David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Aye, but it is not mine, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am a Reborn. Everything I have comes from Druss the Legend. What is there of Harad?’

‘I am no philosopher, my friend. And I do not understand the magic by which you were born. And, yes, there is much of Druss in you. But you are who you are. More than that, you are who you choose to be. It seems to me that the same concerns could be voiced by any man born of woman. How much of my father is in me? How much of my mother? How many of their weaknesses am I cursed with? How much of their strength can I call my own? Landis Kan tried to explain to me the process of Rebirth, but I confess it shot past me like an arrow. What I did manage to hold on to was that the physical essence of the original person, their seed if you like, is obtained from the bones. The only difference between you and any other man is that you have only one parent and not two.’

‘There is nothing of my mother in me?’ asked Harad. ‘How can that be?’

Skilgannon spread his hands. ‘Landis Kan spoke of seeds and eggs and arcane machines. None of it made much sense to me. What I did understand was that the Rebirth produced a physical duplicate of the original. But this is my point. It is physical . What truly makes a man who he is? Is it the strength of his arms, or the courage in his soul? You have your own soul, Harad. You are not Druss. Live your own life.’

Harad let out a long deep breath. ‘Aye, it is good advice. I know that. And yet. .’ The big man sighed. ‘I think I’ll sleep now.’

‘I’ll keep watch,’ said Skilgannon.

Rain began to fall, at first merely a few drops pitter-pattering on the rocks around the cave opening.

Then the clouds opened. Skilgannon eased himself back from the entrance. Rivulets of water began to stream down the cave walls as the sudden storm found cracks in the cliff face above. Skilgannon sheathed his swords and sat on a rock. As fast as it had come the storm suddenly passed, and the sky cleared. Moonlight bathed the cliffs opposite. Harad began to snore. Skilgannon moved back to the entrance.

The air was fresh, and he could smell the closeness of the nearby pine trees. High above him the stars were bright in the night sky. The same stars he recalled from his youth.

His heart felt suddenly heavy. The same stars that had shone upon him when he had first met Jianna, that had blazed above him as he had grown to manhood, and taken up the cursed Swords of Night and Day. And by their light he had overseen the slaughter of every man, woman and child in the city of Perapolis.

Another life.

He shivered suddenly, as the old memories flowed. Like the rivulets on the cave wall they seeped out from the hidden recesses of his mind.

He and the young Angostin warrior, Vakasul, had just returned from a scouting trip into the mountains.

Skilgannon had been tired, and yet exultant. News had reached them of a great battle to the south. The Naashanites had fought the Zharn outside the old city of Sherak. Jianna, the Witch Queen, had crushed the Zharn army, and sent them fleeing north. Such a victory was sure to have earned breathing space for the Angostins, and Skilgannon, returning once more to his home on the cliffs above the sea, felt confident for the first time in months. There were gulls wheeling in the air, and the sun was shining in a cloudless sky. Skilgannon’s aches had all but disappeared and he felt at peace with himself. Vakasul had taken the horses back to the stables. Skilgannon had stridden into the east wing of the house, and then through to the rear gardens. A team of gardeners were at work, pruning back flowering shrubs and preparing the soil for bedding plants. The air was rich with the scent of honeysuckle and rose. A servant brought him a cool drink, and another carried out letters that had arrived from court. These he left unopened while he enjoyed the scene in the gardens. Stepping from the broad patio he wandered out to speak to the gardeners. One of them was planting pockets of golden blooms, edged with crimson, along the line of the path. The man glanced up as Skilgannon approached, and grinned. ‘I know, general! They will spread too far and block the path. But they are so pretty it will be worth it.’

Skilgannon squatted down. ‘They are beautiful. What are they called?’

‘Bride’s Garland is the common name, general. Sadly, there is no scent.’

Skilgannon chatted to the man for a while, and then saw Vakasul approaching. He walked with the young warrior back to a shaded area of the patio, and they sat together while Skilgannon opened his letters. There was little of import. Putting down the last of them he glanced at his companion. The warrior seemed edgy.

‘What is troubling you, my friend?’

‘News from the south, general. I don’t know how it will affect us. After the battle of Sherak the Witch Queen took ill and died. You think that will affect how the Naashanites deal with the Zharn?’

Then — as now — the shock of the words had stunned him. The world changed in an instant. Above the garden the sky was unbearably blue, and he found himself staring up into the heavens. ‘Are you ill, general?’ Vakasul’s concern was genuine, but Skilgannon raised a hand.

‘Leave me now,’ he said.

He could not remember the young man’s departure, nor what happened to the rest of that once beautiful afternoon.

Jianna was dead. The reality was so shocking that he could find no way of dealing with it. He had not seen her in thirty years, but rarely an hour passed without his thinking of her, knowing that she stood under the same sun, and breathed the same air. Only now she did not, and Skilgannon felt more alone than at any other time in his life.

The shock had been too great for tears. He sat quietly, thinking back to those glorious first days, when she was disguised as a common whore, her dark hair dyed yellow, with red strands. Her courage in the face of peril and treachery was colossal, her spirit unconquerable. And he had loved her with such passion there had been no room for any other in his heart.

What he had not realized, until the moment he heard the news of her death, was that — despite the physical distance between them — the knowledge that she was alive somewhere was sustaining his own life. Added to which, he realized, he had secretly believed that someday they would find a way to be together.

Sitting now in the cave the anguish he had felt then returned with renewed power. He found himself wondering if he could have lived his life differently. Had he stayed with her perhaps he might have softened her thirst for power and empire. His eyes misted, and then anger flickered. ‘This would be a good time for Joinings to come upon you, you weeping fool!’ he whispered.

‘You say something?’ asked Harad, rolling to his feet, axe in hand.

‘Talking to myself.’

‘You’ve been alone too long,’ said Harad.

‘A thousand years too long,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Is there a woman in your life?’

‘No.’

‘What about Chads?’

‘What about her?’ snapped Harad, reddening.

‘She told me she was a friend of yours,’ said Skilgannon.

‘Aye, I expect we are,’ muttered the young logger defensively. ‘Were you married?’

‘Once. A long time ago.’

‘You have children?’

‘Not by my wife. She died young. Plague.’

‘You never married again?’

‘No.’

‘You must have loved her greatly then.’

‘I didn’t love her enough, Harad.’ Skilgannon glanced out of the cave. ‘Dawn is coming. Time to tackle that cliff, I think.’

Stavut stood at the far wall, clutching the spear so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. It had taken all his strength — and powerful assistance from Askari — to wrench it from the body of the Jiamad. His hands were sticky with the congealing blood that covered the long haft. In the main he kept his eyes fixed on the opening high in the cave wall, through which several beasts had already attempted to clamber. The first he had killed with the spear, the second had been shot through the eye by Askari. A third took a shaft through its taloned hand, and fell back out of the opening. Stavut hoped fervently it had also fallen to a bloody death on the rocks below.