David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Harad. ‘It is called the Ghost Fortress.’

‘Once it had another name,’ said Skilgannon softly. Shrugging off his pack he sat down and stared at the ruin. Sometime in the last hundred years there had been an earthquake here. The first wall was fractured and half covered by an avalanche. The keep had split and crumbled.

‘What name?’ asked Harad, sitting alongside him.

‘Dros Delnoch. It was said it would never fall while men with courage stood upon its walls.’

‘It did fall, though,’ said Harad. ‘I don’t know much history, but I do know it was conquered by a warrior chief named Tenaka Khan. The Nadir swarmed over it. Conquered the old lands.’

‘I never heard of him,’ said Skilgannon. ‘The last battle I know of was fought by Druss the Legend and the Earl of Bronze. Druss died here. And the fortress held. Ten thousand men against an army fifty times greater.’

Skilgannon drew in a deep breath, remembering the day he had ridden into the Nadir camp.

Two hundred thousand warriors were besieging the Dros. But on this night there was no assault.

A great funeral pyre had been prepared, and the body upon it was that of Druss the Legend. He had fallen that day, battling impossible odds. The Nadir, who knew hint as Deathwalker, both feared and revered him. They had carried his corpse from the battleground, and were preparing to honour him.

Skilgannon dismounted close to the tent of Ulric, Lord of Wolves. The royal guards recognized him, and led him into the presence of the Khan. ‘Why are you here, my friend?’ asked the violet-eyed man. ‘I know it is not to fight in my cause.’

‘ I came for the reward you promised me, Great Khan.’

‘ This is a battlefield, Skilgannon. My riches are not here.’

‘ I do not require riches.’

‘ I owe you my life. You may ask of me anything I have and I will grant it.’

‘ Druss was dear to me, Ulric. We were friends. I require only a keepsake: a lock of his hair, and a small sliver of bone. I would ask also for his axe.’

The Great Khan stood silently for a moment. ‘He was dear to me also. What will you do with the hair and bone?’

‘ I will place them in a locket, my lord, and carry it round my neck.’

‘ Then it shall be done,’ said Ulric.

‘You are lost in thought,’ said Harad, ‘and you are looking sad.’

‘It is a sad sight,’ said Skilgannon.

The earthquake and the subsequent avalanche meant that it was now possible to access the fortress from the mountains, rather than through the high keep above the Sentran Plain to the south. The descent was still perilous, but Harad and Skilgannon slowly made their way down until they were standing on the ramparts of Wall One. Two of the towers that were set every fifty paces had been smashed by the avalanche. The others still stood. Skilgannon walked to the crenellated rampart wall and stared down.

Sixty feet high, and four hundred paces in length, it had been the first line of defence. Harad strolled along it, axe in hand. Skilgannon watched him. Druss would have been sixty years old when he last stood on this wall. Now — in a way — he was here again. Once more Skilgannon shivered.

‘You want to go further up?’ asked Harad. Skilgannon nodded. The two men walked down the rampart steps and crossed the open ground between the first two walls. The second wall had ruptured during the earthquake and they climbed the crack that had opened within it.

Beyond Wall Two the gate tunnels had been cleared, and Harad and Skilgannon made their way up to the ruined keep. Here Harad prepared a fire close to an old well and the two men sat quietly until Harad produced a pot from his pack and walked to the well. Lowering a bucket to the water below he hauled it back, drank deeply, then half filled the pot. ‘Brought the bucket and rope here last year,’ he said. ‘The water is cold and sweet to the taste. Makes for a good stew.’ He glanced at Skilgannon. ‘I thought you would enjoy seeing this,’ he said, ‘but I think I was wrong.’

‘You were not wrong. I am glad we came. How often do you come here?’

‘As often as I can,’ said Harad. ‘I feel. .’ he gave an embarrassed smile, ‘I feel at peace here.’

‘A sense of belonging, perhaps.’

‘Yes. That’s it exactly.’

‘Do you have a favourite place here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it at the gate of Wall Four?’

Harad gave a start, and instinctively made the sign of the Protective Horn. ‘Are you a wizard or some such?’

‘No,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I saw the ashes of old campfires at the gate as we passed.’

‘Ah!’ Harad seemed satisfied and relaxed.

‘Can you read the inscriptions above each gate?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘No. I have often wondered what they meant. Just names, I suppose.’

‘More than that, Harad. Wall One was called Eldibar . It was from an ancient tongue. It means Exultation. It is where the enemy is first fought and turned back. The defenders are exultant. They believe they can win. Wall Two was called Musif . This means Despair. For the defenders of Wall Two have seen Eldibar fall, and that is the widest, strongest wall. If that can fall, then perhaps they are doomed.

Wall Three was Kania . Renewed Hope. Two walls have fallen, but the men on Wall Three are still alive, and there are still walls to retreat to. Wall Four is Sumitos . Desperation. The three strongest walls have fallen, and it is now a desperate struggle for survival. Wall Five is Serenity . The defenders have fought hard and well. The best of them have survived this far. They know death is coming, but they are brave and determined. They will not run. They will face the end with courage.’ He fell silent.

‘And Wall Six?’ asked Harad.

‘ Geddon . Wall Six is Geddon . Death.’

‘Where did Druss the Legend fall?’

‘At the gate of Wall Four.’

‘How is it you know all this, but you don’t know about when the fortress fell?’

‘My memory is not what it was.’

They fell silent, and Harad prepared a broth of barley and dried meat. After they had eaten he wandered off into the ruins, and Skilgannon sat alone, lost in thought and ancient memory.

The stars were bright above the ancient fortress, the night calm and windless. Harad had built the fire from a small stock of wood piled against the keep wall. It was gone now, and the flames were slowly dying away. Skilgannon stood and wandered around the area, seeking any source of fuel. There was nothing, just stony ground, scattered rocks and a few tiny bushes. He felt a sense of unease, though could find no reason for it.

Moving away from his camp he walked up to the ramparts of Wall Six. From here he could just see a twinkling campfire. Harad had other stores of wood down at Wall Four, but he obviously wanted to be alone. Skilgannon decided to return to his own blankets. Just then a sudden wind rippled across him.

‘ Where are you, laddie?’

Skilgannon froze — then spun round. There was no-one close. His heart began to beat wildly. ‘Druss, is that you?’

‘ Come down to my fire,’ whispered a voice in his mind.

Skilgannon knew that voice, and it was as if a cool, welcome breeze had arrived on a hot summer’s day. Swiftly he set off through the darkened tunnel, and down to the gate of Wall Four. As he emerged on the open ground before it he paused. The camp-fire was burning brightly. Close by Harad was swinging the axe in a series of overhand sweeps and sideways cuts. But it was not Harad. Skilgannon had watched the young logger practising earlier. Unused to the heft of the weapon, his movements had been clumsy and untrained. This man was a master.