David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘You still have not told me why you now fear the Eternal,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Nor why you did not wish Landis to be here when we spoke.’

‘Forgive me, my boy. I am very tired now. I will tell you all when next we meet. I promise you.’

When the fight started Harad walked away. It was none of his concern. The loggers from the upper valleys were arrogant men, and argumentative. Harad usually ignored them, and they, in turn, wanted no trouble with him. Truth was no-one wanted any trouble with the man now known as Harad Bonebreaker.

It was not a title the huge, black-bearded young logger had sought, nor was it one that he liked. It had proved effective, however, and life was generally more calm. He had not been provoked into breaking anyone’s bones for more than five months now. People avoided him — which was exactly how he preferred it.

Moving back from the fight, Harad sat down on a felled tree and took up his meal pack. Fresh bread and strong cheese. The bread was just as he liked it, slightly over baked, the crust dark and crisp, the centre soft and full of flavour. Tearing off a chunk he chewed slowly, trying to ignore the sounds of fists on flesh, and the shouting of the watchers. The cheese was disappointing. There was no tang to the flavour. Good cheese would cause the tongue to cleave to the roof of the mouth, and the eyes to water.

A slim, golden-haired young woman approached him. ‘You have bread crumbs in your beard,’ she said. Harad brushed them away. He could feel his tension rising. Charis had not walked across the clearing to talk about crumbs. ‘Someone should stop this fight,’ she said.

‘Then go and stop it,’ snapped Harad. Charis ignored the tone and sat down on the log beside him.

He tried not to look at her, and struggled to avoid reacting to the fact that her leg was touching his. It was impossible. With a heavy sigh he put down his bread.

‘What do you want from me?’ he asked, trying to sound angry.

‘They are going to hurt him,’ she said. ‘It is not right.’

Harad glanced across to the fight. The young logger, Arin, was battling gamely, but the High Valley man he was fighting was taller and heavier. There was blood on Arin’s cheek, and his lower lip had been split. A crowd had gathered. They were shouting encouragement to the combatants.

‘What is the fight about?’ he asked.

‘The High Valley man made a comment about Kerena.’

Harad switched his gaze to Arin’s young wife, a plump girl with dark blond hair. She was standing some distance from the fighters, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘So are you going to stop it?’ asked Charis.

‘Why should I? It is not my fight. Anyway, the man is defending his wife’s honour. That’s as it should be.’

‘You know what will happen if Arin wins,’ said Charis.

Harad said nothing, returning his attention to the fight. The High Valley man was called Lathar. He and his two brothers were known troublemakers. Tough men, and brutal, they were constantly involved in scuffles and fights. Harad knew what Charis meant. If Arin was to beat Lathar, then his brothers would pitch in.

No-one would stop them. And Arin would take a severe beating.

‘It is not my problem,’ said Harad. ‘Why do you seek to make it so?’

‘Why do you set yourself apart?’ she countered.

Harad felt his anger rising. ‘You are an irritating woman.’

‘I’m glad you’ve noticed I’m a woman.’

‘What does that mean? Of course I know you’re a woman.’ Harad was growing increasingly uncomfortable. A great cheer went up as Arin landed a powerful right cross on Lathar’s chin. The High Valley man stumbled back. Arin surged in after him. One of Lathar’s brothers, a stocky bearded man named Garik, thrust out a foot. Arin tripped over it and tumbled to the ground. It gave Lathar a few moments to recover.

‘See!’ said Charis. ‘It is beginning.’

Harad turned towards her, looking into her deep blue eyes. He felt the breath catch in his throat.

Hastily he looked away. ‘Why do you care?’ he asked. ‘Arin is not your husband.’

‘Why do you not?’

‘Can you never answer a damned question? Always you have one of your own. Why should I care?

Arin is not my friend. None of them are.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Harad the Loner. Harad the Bonebreaker. Harad the Bitter.’

‘I am not bitter. I just. . prefer my own company.’

‘Why is that?’

Harad surged to his feet. ‘When will you stop these questions?’ he thundered. At that moment Lathar was knocked from his feet. He struggled to rise as Arin stood over him. Another brother, a tall pockmarked lout named Vaska, ran in from behind, punching Arin in the neck. The burly Garik joined in, kicking Arin in the hip. The young logger, surprised by the sudden assault, fell heavily.

Harad stalked across the clearing. ‘Back off!’ he roared.

Vaska and Garik turned away from the fallen Arin. Lathar himself was back on his feet. Harad moved in close, pushing past them. Arin was sitting on the ground, looking groggy. Just as Harad reached out to lift him to his feet he heard movement from behind. Harad turned. Garik rushed at him, his fist drawn back. Harad stood still. He could have avoided the blow. Instead he merely thrust out his chin. The High Valley man’s fist hammered against Harad’s face. Harad stared hard at the man who had struck him, noting with some satisfaction the sudden fear in Garik’s eyes. ‘Not the best idea you’ve ever had, pig-face,’ he said. His right hand flashed out, grabbing the attacker’s tunic. With one swift tug he pulled him into a head butt which smashed the man’s nose. Holding him upright, Harad tapped him with a straight left. Garik hurtled back into the crowd, then slumped unconscious to the ground. Vaska charged in. Harad stopped him in his tracks with a straight left, then delivered a right cross which spun Vaska from his feet. Harad had tried to pull his punches, but even so Vaska lay on the ground unmoving. Harad transferred his gaze to Lathar. The big logger was already bloody from his fight with Arin. His right eye was swollen, and closed. Harad ignored him and turned to the fallen Arin, who was now sitting up. The young man was still groggy. Reaching out, Harad hauled him to his feet. ‘Go and drink some water,’ he advised. ‘It will help clear your head.’ Arin’s wife, the blonde Kerena, ran in, taking her husband’s arm and leading him away. As Harad turned he saw Lathar stumble forward, fists raised. Stepping in, he blocked a weak blow and grabbed Lathar’s arms.

‘Wait until you feel better,’ he advised. ‘Then I’ll be glad to break your bones for you.’

Leaving the surprised logger standing there Harad walked away, returning to the log and his food.

Charis joined him. Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed. ‘What do you want now?’ he said.

‘Don’t you feel better for helping Arin?’

‘No. I just want to eat in peace.’

‘Are you coming to the feast?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? There’ll be food, and dancing, and music. You might enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t like noise. I don’t like people.’

She smiled. ‘Come anyway. I might dance with you.’

‘I don’t dance.’

‘I’ll teach you.’

Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes again. When he opened them he saw her walking away down the hillside with the other women who had brought the midday food. Some of the men had already begun taking up axe and saw, ready to begin work. Lathar’s brothers, still unconscious, had been pulled away from the work area. Lathar was kneeling alongside them. The overseer, a tall thin man named Balish, was talking to him.