David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Stavut has talked of the Legend people. Perhaps if they make it to their lands they can rebuild. I don’t know. I have no answers. The reality is that if they stay here more Jiamads will come, with more bloodthirsty officers. They will torture and kill in order to find you.’

‘I don’t understand this at all. Why do they seek me?’

He looked into the face he knew so well. ‘If Landis Kan is alive I will find out.’

Harad called out to him. Turning, he saw that the axeman was carrying two packs.

‘We are leaving now,’ he said. ‘I wish you well. . Askari.’

‘You said that like a farewell. I think we might meet again.’

Skilgannon strode away, took a pack from Harad and swung it to his shoulders. He could not resist glancing back, for one last look at the tall huntress.

For most of the afternoon Skilgannon and Harad made swift progress towards the southwest, but by dusk the big axeman was tired. He refused to stop and Skilgannon made no complaint. He held his counsel until darkness began to fall. Then he moved alongside Harad, and took hold of his arm. ‘Wait for a moment,’ he said.

Harad shrugged off the arm and plodded on.

‘So tell me,’ said Skilgannon softly, ‘how you will help Charis when you are too exhausted to lift that axe?’

Harad paused. ‘I will find the strength,’ he muttered.

‘Strength is finite, axeman. Now, either Charis is alive, or she is dead. If she is alive we will find her. If she is dead we will avenge her. But staggering into an army of Joinings without rest, food or sleep is insane. You can only help her if you are strong.’

In the fading light he saw Harad’s shoulders sag.

‘I will rest for an hour,’ said Harad reluctantly. He sank down with his back to a tree, and sat, head bowed. Skilgannon doffed his pack, took out some food and sat quietly eating. Harad, like Druss, was a man of direct action. There was no subtlety to him. A woman he loved was in danger, and he was not close enough to help her. All he could think of was closing the distance as swiftly as possible. But then what? He would walk into the occupied town seeking Charis. It would not matter to him whether there were twenty Joinings or a thousand.

Skilgannon finished his food. He was also weary, but the rest was restoring his strength. Moving alongside Harad he said: ‘Time to talk and to plan.’

‘I’m listening,’ muttered Harad.

‘I don’t think you are.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘There is too much anger in you. It is clouding your judgement.’ Skilgannon fell silent. A cold breeze began to blow down from the snow-covered mountains, and wispy clouds drifted across the bright moon.

‘I do not know how to plan for this,’ said Harad at last. His voice was calmer, and he leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes briefly. ‘I fell trees. I prepare timber. I dig foundation trenches for new buildings. And I can fight. Until I met you I had never killed anything. Never needed to. Now everything has changed.’

‘You will change too, Harad. Give yourself time.’

‘This is easy for you,’ said Harad. ‘You have no friends here. These are not your people.’

‘This is true,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘There is nothing in this new world for me. Everyone I ever loved is long dead. It would make no difference, though, if everyone in Petar was precious to me. I would still be sitting here gathering my strength, and considering the possibilities.’

‘And all the while Charis might be in danger.’

‘Yes. She might. But then Petar is a large town. It is unlikely to have been totally destroyed. Therefore people will have been encouraged to return to their work. The loggers are probably back lopping trees.

The palace servants will be serving new masters. If this is true then Charis is probably doing what she always does, looking after the needs of the palace guests. In short, she will not be in need of rescue.

Rushing into Petar and hacking down a few Joinings before being killed would then be an act of stupidity.’

‘You think that is likely?’ asked Harad, his voice full of renewed hope.

‘I don’t know. There are two other possibilities. One, she ran like Arin and his wife. If she did that, then she is out here in the wilderness somewhere. Again it would be futile, therefore, to rush into Petar.

The other possibility is that she was killed.’ Skilgannon saw the shock register on Harad’s face. ‘If that proves true, then there is no need for sudden and violent action. Does she know that you love her?’

‘Who said that I loved her?’ snapped Harad, his face reddening.

‘Do you not?’

‘It wouldn’t matter if I did. You know what they call me? I am Harad the Bonebreaker. The Brute. I am strong, yes, but I am not handsome. I am not rich. I am not clever or witty. Charis deserves someone better.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘In my experience all women deserve someone better. My own wife certainly did.’

Harad relaxed, and let out a deep sigh. ‘I will find her,’ he said.

‘We will find her, Harad. Now why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep watch for a few hours and then wake you.’

‘Aye, I could do with shutting my eyes for a while.’ Without another word Harad stretched out on the ground, his head on his pack. Within moments he was sleeping soundly. Skilgannon rose silently and moved away. He needed to think. Something was nagging at him, tugging at the corners of his mind. It was annoying. Though many of the memories of his previous life had returned to him, much else was jagged and unconnected. His concentration was not as focused as it had been, and he found himself constantly struggling to contain his emotions. Anger came far more swiftly than he recalled. On the other hand he was far stronger and fitter than he had been during those last years of his life. The ravages of war, wounds, fractures and strains had taken their toll on his fifty-year-old body. Perhaps that was the answer. As he had grown older nature had made him more wary, more frugal with his strength. He had begun to lose. . what? Passion? Desire? Recklessness? Yes, he realized, it was true. The hotheadedness of youth had been replaced by the cool — apparent — wisdom of maturity. He had thought more about his actions, and planned every strategy carefully.

There is nothing wrong with your mind, he told himself. It is merely being bombarded by the reckless energy of youth. In order to clear his thoughts he decided to expend some of that energy.

Finding a flat area of solid ground he began a taxing series of exercises, some motionless to establish balance, others involving leaps and twirls. Finally, his face glistening with sweat, he drew the Swords of Night and Day, and flowed through a series of moves, cutting and thrusting, as if fighting an invisible enemy. The sword-master Malanek had taught him scores of fighting manoeuvres, and through his long life he had acquired others. The blades flashed in the moonlight. Lastly he flipped the swords into the air.

As they spun above him he dived forward, rolled on his shoulder and came up on his knees, hands held high, fingers outstretched. The ivory hilt of the Sword of Day dropped into his left hand. The hilt of the Sword of Night brushed the fingertips of his right, the blade lancing towards his throat. His hand snapped out, catching the hilt at the second attempt. Even so the sharp blade sliced through the collar of his long topcoat. ‘You still have a little way to go,’ he told himself aloud. Sheathing the blades he wandered to the brow of a wooded hill. His mind was clearer, but the nagging doubt remained.

What are you missing?

Landis Kan had brought him back in secret. Apparently many people had sought his tomb through the centuries. Somehow — perhaps — the Eternal had found out, and the raid on Petar was retribution. Yet that did not explain the attack on Askari’s village. Why would the Eternal care that the bones of a long dead queen had been given new life?