David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Breathes,’ said Shakul. ‘Not dead.’

Stavut stared up at the sky. ‘Thank you!’ he shouted. Grava groaned, his golden eyes opening. He stared at Stavut, then said something unintelligible, his long tongue lolling more than ever.

‘Good to see you too,’ said Stavut happily. Rising, he turned and stared down the slope. ‘Will they come back?’ he asked Shakul.

‘Officer dead. They run now. Others come back. Maybe.’

‘We won, Shak! We beat them!’

Then he saw Harad lying face down on the ground close by. Stavut ran to him, rolling him to his back.

Harad’s face was grey. Shakul loomed above him. ‘No breath,’ he said. ‘Friend dead.’

Suddenly Harad’s body spasmed, and ice blue eyes flared open. ‘Dead?’ he said. ‘In your dreams, laddie!’

Skilgannon, dressed now in Alahir’s old armour and mail hauberk, knelt at the centre of the Drenai defensive line. All around him stood the grim warriors of the Legend Riders, arrows notched to their bows. Beside him knelt Decado, wearing the armour of one of the riders killed in the battle with the lancers. Skilgannon felt uncomfortable in the heavy chain mail, which, while not initially restricting movement, would leach energy from the wearer by its weight alone. Normally Skilgannon preferred speed and freedom of movement, but today the battle would be fought in close confinement, and there was no way he could avoid swords or spears being thrust at him during the initial melee.

Further down the ancient road the Eternal Guard had drawn up. They could see the Legend Riders waiting for them, and Skilgannon watched as their officers gathered together, discussing strategy. He hoped they would take some time, not because he feared the coming battle, but because lengthy discussion among them would show indecision. There was no such delay. Within moments orders were called out and the Eternal Guard dismounted and put aside their lances. Round infantry shields were unloaded from several wagons at the rear of the column, and passed to the warriors. Skilgannon shivered suddenly. The emblem on the shields was the Spotted Snake — the emblem he had devised for the Queen of Naashan’s troops so many centuries ago. Back then the men who fought under that emblem had been his: highly trained, superbly disciplined, and wondrously brave.

A quarter-mile below, the Eternal Guard formed up smoothly. There was no sense of excitement, no indication of alarm or concern. These were fighting men.

Skilgannon glanced to left and right. He had instructed Alahir to place the burliest and most powerful of his riders at the front of the line, ready to stand their ground against the onslaught. Once the two forces clashed there would be a period of heaving and pushing for ground. It was vital that the line was not forced back in these early moments.

‘Fine-looking bunch, aren’t they?’ observed Decado.

Skilgannon did not reply. The Eternal Guard had begun to march. Beyond them more than a hundred huge Jiamads waited. Alahir had been right. The Guard wanted the honour and the glory of defeating the Drenai.

Shields held high the Guard came on. There were no battle cries, merely the rhythmic sounds of booted feet, marching in step. Alahir eased his way through to the front of the Drenai line. Then he too knelt, to give the archers behind him a clear view of the enemy. The Armour of Bronze gleamed in the afternoon sun, which glittered on the winged helm, and the bright sword in his hand.

The road narrowed, and the Guard came into range. They knew what they were facing, but they did not hesitate. Skilgannon found himself admiring these brave men, and a heaviness settled on his heart.

Good, brave men were going to die today, robbing the world of their courage, their spirit and their passion.

‘Now!’ yelled Alahir.

Hundreds of barbed shafts tore into the ranks of the marching men. Most thudded into shields, or ricocheted from iron armour. Many others sliced into flesh. Soldiers fell — but still the Guard came on. A shouted order came from within their lines, and they broke into a run. More volleys struck them, thinning the ranks. Then, when they were less than twenty paces from the waiting Legend Riders, Alahir raised his sword. The front line of the defenders passed their bows back to the men behind, drew their sabres, and, with Alahir, Skilgannon and Decado in the lead, charged into the fray.

Skilgannon blocked a wicked thrust, shoulder-charged the soldier, hurling him back. The Swords of Night and Day flashed in the sunshine, cutting left and right. Alongside him Alahir clove into the ranks of the Guards, the golden sword stained now with crimson.

Behind them, higher up the hill, a hundred bowmen continued to rain arrows down on the Guards trying to join the fight. As Skilgannon had predicted the men were close packed, and unable to raise their shields. Sharp arrows ripped into flesh, and the sound of clashing arms was interspersed with the screams of dying warriors. Greater weight of numbers began to force the Drenai line back.

Another fifty archers dropped their bows and rushed forward to reinforce the line. Skilgannon blocked a thrusting sword, and sent a lunging riposte through the face of the attacker. The man fell back. Another took his place. Skilgannon was fighting now with a cold, remorseless fury, hacking and cutting, his swords always in motion, glittering and flashing as they clove through armour and bone. Alongside him Decado and Alahir were holding their ground, but on both flanks the Guards were pushing ahead. Soon the three warriors would be surrounded.

Gilden hurled himself forward, seeking to link up with Alahir. A sword blade gouged into his thigh.

Another clattered against his helm. Ducking down he threw himself at the men ahead of him, knocking one man from his feet, and forcing another back. His sabre slashed out, and the dagger in his left hand slammed into the unprotected neck of an oncoming guardsman. Other defenders surged after Gilden, and for a while the line held.

But the Guards did not break. Slowly, inexorably, they were winning.

Like all great war leaders Skilgannon, despite being at the centre of the fight, could feel the ebb and flow of the conflict. The Legend Riders were battling bravely, but he could sense their growing uncertainty. The Guards were fighting now with more vigour as they caught the scent of victory. A sword hammered into Skilgannon’s hauberk. The chain mail stopped the blow from cutting flesh, but the bruising force almost knocked him from his feet. Surging up he killed the attacker. Then another — creating a brief space around himself. Alahir, his face smeared with blood, was trying to push forward into the enemy ranks, but the shields closed against him, and he too was forced back.

Guardsmen surged past Skilgannon on both sides as the Drenai line behind him gave way. There was nothing he could do now, save fight on.

Suddenly the air was filled with snarling screams. The body of a guardsman came hurtling past Skilgannon. Then Shakul appeared. His huge fist crashed against a wooden shield, splintering it. The great beast grabbed the warrior holding it, hauling him high into the air, and flinging him into the ranks of the oncoming guardsmen.

Another figure loomed. It was Harad.

Skilgannon — for the moment having no foes to face — saw the axeman hurl himself into the fight. Snaga rose and fell, cleaving and killing. Skilgannon’s eyes narrowed. Harad had always been powerful, but he lacked experience. That deficiency could not be seen now. The axeman powered forward in perfect balance, and the guardsmen were falling back before the ferocity of his assault.

Yet still the Eternal Guard did not break. Skilgannon charged in, Alahir alongside him. The Legend Riders surged forward, pushing the Guard back towards the narrowest point of the road. The battle became ever more chaotic, the dead and dying trampled underfoot.