David Gemmell: The Swords of Night and Day

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Him?’

‘The man, Dayan.’

‘It is no man. Dayan was a woman. .’ A brief flash of memory flowed through his mind, causing him to wince, as if in pain. ‘She was my wife. She died.’

‘And you carried a lock of her hair?’

The man looked closely at Landis Kan. ‘You seem surprised. What were you expecting?’

‘It is not important. An error occurred somewhere. You are quite right. Our earliest tales of. . of you

. . have you wed to a princess named Dunaya. It is said she was slain by a demon and carried away into the underworld. You went after her. For years you were lost to the world of men, as you journeyed through the deepest places of the earth seeking to bring her back.’ Landis Kan chuckled. ‘A fine tale, and there is probably a grain of truth in there somewhere. Now come with me, my friend. I have much to show you.’

Landis struggled to contain his excitement. Through what seemed endless years of fruitless toil he had held to the conviction that one day he would find a way to redeem himself. For the last twenty-three years he had waited patiently, hoping against all reason that this latest experiment would prove to be decisive.

The first three failures had been galling, and had dented his confidence. Now, however, in one glorious moment, all was restored. Two names had rekindled the fires of his vision. The Zharn and Dayan. He glanced at the tall man with the brilliant sapphire eyes, and forced a smile.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the man.

‘To my library and workplace. There is something I am anxious for you to see.’

Landis led the man along a narrow corridor and down a set of stairs. The lower levels were cold, despite the lanterns hanging on cast iron brackets. Landis shivered, but the man beside him seemed untroubled.

At last they came to a set of double doors. Beyond them was a long room, with five soft chairs and three couches, festooned with embroidered cushions. A tall arched window showed a view of the distant mountains. The curtains billowed in the afternoon breeze. To the left was a second arch, leading through to a library, the scores of shelves bent under the weight of the books upon them. Landis walked on to another door at the rear of the library. This he opened with a key taken from his pouch.

Inside it was windowless and dark. Landis lit a lantern, and hung it from a bracket. Golden light flickered in the room, shadows dancing upon the plain walls. ‘What has been removed?’ asked the man.

Landis smiled, noticing the rectangular dust patterns that showed where objects had been taken down from the walls. ‘Just some paintings,’ he answered swiftly. ‘You are very observant.’ Moving to a desk, he reached down and lifted what at first appeared to be a short, curved ornamental staff. At each end were sections of beautifully carved white ivory, though the centre was smooth, polished ebony. Turning, he offered the object to his guest.

The man’s face darkened and he stepped back. ‘I do not want to touch them,’ he said.

‘Them?’

‘There is evil in them.’

‘But they are yours. They were buried with you in the tomb. They were laid upon your chest, your hands clasped over them.’

‘Even so, I do not want them.’

Landis took a deep breath. ‘But you know what they are?’

‘Yes, I know,’ answered the man, a wealth of sadness in his voice. ‘They are the Swords of Night and Day. And I am Skilgannon the Damned.’

Landis curled his hand around one of the hilts. ‘Do not draw that blade,’ said Skilgannon. ‘I have no wish to see it.’ With that he swung on his heel and walked back through the library. Landis placed the Swords of Night and Day on the desk top and ran after him.

‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Please wait.’

Skilgannon paused, sighed, then turned. ‘Why did you bring me back, Landis?’

‘You will understand why when you see the world outside my domain. There is great evil here, Skilgannon. We need you.’

Skilgannon shook his head. ‘I do not remember much as yet, Landis, but I know I never was a god. In every generation there are war leaders, heroes, men of valour. I may — just may — have been special in my day. But you must have men of equal skill in this time.’

‘Would that we had enough of them,’ said Landis Kan, with feeling. ‘There is a great war being fought, but not — in the main — by men. We have a few doughty fighters, but we have survived this long here for two reasons. First, my domain is largely inaccessible and offers no mineral wealth. Second, the passes are guarded by our own Jiamads.’ Landis hesitated, seeing the look of non-comprehension on Skilgannon’s face. ‘Ah, but I see that I am getting ahead of my tale. You have no knowledge of the Jiamads. In some ancient lands they were known as werebeasts, I believe, though in your time the word was Joinings. Men and beasts melded together.’

Skilgannon’s face hardened, his eyes glittering in the lantern light.

‘You remember them?’ asked Landis.

‘A glimpse only. But, yes, I fought them.’

‘And you won!’

‘There is nothing that bleeds that I cannot kill, Landis.’

‘Exactly my point! You will not find more than a handful of men in this land who would dream of saying that. We are on the verge of becoming a defeated species, Skilgannon.’

‘And you think I can change this unhappy situation? Where is my army?’

‘There is no army, but I still believe you are the one man who can save us.’

‘Why?’

Landis shrugged and spread his hands. ‘There was a prophecy concerning you. It was originally inscribed on tablets of gold. And signed by the Blessed Priestess herself. But the tablets were lost.

Copies were made from memory, but many of these contained contradictions. However, there was a map which showed the place where the priestess hid your body. It was a cunning map. Delightfully conceived. And all who followed it found only an empty sarcophagus in a cave. Beside it was a shattered lid. So they went away, disconsolate.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘Oh, yes, I did. Many times. I wish I could say that I deciphered the riddle of the map through the enormous power of my intellect alone. But I did not. I had a vision — a dream, perhaps. I had been searching the cave again — my fifteenth journey there, I believe. I was tired and I fell asleep. I dreamt of the Blessed Priestess. She took me by the hand and led me from the cave, and down onto the arid wasteland at the foot of the mountains to a dry river bed. Then she spoke. “The answer is here, if you have the eye to see it.” This was similar to what was written at the base of the map. “The hero lies here, if you have the eye to see it.”

‘I awoke with the dawn and walked out to the cave entrance, staring out over the land below. There was the dry river bed. Once the water had flowed, and the river had been bisected by an island. Now there were only two dry channels etching the ground on both sides of a high, circular mound of rocky earth. From the high point of the cave it looked as if someone had carved a giant eye in the land. I cannot tell you how excited I was as I led the digging party across to the mound. At the centre of it we dug.

Some seven feet down we struck the stone lid of your coffin.’

‘I can appreciate your delight,’ said Skilgannon, ‘but I am finding this talk of my coffin unsettling.

Move on to the prophecy.’

‘Of course, of course! Forgive me. The prophecy promised that you would be the man to. . to restore our freedoms.’

‘You hesitated.’

Landis gave a nervous smile. ‘You are very sharp, my friend. I was trying to avoid unnecessary explanation. It actually says that you are the man who will steal the power of the Silver Eagle and restore peace and harmony to the world.’