David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

He strode on, his mood ever darkening. Anger flickered to life, and he struggled to control it.

Towards dusk Skilgannon called out to him, and he turned. The swordsman was pointing towards the north, where a plume of smoke was rising. ‘A forest fire?’ he enquired.

Harad shook his head. ‘We’ve had too much rain for that.’ He watched the smoke, then scanned the land, gauging distance. ‘It looks like it’s coming from the settlement. Maybe one of the houses caught fire.’

‘It would have to be a big house,’ muttered Skilgannon.

Harad stared hard at the smoke. It seemed to him that there were several plumes, all merging.

‘How many people in the settlement?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Fifty. . perhaps a few more.’

‘Should be enough to deal with a fire.’

‘I think there is more than one blaze,’ said Harad. ‘I can see at least three plumes at the base. Strange, for the houses are not close together, and only one of the roofs is thatched. There would be no reason for a fire to spread.’

‘Do you have friends there?’

‘I have friends nowhere,’ snapped Harad. He sighed. ‘But I think I should go there and see if they need help. Can you find your way back to the caves?’

‘Of course. However, I shall travel with you. I am in no hurry to see Landis Kan again. How long until we reach the settlement?’

‘Close to four hours. It will be dark by the time we arrive.’

Without another word the two men set off. Skilgannon moved ahead of Harad and began to scout the ground as they walked.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Harad.

‘Something I hope I don’t find,’ was the cryptic answer.

They walked on for another hour, at first descending into a lightly wooded valley, then climbing again towards a thicker forest. Skilgannon halted at the tree line, doffed his pack and asked Harad to wait for him. Then he set off along the tree line, searching the ground. Harad sat down and watched the man until he vanished over a ridge.

Harad lifted Snaga and stared at his reflection in the blades. ‘Who am I looking at?’ he said aloud.

‘Are you Harad? Are you Druss?’ Flipping the blade, he plunged it into the ground.

The sun was almost set. Harad opened his pack and pulled clear his last loaf of black bread. Ripping it open he began to eat. As he did so he remembered the times Landis Kan had come to his parents’ cabin, squatting down to talk to the child, Harad. ‘Do you dream of ancient days?’ he had asked.

His father, Borak, had always left as soon as Landis Kan arrived. And after the lord had gone Borak’s mood would turn sour. He would shout at Harad’s mother, and sometimes cuff Harad himself.

At least now Harad had some understanding of what Borak had gone through. The child had not been his. Did Borak know of the arcane ritual involving dead bones? Or had he thought his wife had been seduced by Landis Kan? Either way it would have been hard for Borak, who was a proud man. Alanis had not been young when she gave birth to Harad. She had been wed for sixteen years, and had no other children. Now, Harad realized Borak was unable to sire sons of his own. Another blow to his pride. No wonder he was so often angry, Harad thought.

Skilgannon came loping back to where Harad waited. ‘A party of Jiamads — around twenty, maybe a few more — passed this way yesterday. There were two men with them. It may be coincidence, but it is a possibility that the fires in the settlement were not accidental. I do not know the ways of the people of this time. But if I was in my own time I would say this was a raiding party.’

‘There is nothing of worth in the settlement,’ said Harad. ‘Jiamads would have had to march from south of the old fortress. What purpose would such a raid serve?’

‘As I said, I do not know the ways of the people now, Harad. We should, however, move with care.

If it was a raid, then it has been carried out, and we must assume the beasts will be coming back this way.’

Harad rose to his feet. ‘If they have attacked my people then they will suffer for it,’ he said, raising the axe.

‘I applaud the sentiments,’ said Skilgannon wryly. ‘But let us take this one step at a time. I have been involved in wars and battles for most of my life, and I have fought Joinings. I tell you twenty is too many for us. Let’s make for the settlement and see what we find.’

‘Would twenty have been too many for Druss?’ asked the young logger.

Skilgannon looked into the man’s pale blue eyes. ‘At your age, with your lack of experience, yes. And even in his prime twenty would have overpowered him. Druss was a man of immense courage. He was also a cunning fighter. He knew how to pick his ground, and mostly he chose where to make his stands.

His greatest advantage, though, lay in the nature of axe combat. Any swordsman who wanted to kill him had to come within range of that awesome weapon. And when the fight started Druss would never back away. He just surged forward, unstoppable.’ Skilgannon patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘Give yourself time to learn, Harad. You will get there.’

‘I don’t have his soul,’ whispered Harad. ‘Maybe that is what made him great.’

Skilgannon sighed. ‘When I was in the Void I recall one awful fact. My skin there was scaled, like a lizard. It was because my soul had been corrupted by the deeds of my life. You have a good soul, Harad. And it is yours. Now let us move on, with care.’

The wind changed, blowing burning cinders across the gaunt infantry officer. Corvin cursed and moved away, brushing the embers from his new scarlet cloak. His irritation levels were already high, but now he felt the onset of rage. The buildings were burning fiercely — which, in normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed. Not now. Everything had been going so well, despite the mundane nature of the mission.

Move into the mountains and capture a young girl named Askari. Bring her to Captain Decado. What could have been simpler? No soldiers or Jiamads to fight, no opposition expected. It was merely another killing raid, and Corvin specialized in those.

More smoke billowed over him. He crossed the open ground towards a low wall and sat down, removing his white-plumed brass helm and laying it on the stone. There was a body close by, a large man with his throat ripped out. His right arm had been torn off. Corvin gazed round to look for it. Another touch of annoyance pricked him. One of the Jiamads had obviously taken it away for a forbidden meal.

Gods, what did it matter? Dead flesh was dead flesh.

He glanced across at another body, a dead Jiamad. The creature was lying on its back, a black-feathered shaft jutting from its brow.

Decado might have warned him that the girl was a huntress.

Damn, but that was a fine shot. Corvin had just killed the big, sandy-haired peasant who had refused to reveal the girl’s whereabouts when she had appeared at the far end of the road. The Jiamads had picked up her scent first, and one of them called out to Corvin, and pointed. He saw her, tall and slim, bearing a recurve bow of wood and horn. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, and in one smooth motion drew and let fly. The shaft had buried itself in the head of the closest Jiamad — and he was more than two hundred feet from her. Then she had turned and sprinted away.

‘Get after her!’ yelled Corvin. Fifteen of his Jiamads had given chase. They were bred for power and not for speed, but they would find her by scent and bring her back before morning. Which meant he would have to spend the night in this squalid ruin.

The home of the big peasant was not ablaze, and Corvin crossed to it. It was an odd little place, the main room full of tables, like a tiny inn. The officer rummaged around the untidy kitchen, finding a fresh baked fruit pie. Breaking off a section he tried it. Surprisingly good, he thought. The pastry was light, the filling sweet, but not cloying. Some kind of berry had been used.