David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

His young aide, Parnus, entered the room, saluting sharply. The boy was useless and would never make a soldier. He had rushed away to be sick almost as soon as the killing began. Even now his face was sallow, with a faint sheen to it.

‘The pie is excellent, Parnus. I recommend it.’

‘No, thank you, sir.’ The young man’s tone, though deferential, was cooler than before.

‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Might I speak freely?’

‘Why not? Who is there to hear you, save me?’

The young man’s eyes blazed, but he fought for control. ‘This was an act of evil,’ he said. ‘We were to capture a girl. Nothing was said about killing villagers.’

‘We always kill villagers in hostile territory. I think you are too weak for the role you have chosen. I shall recommend you are relieved of duty when we return. Then you can go back to your father’s estates and learn how to raise sheep.’

‘Better to raise than to slaughter,’ snapped the young man. ‘This was not the work of warriors. This was cowardice.’

‘Are you calling me a coward, boy?’

‘No, Corvin. What you did here today was heroism of the highest order. I think they will sing songs about you in future days. By the way, some of the Jiamads have gone off into the woods. They dragged off two of the bodies of the women. I expect they are feeding — which is contrary to the rules of engagement. Any officer who knowingly allows cannibalism is subject to death by strangulation. Rule 104, I think.’

Corvin laughed. ‘Quite right, Parnus. Then you had better find them and tell them to desist — especially since you are the officer on watch, and the responsibility is yours. It would pain me to have to report you for such a flagrant breach of the rules.’

The young officer grew more pale. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. ‘What a puppy!’ muttered Corvin, taking up a long knife and carving himself another section of pie.

Corvin had spent the last ten years in the western army of the Eternal. The soldier’s life suited him far better than his days as a clerk in the Diranan treasury. What a waste that had been. Women he had wanted spurned him, men treated him with mild contempt. Not so now. As an officer of the Eternal he had merely to snap his fingers and women would obey his every whim. It was better this way. He liked the fear in their eyes, and enjoyed the fact that they loathed his touch. It merely increased his sense of power. Men no longer treated Corvin with disrespect. They bowed, they smiled, they paid him compliments. The richer of them offered him money, or goods. This was not merely because of his military status. As a soldier Corvin had discovered a skill he had not realized he possessed. His speed of hand was extraordinary, and he had a natural talent with the blade. As a swordsman men spoke of him in the same breath as Decado, and Corvin had now fought eleven duels. He had enjoyed every one of them. There was something exquisite about watching the change of expression on the face of an opponent. When the swords were first touched the duellists always looked the same, full of arrogance, and the belief that they were invulnerable. This look would remain for the first few exchanges. Then a tiny trace of doubt would insinuate itself. The eyes would grow more wary, and they would focus their concentration. Finally there would be fear, naked and obvious to all. Their movements would become more frenzied as the fear wormed its way deeper into their souls. At the last there would be a look of total surprise as Corvin’s blade plunged into their hearts. Corvin would step in then, his face close to the dying victim’s. He would stare into their eyes, holding them up as he watched life evaporate.

Corvin trembled with pleasure at the thought of it. He felt truly blessed by the Source.

Belching loudly he pushed himself to his feet, took up his helm and walked back out into the night.

From the east he heard a high-pitched howl. They were closing in on the girl. He swore suddenly. Had he told them that she must be taken alive? He swore again. No, he had not. Decado would not be pleased, and that was something Corvin needed to avoid. People who displeased Decado did not survive.

A low groan came from his left. Glancing down he saw the big, sandy-haired man he had stabbed earlier roll over. Good humour returned briefly. Corvin strolled towards him.

‘You make a fine pie,’ he told the man. Drawing his sabre Corvin tapped the man on the shoulder.

‘You could have been rich in Diranan.’ The man groaned again, struggled to rise, then fell back. Blood was seeping through the apron he wore. ‘I could have sworn I pierced your heart. Lie still. I will end your misery.’

The man looked up at him. He said nothing, and made no attempt to defend himself. ‘Let me think,’

said Corvin. ‘If I cut your throat you will bleed to death more swiftly. It will be less painful. Or perhaps the large artery in the groin would be better. At least that way you will not choke to death. Which would you prefer? I am feeling generous towards you.’

He heard footsteps, and turned. His young aide was running towards him. Corvin squinted against the smoke as Parnus stumbled and half fell. The boy’s breastplate was smeared with blood.

Parnus reached him and collapsed sprawling to the ground. Corvin looked down at him. The edge of his bronze breastplate was smashed, and Corvin saw a gaping wound in his side. Parnus tried to speak, but blood bubbled into his mouth and he sagged back. Corvin stared hard at the ruined breastplate.

What on earth could have destroyed it in such a fashion? No sword could possibly have shattered the metal.

Ignoring the dying boy Corvin moved out onto open ground. ‘Jiamads to me!’ he bellowed. ‘At once!’

Wherever they were feeding they would hear him. Then he returned to Parnus and knelt beside him.

‘What happened? Tell me.’

‘Two. . men. Axe. . am I. . dying?’

‘Yes, you are dying. Two men, you say. Where are the Jiamads?’

‘Three. . dead. Swordsman. . killed two.’

More blood gouted from the boy’s mouth, spattering Corvin’s sallow cheek. A sound came from his right. Glancing up he saw a hulking Jiamad moving through the smoke, and called out, ‘Over here!’

The beast lumbered towards him. ‘Which one are you?’ demanded Corvin, who rarely bothered with the names of Jiamads.

‘Kraygan,’ answered the creature. There was blood on its extended maw, and it had obviously been feeding.

‘There are two men out there. Can you scent them?’

‘Too much smoke.’ Then it snorted. ‘Need no scent,’ it said, pointing a taloned hand towards the south. ‘They are here.’

It was as Parnus had said. There were two men. One was tall and slim, wearing a long, ankle-length coat of dark leather, the other hulking, black-bearded and brutish. This one carried a glittering, double-headed axe. ‘Kill the axeman,’ he told Kraygan. ‘I will deal with the swordsman.’

The Jiamad drew a heavy longsword and lumbered towards the men. Corvin watched as it bore down on the axeman. Instead of trying to escape, the peasant leapt to meet the creature. The sword swept down. The axe crashed against it, shattering the blade, then almost instantly reversed its sweep, and clove through Kraygan’s neck. The speed of the Jiamad’s charge carried the dying beast forward, its body hammering into the axeman and hurling him from his feet. Kraygan staggered on for several steps, then pitched to the ground. The axeman rose, and turned towards Corvin.

‘Leave him to me, Harad!’ called out the swordsman. The black-bearded peasant hesitated.

Corvin raised his sabre in mock salute. ‘Ah, you intend to duel with me?’ he asked the slim man.