David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

A trumpet sounded — and the Guard pulled back. Even in retreat they kept their discipline.

Some of the Legend Riders began to give chase. Alahir called them to order. ‘Re-form!’ he shouted.

Smoothly they pulled back to their original fighting line. Harad walked over to stand before Skilgannon.

‘Is it you?’ asked the warrior softly.

‘Aye, laddie. I’m back for a time.’

Skilgannon wanted to say more, but two men appeared at the narrowest point of the road. Both were slim and young, and they wore no armour. They approached Alahir, and bowed. The first, stoop-shouldered and balding, spoke. ‘I am Warna Set, surgeon to the First. This is my assistant, Anatis.

By your leave I will attend the Guard wounded. Do you have a surgeon with you?’

‘We do not,’ Alahir told him.

‘If it is agreeable to you, my general offers the assistance of Anatis for your own wounded. He also requests you allow us to remove the dead from the battlefield.’

Alahir gazed back along the road at the fallen men, some of them writhing in pain. Then he glanced at Skilgannon.

‘How long will this truce last?’ Skilgannon enquired.

The sun was already beginning to fall. Warna Set turned to Skilgannon. ‘The general says that he will hold off the next attack until sunrise.’

‘You may signal our agreement,’ Skilgannon told him. The surgeon bowed and returned to the Guard.

Anatis remained. He was a small man, sandy-haired, with large brown eyes. His features were soft, almost feminine.

‘Might I begin my work, sir?’ he asked Skilgannon.

‘Of course. We are grateful for your assistance.’

Anatis smiled wearily. ‘My talents would be better employed among people who did not seek to cut each other to pieces. Assign me some men, for those wounded who can be moved to a safer place. I understand there is water close by.’

‘Yes.’

‘The wounded should be carried there, and those without stomach wounds encouraged to drink.’

Then he moved back to walk among the fallen riders. Alahir told Gilden to assist him.

‘I don’t know who their general is,’ he said to Skilgannon, ‘but I must say I warm to him.’

‘Aye, it is a fine gesture, but it also has strategic merit. His own men know they will receive treatment if wounded, and will not be merely cast aside. Allowing us a surgeon also means we are less likely to butcher wounded guardsmen. The man is a thinker.’

The sound of a horse’s hooves upon stone broke through the conversation. Skilgannon swung to see Decado riding out from the entrance to the pool. He strolled back to where the dark-haired young swordsman sat his mount. ‘Leaving us so soon?’ he asked.

‘I am afraid so, kinsman. This never was my fight. It pleased me to stay while I thought it might be won.’

‘Well, good luck to you, Decado.’

The man smiled. ‘No pleas for me to stay? No appeal to my loyalty?’

‘No. I thank you for your help today. You are a fine warrior. Perhaps we will meet again, in happier times.’

With that Skilgannon turned away from the man and walked over to where Druss was standing, apart from the other men. ‘Not looking good,’ said the axeman.

‘No,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Skills on both sides are even, but their numbers will win the day. I think we can resist two, maybe three attacks.’

Druss nodded. Skilgannon saw the blood on the axeman’s temple, and the huge bruise beneath it.

‘That looks bad.’

‘Feels it,’ admitted Druss. ‘I think Harad’s skull might have been cracked. Damned painful.’

The two men stepped aside as Legend Riders moved past, carrying wounded men. ‘I take it you will be staying for a while?’ said Skilgannon.

‘I think it best,’ Druss told him. ‘Harad is a good lad, but this skirmish is going to need a touch more than guts and determination.’ He glanced across at Alahir and grinned. ‘Good to see that armour again.

And he wears it well.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘He is Drenai,’ said Druss. ‘Says it all for me.’

The sun faded down behind the mountains and darkness came swiftly. Skilgannon moved away to sit on a rock and clean his swords. As he finished wiping the dried blood from the Sword of Night he lifted the blade to examine it. What he saw caused his breath to catch in his throat.

Reflected in the shimmering steel was the temple mountain, pale and gleaming in the starlight, the Mirror of Heaven bright upon its peak. He turned his head and glanced back down the mountainside.

There was no temple, only the huge crater which had killed Bagalan.

Switching his gaze back to the reflection in the sword blade he wondered if his mind was failing him.

Askari wandered over to squat down beside him. ‘This is no time to be admiring yourself,’ she said.

‘Look in the blade and tell me what you see,’ he told her, passing her the sword. Askari held it up.

‘I have looked better,’ she said. ‘There is dirt on my face.’

‘Move the blade and look down the mountain.’

Askari did so. Her expression changed as she saw the reflection of the temple mountain, and she swung round just as Skilgannon had. ‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

‘It means it always was some kind of ward spell. It can fool the eye, but not a mirror.’

‘What will you do?’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘Everything in me yearns to stand with these men, and face the foe. Yet it is not what I came for. I came to end the reign of the Eternal. I cannot do that up here. I must get into the temple.’

For Stavut there was no sense of even a transient victory. The day had been nightmarish. The first battle, in which Harad had been struck down, was bad enough. Eight of his lads were dead, three others nursing deep wounds that concerned Stavut. Then they had travelled here to find the Legend Riders facing massive odds. Shakul, without any order from Stavut, had hurled himself into the fray. He now carried more cuts and a puncture wound to his thigh.

The Jiamad wounded, who had lagged behind in the march to the high pass, arrived just as night fell.

One of them was Ironfist, the scrawny hunchback who had joined them recently. He was being supported by the skinny Blackrock. Ironfist was breathing heavily, and there was blood dripping from his elongated jaw. Stavut ran to him, and helped Blackrock lower him to the ground. Ironfist leaned his back against the cliff face. Stavut laid his hand on the beast’s shoulder. ‘How are you feeling, my friend?’

‘Much pain. Better when sun shines.’

‘Sit quietly. I’ll fetch a surgeon.’

Stavut ran back to the poolside, where the seriously injured had been carried from the battle site. He saw the small surgeon, Anatis, kneeling beside a seated rider, and inserting stitches in a wound to the man’s shoulder. Stavut recognized the burly rider as the man who had screamed at him, and almost caused a fight between the Jems and the riders. His name, Stavut had learned later, was Barik. Stavut moved alongside them. ‘One of my lads is seriously wounded,’ he said to the surgeon. ‘Do you know anything about Jems?’

‘I don’t treat beasts,’ answered the man, without looking up.

‘Then you won’t live to treat anyone ever again, you bastard!’ shouted Stavut, dragging his sabre clear of its scabbard. Terrified, the surgeon flung himself to the ground, rolling behind the wounded Drenai soldier.

‘Whoa!’ ordered Barik. ‘Rein in, Stavut! This man came to help us, and I’d as soon you didn’t kill him before he’s finished sealing this scratch.’

‘My lads have died in your battle, Drenai! The least you could do is see them tended.’

‘I agree.’ Pushing his hand over the still bleeding wound he glanced round at the cowering Anatis. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll sit here while you tend to his friend. Is that all right with you?’