Free The Swords of Night and Day by David Gemmell Page B

a sense of emptiness, and a longing to be free of this place. Much as he respected Ustarte, she was long dead now, and he felt no obligation to be the savior of a world that was not his. Soon he would leave and see if he could find a way back to what was once Naashan. His studies in the library during the past few days had taught him that Naashan was across the sea to the east. To get there he would have to journey to the port now called Draspartha, though in Skilgannon’s time it had been Dros Purdol.
    Landis Khan was still talking, and Skilgannon wrenched his mind from thoughts of travel. “I am going to ask Harad to show you the high country,” said Landis Khan. “He is a dour man and does not talk much. Gamal feels a little time away from—” He chuckled. “—away from civilization will help you to readjust to this new life.”
    “Why Harad?”
    Landis Khan looked away. “He knows the high country as well as anyone.”
    Skilgannon knew this was—at least in part—a lie, but he let it pass. “Ah, here he comes,” said Landis Khan. Skilgannon swung to meet the newcomer—and his breath caught in his throat. He felt his heart beating hard and struggled for calm. He glanced at Landis Khan, anger in his gaze. “Say nothing for the moment!” insisted Landis.
    The black-bearded logger strode down to where the two men waited. “It is good to see you, my friend,” said Landis. “This is my nephew, Callan.” The logger merely nodded and turned his pale eyes on Skilgannon. Landis Khan spoke again, “I would like you to act as his guide, up into the mountains.”
    “I am working here,” said Harad.
    “You will receive the same wages, my boy. I would take it as a personal favor if you would agree.”
    Harad stared hard at Skilgannon. “No horses,” he said. “It will be a long walk.”
    “I can walk,” said Skilgannon. “However, if you would prefer not to guide me, I will understand.”
    Harad swung to Landis Khan. “How long do you want me to guide him?”
    “Three . . . four days.”
    “When?”
    “The day after tomorrow.”
    “Meet me here at sunup,” said Harad to Skilgannon. With that he nodded to Landis Khan and strode back toward the logging camp.
    After he had gone Landis stood silently alongside Skilgannon, who sensed the man’s unease. “Are you angry?” Landis asked, at last.
    “Oh, yes, Landis. I am angry.” Landis took an involuntary backward step, his face showing his fear. Skilgannon gave a cold smile. “But I will not harm you.”
    “That is a relief,” said Landis. “What can you tell me of Harad’s . . . ancestor?”
    Skilgannon shook his head. “I see why you wanted me to meet him, but I will tell you nothing. I need to think on this. Alone.” With that he stepped smoothly into the saddle and rode away.
             
    H arad was uneasy as he returned to work—not that anyone would have noticed. He still swung his ax with unfailing power, his strength seemingly limitless. He worked throughout the morning, silently as always, his face grim, his expression set. At one point he saw Balish staring at him, but ignored him. Lathar and his brothers were close by, and twice he found himself working alongside them. They did not speak, but during one short break Lathar offered Harad a drink from a water canteen. Harad accepted it.
    Lathar sighed. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So where did the first oak tree come from?”
    Harad relaxed and suddenly chuckled. “I don’t know. A woman said it to me. Now I can’t get it out of my head.”
    “Me, too,” said Lathar. “Women, eh?”
    Harad nodded. No more was said, but the enmity between them melted away.
    The day was warm, the work exhausting. By the midday break Harad had been toiling for six hours. He found himself looking forward to seeing Charis, to sitting quietly on a log with her beside him. When the women came he walked away to sit alone, and waited for her. She was wearing a cream-colored smock and a