The Swords of Night and Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

appeared, the features disfigured. Another name surfaced.
Boranius.
Ironmask. Skilgannon saw himself fighting this man, blades flashing and blocking, lunging and parrying. The image began to shimmer. Skilgannon struggled to retain it, but it flowed away from him like a dream upon wakening.
    Returning to his room, he found a cloak of dark brown wool edged with black leather. Swirling it around his shoulders, he walked out of the palace. For the first time since he had returned to life he felt relaxed and free. He walked through the town of Petar, bypassing the crowded marketplace, coming at last to an old stone bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. He saw a young lad sitting on the parapet of the bridge, a fishing rod in his hands. Beyond the bridge, the area leading to the hills had been fenced off. This was puzzling to Skilgannon, for he could see no cattle or sheep. He walked on to a locked gate.
    “Hey there, Outlander!”
    Skilgannon turned. The blond-haired boy put aside his fishing rod. “Best not to walk the hills,” he said. Swinging his legs back over the parapet, the boy jumped onto the bridge and walked over to Skilgannon. “Dangerous up there.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Jems. That’s where they train. They don’t like people.”
    Skilgannon smiled. “I don’t like people, either.” With that he vaulted the gate and set off toward the hills. After a while he broke into an easy lope, then a run. Higher and higher he went, pushing his body hard. At last, breathless and weary, he halted beside a stream. Kneeling, he drank deeply. The water was cold and wonderfully refreshing. Sitting beside the water, he saw that the streambed contained hundreds of rounded pebbles. Most were pure white, but here and there he could see darker stones, some green, some jet black. Plunging his hand into the water, he ran his fingers over the pebbles, scooping up several. Once his life would have been as full of memories as this stream was full of stones. Now all he had were a few scattered remnants. Tipping his hand, he dropped the pebbles back into the water and rose.
    The sky was bright and clear, and a cool breeze was blowing across the mountain foothills. Skilgannon gazed out over the land and the white town far below.
I do not belong here,
he thought as his eyes drank in the alien landscape.
    A sound came to him. Then another. A series of dry cracks and thuds. Intrigued, he followed the sounds, climbing over the crest of the hill and making his way down into the trees beyond. In a clearing far below he saw what at first seemed to be a group of bearded warriors practicing with quarter staffs. They were wearing body armor of black leather and leggings of leather and fur. Skilgannon stood and watched them. His eyes narrowed, and something cold touched his heart.
    They were not men at all. Their faces were twisted and misshapen, jaws elongated.
    Jems,
the boy had called them.
Joinings
was how Skilgannon remembered them. A brief memory flared, of women and children huddling together in a circle while Skilgannon and a group of fighters prepared to face an attack. The beasts had been large, some close to eight feet tall. Much larger, in fact, than the Jiamads training below. And more bestial in appearance. These seemed to Skilgannon to be more human. Perhaps it was that they were clothed in breastplates of black leather, and leather kilts.
    The wind shifted, carrying his scent down into the clearing. Almost immediately the Jiamads ceased their training and turned, staring up toward where Skilgannon stood, hidden in the shadows of the trees. Though tempted to turn and walk away, he did not. Instead he strolled out into the open and down toward them. As he approached he noted that each of them wore a blue jewel upon its temple. It seemed incongruous that such beasts would wear adornments.
    The largest of the creatures, almost seven feet tall, its fur jet black, stepped toward him. “Skins stay away,” it said, the voice guttural.