David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Harad sighed. ‘Why did Landis bring us back?’ he asked. ‘What was his purpose?’

‘Ask him when next you see him. My name, by the way, is Skilgannon. You may call me Olek, if you wish.’

‘Is that what Druss called you?’

Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. ‘No. He called me laddie. But then he called every man laddie. In truth I think he had trouble remembering names.’ Moving to his pack Skilgannon untied the cloth binding around the Swords of Night and Day and lifted them clear. His mood darkened as his hands touched the black scabbard. Pressing the precious stones on the ivory hilts he drew the weapons clear, two curved blades, one bright and gold, the other silver grey as a winter moon.

‘They are beautiful,’ said Harad. ‘Did Landis Kan give them to you?’

‘Yes. But they were always mine.’

‘You sound regretful.’

‘Oh, regret does not begin to describe it. But Druss said I would need them, and I trust him.’

Stavut the Merchant topped the last rise before the settlement and halted his wagon, allowing his exhausted horses to rest. The climb had been long and hard. Applying the brake, and locking it into place with a leather strap, he stepped down to the road and walked alongside the lead animal, stroking its gleaming chestnut neck. The trace leathers were covered in white lather, the horses themselves breathing heavily.

‘Almost time to replace you, Longshanks,’ said the young merchant. ‘I think you are getting a little too long in the tooth for this.’ As if it had understood him the chestnut shook its head and whinnied. Stavut laughed and moved to the grey gelding on the other side. ‘As for you, Brightstar, you have no excuse.

You’re five years younger and grain fed. A little climb like that should be nothing to you.’ The grey stared at him balefully. Stavut patted its neck, then walked closer — though not too close — to the cliff edge and stood staring down at the valley below. From here the settlement looked tiny, and the river running alongside it seemed no more than a shimmering thread of silk. Stavut sighed. He loved coming to this place, even though the profits were meagre. There was something about these mountains that lifted the soul. They made thoughts of war drift away like woodsmoke on the breeze. His eyes drank in the scene, from the majesty of the snow-capped peaks through the mysterious deep green forests, and over the apparently tranquil fields, dotted with cattle, sheep and goats. Stavut felt himself relax, all tension easing from his tired frame.

The last week had been particularly stressful. He had been warned about deserters from the rebel army. Some Jiamads had attacked outlying farms. There was talk of mutilations and murder, and the devouring of human flesh. These were not subjects Stavut liked to dwell upon. The journey south with his laden wagon had been long, but had seemed longer because all the time the merchant had scanned the land, expecting at any moment to see ferocious Jiamads moving towards him. His nerves were in tatters by the time he finally saw them.

The wagon had been rounding a bend between high cliffs when several beasts emerged from behind the rocks. Stavut found it curious to recall that all his fears had suddenly vanished. The terrors he had felt had all come in the anticipation of danger. With the danger now real he drew rein, took a deep breath, and waited. He carried no sword, but at his side was a curved dagger, so sharp lie could shave with it.

He did not know whether he would have — the strength, or the speed, to drive that blade through the fur-covered flesh of a Jiamad.

There were four of them, still sporting the baldrics and leather kilts of an infantry section. Only three of them still carried swords; the fourth was holding a roughly made club.

The scent of them caused the horses to rear. Stavut applied the brake and spoke soothingly to them.

‘Steady now, Longshanks! Stay calm, Brightstar. All is well.’ Transferring his gaze to the Jiamads he forced a cheerful tone and said: ‘You are a long way from camp.’

They did not reply, but moved past him, lifting the cover from the back of his wagon, and peering at the contents.

‘I am carrying no food,’ he said.

The closest Jiamad suddenly lunged at Stavut, grabbing his crimson jerkin and hauling him from the wagon. He landed heavily. ‘Oh, but you are, Skin,’ said the Jiamad. ‘You are scrawny and small, but your blood is still sweet. And your flesh will be tender.’

Stavut rolled to his feet and drew his dagger.

‘Look!’ snorted the Jiamad. ‘It wants to fight for its life.’

‘Rip its arm off,’ said another.

A great calm had settled on Stavut then. He found he had only one regret. He would not see Askari again. He had promised her a new bow, and had searched long to find the perfect weapon, a beautiful recurve model; a composite of horn and yew, the grip covered in the finest leather. He wished he had it in his hands now.

And then the miracle happened. With death only heartbeats away there had come the sound of galloping hooves. The Jiamads had turned and run towards the hills. Cavalrymen came hurtling past Stavut.

‘I think you can sheathe your dagger now,’ said a familiar voice. Stavut looked up to see the young mercenary captain, Alahir. The man was grinning at him. ‘I did warn you about the Jiamads, tinker,’ he said, removing his bronze helm and pushing a hand through his long blond hair.

‘I am a merchant, as well you know,’ said Stavut.

‘Nonsense! You mend kettles. That makes you a tinker.’

‘One kettle does not make me a tinker.’

Alahir laughed. Replacing his helm he heeled his horse forward. ‘We will talk again when I have finished my task.’

With that he rode away. Stavut started to walk towards his wagon, but his legs began to tremble, and he had to reach out to grab the backboard to steady himself. He tried to sheathe the dagger, but the trembling had reached his hands and he could not insert the blade into the scabbard. Laying it on the wagon cover he took several deep breaths. He felt suddenly nauseous and slumped down with his back to a wheel. ‘No more trips north,’ he promised himself. ‘When I leave the settlement I shall go down and winter with Landis Kan, and then head south to Diranan.’

He sat there quietly, waiting for the nausea to pass. Eventually the riders came back. Alahir dismounted. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘No,’ answered Stavut. ‘Just enjoying the afternoon sunshine.’ Pushing himself to his feet he was relieved to find the trembling had passed. ‘Did you catch them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me they are all dead.’

‘They are all dead.’

Stavut looked up at Alahir. There was blood on his arm. Glancing round at the cavalrymen he saw three riderless horses. ‘You lost men,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It is what we are paid for. You don’t fight Jiamads without losses.’

‘Are there more of them in the mountains?’

Alahir shrugged. ‘I do not know everything, Stavut, my friend. We were told there were four in this area. Will you be coming back in the spring?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Bring a cask of southern red. The wine in this land tastes like vinegar.’ Alahir swung his mount and raised his hand: ‘Hala!’ he shouted. And the troop rode off.

Standing now close to the cliff edge Stavut felt a great warmth towards the young cavalryman. If he did ever journey north again he would make sure he had a cask of Lentrian red for him and his men.

Stavut sighed. Edging forward to the lip of the cliff he stared down at the awesome drop. Immediately he felt the familiar sense of giddiness, and a growing desire to jump. It was so beguiling. Then fear struck him and he staggered back from the cliff edge. ‘You are an idiot!’ he told himself. ‘Why do you always do that?’