David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Men spun on their heels and began to run, streaming back down the pass road.

Stavut couldn’t believe his luck. He had not been called to battle at all.

Legend Riders ran to their fallen comrades, lifting those still breathing from the battle site and carrying them back to the relative safety of the rock pool. Then they began to gather their dead. It seemed to Stavut there were a great many bodies. Swiftly he cast his glance around, estimating the numbers of the survivors. There were considerably less than a hundred men still standing. He saw Druss walk to the narrow point and stare down at the enemy. Then the axeman swung round and strode back up the road.

Stavut shivered as he saw him. The mail hauberk was splattered with blood, as was his face and beard.

There were bleeding cuts on his huge arms, and a long gash on his cheek. A cut above his right eye was seeping blood. ‘There is a rider coming,’ the axeman told Alahir.

The Earl of Bronze and the axeman walked down to meet him. Stavut tagged along behind them. The rider was a tall man, hawk-eyed and lean. He sat his black horse and stared past the two men, observing the battlefield. Then he turned his dark gaze on Druss.

‘You have performed bravely, but you cannot hold out much longer,’ he said.

‘Ah, laddie, that was but a warming up exercise. Now that we’re loose the real fighting can begin.’

The man gave a cold smile. ‘Do I have your permission to remove my wounded and dead?’

‘What, no offers of surgeons?’ said the axeman.

‘I fear the amount of damage you have caused necessitates my using both my surgeons,’ said the officer.

‘You can have your wounded,’ said Druss. ‘The men you send to carry them better be stripped of all armour and weapons, or I’ll roll their heads back to you.’

‘Your tone is disrespectful, sir,’ said the officer, tight lipped.

‘I’d have more respect had I seen you among your men, and not watching the battle from afar. Now scuttle back to where you came from. This conversation is over.’

Druss turned his back on the man and led Alahir back up the road. Stavut watched the officer wrench his horse round and ride away.

‘Why were you so discourteous, Druss?’ asked Alahir.

The axeman chuckled. ‘I want him boiling mad. Angry men tend to act rashly.’

‘I think you achieved that. And you were right about the surgeons.’

‘As soon as they have collected their dead and wounded form up the bowmen and prepare for the beasts.’

Druss glanced to his right. A wounded guardsman was desperately trying to unbuckle the breastplate of a fallen comrade. Blood was gushing from beneath the smashed armour. Druss laid aside his axe and moved alongside the men. Together they wrenched the breastplate clear. The man’s right side was drenched with blood. Druss ripped the shirt open, to reveal smashed ribs and a huge cut. From the look of the ruined breastplate, and the depth of the wound, Stavut knew it had come from Druss’s axe. Druss pulled the shirt back over the wound, and told the second man to hold his hand over it. ‘Press lightly,’ he said, ‘for those ribs might be pushed into the lung.’

‘Where did you come from?’ asked the second man.

‘From Hell, laddie. Let’s look at your wound.’ The soldier had taken a heavy hit on the lower leg, which was broken. ‘You’ll live,’ said Druss. ‘Your friend might not. Depends how tough he is.’ He stared hard at the young soldier with the chest wound. ‘Are you tough, laddie?’

‘Damn right,’ said the man, gritting his teeth against the pain. Druss grinned.

‘I believe you. Normally when I hit a man that hard, the axe cleaves all the way to the backbone. You were lucky. Caught me on a poor day.’

Stavut gazed around the battle site. There were hundreds of fallen guardsmen, and the road was slick with blood.

And noon was still hours away.

Skilgannon struggled to rise. The old priest knelt by his side. ‘Do not move, my son. Conserve your strength. Hold on to life and I will help you as best I can.’ Skilgannon felt liquid in his throat, choking him.

He coughed and sprayed blood to the floor. The priest drew the golden chain from round his neck.

Turning Skilgannon onto his back he placed the black and white crystal on the bleeding wound. ‘Lie still; let its power work.’

Breathing was becoming difficult, and Skilgannon’s vision swam. His hands and feet grew cold, and he knew death was close. Then a gentle warmth began in his chest, and slowly flowed through his body. His palpitating heart grew more rhythmic in its beat.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and cursed himself for a fool. Askari never travelled without her bow, and the few arrows in her quiver would have meant nothing to the Legend Riders. Feeling stronger he placed his hand over the crystal and sat up. His shirt was ripped, and he pulled it open. Smearing away the blood he found no wound below it. He turned to the priest. ‘My thanks to you. .’ he began.

Then he stopped. The old man was sitting on the floor with his back against the desk. His face was waxen, his breathing ragged. Skilgannon moved to his side, holding out the crystal. Then he saw that it no longer glittered, and was instead merely a lump of black stone.

‘The Moon has been growing weaker,’ said the old priest, his voice a dry whisper. ‘It is because I have not taken it to the shrine to pray. It always gleamed when I did that.’

‘You allowed me to take all its power,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Why?’

‘To pay a debt. I am the oldest of the brethren, Skilgannon. The last of them. You look at me now and you see a twisted ancient. I looked different when you rescued me from the Nadir. I was young then, and full of idealism. Did you keep in touch with little Dayan?’

‘No.’

‘A sweet girl. She wed a young man and went to live in Virinis. I visited her there several times. She had seven children. Her life was happy, and she gave joy to all who knew her. She was over eighty when she died. A full life, I think.’

‘That is good to know.’

‘Do not let the evil one desecrate the shrine.’

‘Her evil will end today. I promise you that.’

Skilgannon rose, drew the Swords of Night and Day, and walked from the room.

Outside the sun was beginning to set.

It took several hours for columns of unarmed men to climb the high road, and carry away the Guard dead and wounded. Stavut walked back to the poolside, where a number of the veterans were trying to staunch the wounds of the Drenai injured. Many of the older riders carried needle and thread, but so great were the numbers of wounded that many were unattended. Stavut removed his hauberk and helm, casting aside his sabre. He moved to a young man who was trying vainly to stitch a wound in his own side. The cut extended over his hip and round to his back. Stavut ordered the man to lie down, and then took the needle from his hand. ‘The chain mail parted,’ said the soldier.

‘Lie still.’

‘It was made for my great-grandfather. Some of the rings were badly worn.’

‘There’ll be plenty of mail to choose from after today,’ Stavut told him, glancing across to the pile of hauberks that had been removed from the dead, and stacked against the cliff wall. Stavut drew the last flaps of flesh together, drawing the thread tight, and then knotting it. Taking the man’s knife from his belt he cut the excess thread clear. The rider’s face was pale, and a sheen of sweat covered his face.

‘My thanks to you, Stavut,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt of pain.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To find a new hauberk.’ The man staggered off. Stavut saw him sifting through the discarded armour.