nadir outlaws were harassing the farmlands. Skilgannon and thirty men had been hired to find them and kill them. In the end the situation had been reversed. The captain of mercenaries — an idiot whose name Skilgannon gratefully could not recall — had led them into a trap. The battle had been furious and short. Only three mercenaries escaped into the mountains. One had died of his wounds. The other had fled south. Skilgannon circled back, entered the Nadir camp at night, killed the leader and six of his men. The following day the rest of the outlaws had pulled out.
Lean times followed, working for a pittance as a soldier in New Gulgothir, scraping together enough coin to make more journeys in Namib. The dream kept him going. His young wife, Dayan, a woman he had never truly loved, had died in his arms. He carried fragments of her bones and a lock of her hair in a locket round his neck. These bones, according to the legends, would be enough to see her live again.
And then one day he had discovered the temple. It was in an area he had travelled through many times. This time, however, he was in the company of a young priest he had rescued from bandits. How strange are the ways of fate, he thought. The priest had been chased by five Nadir riders. Skilgannon had watched from a nearby rise as they caught him. Then they had prepared a killing fire. It was a barbarous and ghastly ritual. The priest had been thrown to the ground, his full length pale blue robes torn from him.
Naked he had been staked out on the steppes, while the Nadir piled kindling and firewood between his open legs. He would have died screaming in terrible pain as his genitals roasted.
The hideous pleasures of Nadir tribesmen were of no concern to Skilgannon. He was about to ride away when he thought of Druss the Legend, and his iron code. Old Druss would not have left this stranger to his fate. Protect the weak against the evil strong. Suddenly Skilgannon chuckled. ‘Ah, Druss, I fear you have corrupted me with your simple philosophy,’ he said, as he heeled his horse down the slope.
The Nadir, seeing him coming, rose from the bound prisoner and waited. Skilgannon rode up, lifted his leg over the saddle pommel and jumped lightly to the ground. The warriors looked at him. ‘What do you want?’ asked one, in the western tongue. Then he turned to the others and said in Nadir: ‘The horse will bring much silver.’
‘The horse will bring you nothing,’ he told the surprised man. ‘All that awaits you here is death. There are two outcomes, Nadir. You will ride from here and sire more goat-faced children, or you will die here and the crows will eat your eyes.’ They had spread out in a semicircle. The warrior on the far left suddenly drew a knife and rushed in. The Sword of Day flashed in the sunshine and the man fell, blood gushing from a terrible wound in his neck.
Instantly the other Nadir charged. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Three died within moments, and the leader fell back, his right arm severed just below the elbow. Blood was gouting from the open arteries.
His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, staring stupidly at the bleeding limb. Desperately he grabbed the stump with his left hand, seeking to stem the flow. Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the young priest and cut him free. Hauling him to his feet he said: ‘Are you hurt?’ The man shook his head and moved to the fallen Nadir.
‘Let me bind that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we can save your life.’
The Nadir struck at him weakly. ‘Leave me be, gajin. May your soul rot in the seven hells.’
‘I just want to help you,’ said the priest. ‘Why do you curse me?’
The Nadir stared malevolently up at Skilgannon. ‘For this worm you have destroyed me? There is no sense to it. Kill me now. Set my spirit free.’
Ignoring the dying man Skilgannon handed the priest his tattered robe and took him by the arm, leading him to his horse. Mounting, he drew the priest up behind him and rode away.
They had camped that night out in the open. Skilgannon lit no fire. The priest, dressed in his torn blue robe, sat shivering and staring up at the stars. ‘I do not want those men on my conscience,’ he said, at last.
‘Why would they be on your conscience, boy?’
‘They died because of me. Had you not come they would be alive still.’
Skilgannon had laughed. ‘You are an irrelevance in this. All over this land people are dying, some because they are old and worn out, some because they are diseased, and some merely because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are not your concern. No more were those torturers. You are a Source priest, yes?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then you must ask yourself why I was here at this time. It might be that the Source sent me, because He wanted you alive. It might be mere happenstance. But you are alive, priest, and the evil men are dead.
Where were you heading?’
The young man looked away. ‘I cannot tell you. It is forbidden.’
‘As you wish.’
‘What are you doing here, in this awful desert?’ the priest asked.
‘Trying to keep a promise.’