Bad enough that Landis Kan had hidden away a child born of the bones of the Eternal. The reasons were not hard to discern. The poor man had been hopelessly in love with her, and had been discarded, like all her lovers and favourites. He had sought to recreate a woman who could love him. That treachery was understandable. But the Skilgannon question nagged at him. It was possible to be both an intelligent man and a fool, so perhaps Landis had believed in the old prophecy. Unwallis remembered it from childhood. A hero reborn would raid the nest of a silver eagle. He would do this after defeating a mountain giant bearing a great shield of gold. As a result an immortal would taste death.
Fascinating nonsense. Mountain giants and eagles of silver did not exist in the known world. So why did Landis Kan believe it to be true? Unwallis gathered all the papers he could find and began to study them.
An hour passed. Then another. Darkness began to fall, and Unwallis lit a lantern. A young soldier came to him, and told him a hot bath had been prepared. Unwallis rose and stretched, then took a sheaf of papers and followed the man to an empty apartment on the ground floor. Here there was a sunken bath of marble. It had taken the soldiers some time to fill it, and the water was now only lukewarm.
Unwallis thanked the men, discarded his clothing and climbed gratefully into the bath. Two more soldiers arrived, carrying buckets of steaming water, which raised the temperature briefly. Unwallis sat back and reached for the next sheet of paper.
Gamal is very weary today. His spirit journeys into the Void have taxed his strength. It is also undeniable that entering a trance state, while his hands rest on the sword hilts, is causing him some distress. Gamal says there is evil in the blades; an old evil, some dark enchantment that grates upon his soul. However, this gives me hope, for the legends maintain that Skilgannon’s swords were cursed. They are quite simply beautiful weapons to observe. Both have hilts of intricately worked ivory, set with precious gems, but the metal blades defy analysis. The Swords of Night and Day are well named. One is pale gold in colour, and yet harder than the strongest steel; the other is moonlight silver. There is not a blemish or a nick on either blade. They could have come straight from a master swordsmith. Hard to believe these swords saw any action at all.
Unwallis read on, skimming through several sheets.
We are both filled with excitement today. Through the swords Gamal has reached Skilgannon.
He has been trapped in the Void for all this time. At first Gamal did not recognize him, for in the Void his skin is scaled like a lizard. He fights constantly, for he is hunted by other demonic forms.
Gamal says a shining figure was with him, but disappeared when Gamal approached. I think Gamal recognized the figure, but would tell me nothing. What is, however, of greater importance is that Gamal has convinced Skilgannon to return to the world. It is not possible to convey the joy this has brought me.
Dropping the paper Unwallis scrambled from the bath, threw a towel round his waist and strode from the room. As he emerged into the corridor he saw two more soldiers carrying buckets of hot water.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Where is the Lord Decado?’
‘He rode out, sir, with a hunting party. Looking for some blind man, I think. You should sit down.
Your face is grey.’
Longbear was confused. Hunger gnawed at him, the scent of blood in the air making his stomach churn.
The desire to kill and eat was growing, making his mouth salivate and his taloned fingers twitch. The woman was bleeding from several small puncture wounds to her side, caused when Longbear carried her, and the old blind Skin, from the fight. As he had run up through the wooded hills his talons had pierced her clothing, pricking the flesh beneath. She was sitting now alongside Gamal, staring back down the track, her eyes fearful. Longbear could scent the salt in the blood, and knew the flesh would be savoury and filling. His empty belly rumbled.
Gamal swung his head, his blind eyes flickering towards Longbear. ‘How are you faring, my friend?’
he asked. ‘Do you carry wounds?’
Longbear grunted. The voice continued to strike a chord somewhere deep in his mind. He could not place it. ‘No wounds,’ he said. ‘Female bleeds.’
‘You are hurt, Charis?’
‘I am fine, sir. Why are they doing this?’
Longbear heard the terror in her voice. His golden eyes looked past her, seeing the distant smoke rise from the houses in which the Skins dwelt. The enemy had come in fast, scores of Jiamads, some on all fours, others carrying clubs or sharp blades. Longbear’s troop of twenty had charged them, ripping and killing, and dying. Longbear himself slew three of the enemy.
He and the surviving six of his troop had been beaten back, fleeing through the alleyways of the town and out into the countryside. On the hillside Longbear had seen the old blind man, Gamal, and the young, golden-haired woman with him. She was leading him by the hand. In the transient safety of the trees Longbear and his survivors gathered round the pair. The woman was terrified. Not so the blind man.
‘Who leads?’ he had asked, his voice firm, and strangely familiar. For a moment only, Longbear experienced an old memory. Strange, for he was lying on a raised platform, blankets upon his body, and the old blind man was sitting beside him. Longbear had never been inside a house, let alone covered in blankets. The image faded.
‘I am Longbear.’
‘That is good. Lead us away from here, Longbear.’
‘Where?’
‘High into the hills. North.’
‘North?’
‘Where the bears live,’ said the old man.
Another bizarre image flickered briefly to life. Longbear remembered walking the high hills. He was carrying a young Skin upon his shoulders. The child was laughing. A feeling came with the memory, of great contentment and joy. Longbear shivered. Such feelings usually came when the bright stone in his temple grew warm.
So they had set off towards the land of the bears. The female Skin held to the old man’s hand, and the pace was terribly slow. Happily they were not followed immediately, and, as the sun fell on the first day, they had made it into the high country.
Here came the first quarrel. Usually at sunset the stone in Longbear’s temple would begin to vibrate.
He would fall into a deep, refreshing sleep. It was close to dusk, and there was no warmth from the stone. The other six of his comrades also grew uneasy. They gathered together, away from the Skins.
‘Dark soon. Who brings food?’ asked Balla, whose appetite was always prodigious.
‘Skin place burns,’ said another, pointing back to a red glow in the southern sky.
A growing sense of unease followed. Longbear squatted down on his haunches. He had no answers.
The whole world seemed to have changed. No food was coming. The stones were cold. And the sound of the old man’s voice was stirring fragmented memories that left him uncomfortable.
The breeze shifted. All the Jiamads tensed. The scent of the enemy came to them. Balla, who had the keenest eyes, ran to the edge of the trees.
‘Only three,’ he said. ‘We kill! Now!’
The Jiamads rose and rushed out onto the hillside.
‘No!’ shouted the old man, his voice cutting through the blood mist that had begun to descend on Longbear. ‘Longbear! To me!’