David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Forgive me, Skilgannon, but I would prefer it if you waited until we get there. Then I will answer all questions. Might I ask a favour of you?’

‘There is no harm in asking, Landis.’

‘We have visitors coming in tomorrow from Outside. I would like you to be with me when I meet them. It will be vital, however, for your name not to be mentioned. I will, by your leave, introduce you as my nephew, Callan.’

‘Who are they, these people?’

Landis sighed. ‘They serve the Eternal. May we walk for a while?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I feel as if my spine is a foot shorter than when we began.’ Drawing rein, he climbed clumsily from the saddle.

Skilgannon joined him, and they walked on, leading their mounts.

‘This world is suffering, Skilgannon, in a way that is unnatural and perverse. We had the chance, I think, to make it a garden, a place of infinite beauty, without threat of famine or disease. Even death could be held back. Instead we have the grotesque violence of a terrible war, fought by unnatural beast against unnatural beast, and by men against men. The suffering Outside is prodigious. Disease, pestilence and starvation, murder and horror abound. How one man was supposed to put an end to this I do not know. As I said, I was swept up in the prophecy. I truly believed. . believe. .’ he added, hastily, ‘that the Blessed Priestess did know the role you would play.’

‘And this prophecy promised I would overthrow the Eternal?’

‘Yes.’

‘What exactly did it say?’

‘It was written in an archaic tongue, and in a form of verse. There have been several translations, all subtly different, in that they sought to create rhyme in the modern tongue. The one I prefer begins: Hero Reborn, torn from the grey, reunited with blades, of Night and of Day. The rest of it is deliberately obscure and allegorical. Almost whimsical. The Hero Reborn will steal or destroy the magical egg of a vain silver eagle, battle a mountain giant bearing the golden shield of the gods, and bring about the death of an immortal, restoring the world to balance and harmony.’

‘A vain eagle?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘In love with its own reflection,’ said Landis. ‘As I said, some of the ancient texts were expanded, or exaggerated. In full, however, the story indicates that Ustarte knew the nature of the evil we now confront. By her reckoning the world of men would face ruin. She talks of an undead Queen, and armies of Joinings. The Blessed Priestess predicted that only you, and the Swords of Night and Day, could defeat them. I believe she had truly seen the future, Skilgannon.’

‘I knew her, Landis. She spoke of many futures. Every decision we make, or refuse to make, creates a different future. None of them are carved in stone. She knew this.’

‘I accept that. Gamal has made similar points. But she predicted the Eternal, and the monsters that now serve her. So perhaps she was also right in naming you as the saviour.’

Skilgannon saw the hope flicker in the man’s face and said nothing. He walked on. Landis hurried alongside. ‘What was she like? Was she beautiful, as the legends say?’

‘Aye, she was beautiful. She was also — to use your own description — a Jiamad.’

Landis stopped abruptly. ‘No. How was that possible?’

‘I can give you no answers. When we went to her we had a Joining with us. He had once been a friend of one of our company. We were hoping that Ustarte could separate him from the beast he had become. She said it was not possible. If it was she would have done it for herself. She showed me then her arm, which was covered in fur. She was part tiger, part wolf, as I recall.’

Skilgannon saw that Landis Kan had grown pale. The older man walked on in silence for a while.

Then he turned to Skilgannon. ‘Do not mention this to anyone else, I beseech you. The priestess is venerated now. People pray to her, worship her.’

‘Why should it make a difference? She was who she was. Nothing is changed except her form.’

‘Nothing and everything,’ said Landis sadly. ‘Let us ride on. We are almost there.’

Skilgannon had little experience of lumber camps, but it seemed to him that this one was well organized, teams of men felling trees, others stripping away branches. He saw one long trunk being dragged by two shaggy ponies towards an area where wagons were waiting. Here there were loggers wielding two-man bow saws. The trunks were shortened before being lifted by pulleys to the backs of the wagons. The work was swift and efficient, and there was a sweet smell in the air, the perfume of pine.

Landis Kan drew rein a little way back from the workmen and waited. A tall, round-shouldered man made his way through the workers and bowed to him. ‘Welcome, lord. The work, as you see, is going well.’

‘I am sure that it is, Balish. This is my nephew, Callan. He is visiting for a while.’ Balish bowed to Skilgannon. ‘Where will we find Harad?’

The man looked suddenly frightened. ‘There was little I could do to stop the fight, lord,’ he said. ‘It happened so swiftly. No-one was seriously hurt. I have spoken to Harad and warned him about his behaviour.’

‘Yes, yes, but where is he?’

Balish pointed towards the west. ‘Shall I have him brought here?’

‘Yes. We will be a little way down the slope there. Where the stream forks.’

So saying, Landis Kan swung his horse and rode away from the camp. Skilgannon followed him and the two men dismounted by the stream. ‘Balish is a good organizer,’ said Landis, ‘but weak and mean-spirited. He does not like Harad.’

Skilgannon said nothing. He stared at the mountains, and watched two eagles soaring on the thermals.

For some reason sight of the birds filled him with a sense of emptiness, and a longing to be free of this place. Much as he respected Ustarte she was long dead now, and he felt no obligation to be the saviour of a world that was not his. Soon he would leave, and see if he could find a way back to what was once Naashan. His studies in the library during the past few days had confirmed that Naashan was across the sea to the east. To get there he would have to journey to the port now called Draspartha, though in Skilgannon’s time it had been Dros Purdol.

Landis Kan was still talking and Skilgannon wrenched his mind from thoughts of travel. ‘I am going to ask Harad to show you the high country,’ said Landis. ‘He is a dour man, and does not talk much.

Gamal feels a little time away from. .’ he chuckled, ‘away from civilization will help you to readjust to this new life.’

‘Why this Harad?’

Landis Kan looked away. ‘He knows the high country as well as anyone.’

Skilgannon knew the answer was — at least in part — a lie, but he let it pass. ‘Ah, here he comes,’

Landis said. Skilgannon swung to meet the newcomer — and his breath caught in his throat. He felt his heart beating hard and struggled for calm. He glanced at Landis Kan, anger in his gaze. ‘Say nothing at the moment!’ Landis insisted.

The black-bearded logger strode down to where the two men waited. ‘It is good to see you, my friend,’ said Landis. ‘This is my nephew, Callan.’ The logger merely nodded and turned his pale eyes on Skilgannon. Landis Kan spoke again. ‘I would like you to act as his guide, up into the mountains.’

‘I am working here,’ said Harad.

‘You will receive the same wages, my boy. I would take it as a personal favour if you would agree.’

Harad stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘No horses,’ he said. ‘It will be a long walk.’

‘I can walk,’ said Skilgannon. ‘However, if you would prefer not to guide me, I will understand.’

Harad swung to Landis Kan. ‘How long do you want me to guide him?’