David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘And you never felt that way about anyone else?’

‘No. There were women I cared for deeply, and others whose company I enjoyed for a time.’

‘Perhaps it was just because she was the first,’ Askari offered.

‘There is. . was. . a belief among the Naashanites that, for every man and woman, there was one great love waiting to be found. Some never found it. Some settled for less. The very lucky would stumble across it. Like finding a diamond in a ditch. Jianna was my diamond. There could never be another.’

‘Yet you can contemplate destroying her, and sending her soul to the horror of the Void?’

‘We all face the horror of the Void,’ he said. ‘And, no, I could not kill her. Any more than I could kill myself. What I am attempting to destroy is the Eternal , and the magic that has brought this world to vileness and ruin.’

‘A magic that brought about my own life — and yours,’ she pointed out.

Drawing rein he turned towards her. In the moonlight her beauty was startling. It robbed him, for the moment, of speech. She edged her mount alongside his own. His throat was dry, and it seemed as if time ceased flowing. All that existed was this one moment. ‘What is it?’ she asked softly.

Tearing his gaze from her he turned his horse. ‘We must move on,’ he said, heeling the chestnut into a run.

Allowing the gelding to have his head Skilgannon tried to clear his thoughts. The pounding of the hooves, the wind in his face, helped him to focus. Ahead lay the crater. Slowing his mount Skilgannon rode to the rim, turned his back, and drew the Sword of Night. Staring into the blade he saw once more the rearing temple mountain, and the great golden shield at its peak. More than this he saw, some distance to his left, shimmering blue lights on the desert floor, marking a path to the doors of the temple.

He touched heels to the gelding and rode round the rim until he reached the start of the path. Then he dismounted. Askari came alongside. He showed her the reflection.

‘How do we know it is a pathway?’ she asked.

‘My guess is that the priests needed a safe way through the crater, in order to bring in supplies. But let us test it.’

From round his neck he lifted clear the golden locket, then, holding the Sword of Night high, he tossed the locket over his shoulder to land between two of the shimmering lights. Then he turned to watch what happened. The locket lay on the ground, unmoving. Skilgannon took a deep breath, then stepped out onto the crater to retrieve it. Moving back to Askari he said: T intend to walk the path. It might be safer if you wait here for me.’

‘I didn’t come this far to hold the reins of your horse. I will come with you.’

He smiled. ‘I guessed you would say that.’ Then it registered that she had not brought her bow with her. Instead she had a scabbarded cavalry sabre looped over her shoulder. ‘The first time I have seen you without the recurve,’ he said.

‘I loaned it to the Legend Riders. They are running out of arrows.’

Skilgannon drew both swords then, holding one above his head, the other before his eyes. Carefully he adjusted the higher sword until the path could be seen reflected in the blade before his eyes.

Then he walked slowly towards the hidden temple.

‘How does anyone find the strength to fight, wearing all this?’ complained Stavut, as Gilden looped the chain-mail hauberk over his head. The sleeves came down to Stavut’s elbows, the hem touching the backs of his calves. It was split front and back at the waist, allowing for freedom of movement in the saddle, but the biggest surprise to Stavut was the weight. ‘I feel as if I’m carrying Shakul on my back!’

‘The best is yet to come,’ said Gilden, lifting the coif and settling it over Stavut’s head. It was lined with soft leather, and smelt of rancid goose grease. Lastly came the helm. When Stavut had first tried it he had laughed aloud. It was way too big, and slid comically around his head. Now with the added thickness of the coif the helm fitted perfectly. Gilden tied the bronze cheek guards together.

‘How does it feel? he asked.

‘What? I can’t hear a thing in here.’

Gilden repeated the question. ‘It feels ludicrous,’ Stavut told him. ‘If I fell over I’d never be able to get up.’

‘If you fall over you won’t need to worry about getting up,’ observed Gilden. ‘Walk around for a while. You’ll get used to the weight.’

The sergeant wandered off and Stavut, feeling foolish, tromped off towards the pool. Most of the warriors had gathered there, and were sitting quietly. He noticed that many of them were casting furtive glances at Harad, who was standing apart from the men, the axe head resting on the ground, his huge hands crossed over the pommel on the haft. Stavut found a place to sit, close to some of the warriors.

Slowly he lowered himself down. The chain mail creaked and groaned as he sat.

‘You think it could be true?’ he heard a man ask, his voice low.

‘It comes from Alahir. He said Skilgannon told him.’

‘Gods, then we are looking at the Legend!’

‘Aye, we are. Did you see him today? I don’t know how the Guard felt, but he terrified me.’

Stavut had no idea what they were talking about. He felt incredibly tired, and stretched out on the ground. The mail hauberk made him feel as if he was lying on a bed of brambles. With a groan he rolled over and forced himself back into a sitting position. Then he looked around and realized he was the only man in armour. Feeling even more foolish he undid the chin straps of his helmet and pulled it clear. Then he struggled out of the chain mail. The relief was total.

Gilden wandered back and crouched down beside him. ‘What happened in the other pass today?’ he asked.

‘I told you. Enemy Jems attacked and we beat them.’

‘To Harad, I mean.’

‘I know. He is speaking most strangely. He seems to be copying Skilgannon’s archaic style of speech.

He was struck in the head. Ever since he woke he’s been. . been. .’ Stavut struggled for the right description.

‘Like someone else?’ offered Gilden.

‘Yes, that’s it exactly. Called me laddie. And those eyes. I’ve never noticed before how frightening they are.’

‘Did you see him fight here today?’

‘Of course. Completely different. In the pass earlier he was massively powerful, but clumsy and winning through brute strength. On the road he was awesome, balanced and deadly and terrible to behold.’

Gilden sat beside him, then glanced back at Harad. ‘Skilgannon says he is Harad no longer. He says the ghost of Druss the Legend now inhabits his body.’

‘I hate to be the man who shoots down someone else’s pigeon,’ said Stavut, ‘but he got a hefty whack to the head. Could he not have become. . you know. .’

‘Deranged?’

‘I wouldn’t go quite that far, but, yes. Not himself.’

‘Skilgannon told Alahir that Druss had inhabited the body once before, to warn him of the coming battles. He also said that Harad was a Reborn, created from the bones of Druss.’

‘That cannot be right,’ said Stavut. ‘Druss was tall and golden-haired. I read that somewhere.’

Gilden sighed. ‘According to our legends he was a silver-bearded giant. But then at the last battle he was very old.’

Stavut rose. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Gilden.

‘I am going to talk to Harad,’ he said. ‘No point sitting here whispering about it. I’ll ask him.’

He strolled through the ranks of the Drenai and waved as he approached Harad. ‘How is the head?’

he asked.

‘Bearable, laddie. Has the word spread to everyone yet?’

‘About the Druss. . er. . story?’