David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

The slopes were steep. The enemy charge would be slowed. More heavily armoured, and wielding short, stabbing swords, the Angostins would be able to hold for some time. Skilgannon scanned the valley. The eight thousand Zharn horsemen would sweep out to the east and west in an encircling move. The two thousand Angostin cavalry would be expected to split into two groups and seek to hold them on the wings. It was not possible. The cavalry would either be broken and scattered, or pushed back against the flanks of their own infantry.

It was galling in the extreme. The Zharn, for all their savagery, were well-disciplined fighters who did not fear death. No sudden charge would break their spirit. No clever strategy would see them thwarted. There was only one hope for the Angostins. Bakila was the head and heart of the Zharn. Strike him down and the enemy would break.

Skilgannon walked back to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Then he rode across the moonlit valley, heading up into the stand of trees. From the high ground he could see the distant camp-fires of the Zharn some five miles to the southwest. Dismounting, he trailed the reins of the chestnut and walked up to the tree line. The air was fresh and cool. Tomorrow he would hide three hundred of the finest of his Silver Hawk cavalry here. As the battle lines drew together he would lead them in a suicidal charge down the hillside.

His shoulder and neck ached and he could feel the weight of his fifty-four years. Sitting down with his back to a tree he closed his eyes, remembering the days of his youth. He had such dreams then, such vaunting ambitions. He wanted to be like his father, a great warrior and hero, adored by women and admired by men. He smiled. Such were the dreams of the young, jianna’s face appeared in his mind — not as the dread and beautiful Witch Queen of Naashan, but as the young princess he had first known. Those had been the great days of his life. The days of first love. He had believed then that his future would be with Jianna. What force on heaven or earth could prevent it? In that moment Skilgannon heard a soft rustling. He pushed himself to his feet, and turned to see Ustarte moving towards him, her long satin gown shimmering in the moonlight. Tt saddens me to feel your sorrow,’ she said.

‘ Sorrow is the constant companion of the old,’ he told her, forcing a smile. ‘When you came to my house you said you would be asking a favour of me. Ask it — and if it is in my power I will grant it.’

Ustarte sighed and looked away. ‘What I am to ask might cost you dear.’

Skilgannon laughed then. ‘Did you not tell me that I would die tomorrow? How much more can it cost?’

Ustarte ignored the question. ‘Tell the Angostin king that if you fall tomorrow your body and your weapons are to be given over to me for burial.’

‘ That is all you require?’

‘ No, Olek. To win you will need to wield the swords once more.’

‘ I can win without them! I do not want their evil in my hands.’

‘ You will not reach Bakila without them, and the Zharn will plunder and burn and slaughter their way across Angostin — and beyond. These are the two favours I would ask of you. Carry the swords into battle, and allow me to conduct your burial.’

‘ And you can tell me no more?’ She shook her head, and he saw a tear fall. ‘No more,’ she said.

On the fifth day of the resurrection Landis Kan climbed the winding staircase and entered the high turret room in the east wing of the palace. The old blind man, Gamal, was sitting on the balcony, a warm blanket round his thin shoulders. Landis shivered as he gazed upon Gamal. He was very frail now, his skin so thin as to be almost translucent.

Gamal laughed, the sound rich and musical. ‘Ah, Landis, my friend, your thoughts fly around like startled pigeons.’

‘There was a time when you had the good manners not to read the thoughts of friends,’ Landis pointed out, stepping forward and kissing the old man’s cheek.

‘Sadly, that is not true,’ said Gamal. ‘What I had was the ability to pretend not to read them.’

Landis feigned surprise. ‘You lied to us all these years?’

‘Of course I lied. Would you have wanted to spend time in the company of someone you believed knew all your thoughts?’

‘No. And I am not sure I want to now.’

Gamal laughed again. ‘Ah, Landis! As well you know, I cannot read all of a man’s thoughts. Never could. I can tell when a person is lying. I can tell when they are being deceptive. I can feel their sorrows and their joys. When you walked in you were concerned about Skilgannon. His face was in your mind.

Then you saw me — and thoughts of death and loneliness overwhelmed you. So put your mind at ease, and tell me why you are concerned about our guest.’

‘He is not what I was expecting.’

‘How could he be?’ asked Gamal. ‘You thought he would be godlike. You expected fire to blaze from his eyes.’

‘Of course not. I knew he was a man.’

‘A man who once flew a winged horse?’

‘You are doing it again!’ complained Landis. ‘I do not believe he flew a winged horse. But that is one of the first stories I remember learning about him. I was a child, for goodness’ sake! These stories fasten themselves to the mind. That is why I see the winged horse.’

‘Forgive me, my friend,’ said Gamal. ‘No more winged horses. Go on.’

‘It has been five days and he remains in his rooms most of the time, doing nothing. He asks no questions when we speak. He listens as I tell him things, but I know nothing of his opinions. Could the old stories have been so wrong? He does not seem like a warrior at all. He is not chilling like the Shadow men, nor overtly terrifying like Decado.’

‘I can see why you are worried,’ said Gamal. ‘However, there are a lot of misconceptions in what you say. First, you say he sits in his rooms doing nothing. This is not true.’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Landis. ‘I know he exercises. I know the servant girls are besotted with him.

My guess is he has already bedded one of them.’

‘Two of them,’ corrected Gamal. ‘And a third is with him as we speak. As to what you call his exercises , they are very ancient, and require high levels of suppleness, strength and balance. Once his body would have flowed through these rituals smoothly. His new body, however, is neither as supple nor as strong as the one he recalls. Before he can truly become himself he must bring his new body into harmony with his memories. As to his not seeming like a warrior. .’ The old man spread his hands.

‘What can I tell you? Yes, the Shadows are chilling. They were intended to be. They are bred for murder. The same, I think, can be said of Decado. He is not entirely sane. Of course Skilgannon is not frightening to you. You have done nothing to cause him to see you as an enemy. Let us hope you never do.’ For a moment the old man fell silent. Then he drew in a deep breath. ‘Skilgannon was once a priest,’ he said.

Landis Kan gasped. ‘There is no mention of that in any history.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Gamal. ‘If one knows where to look. I found the references in Cethelin’s Book of the Empty . A fascinating piece.’

‘I have read it many times,’ said Landis. ‘Skilgannon is not mentioned, not even as a reference.’

‘Of course he is, but by the name he adopted as a priest — Brother Lantern. Cethelin called him the Damned.’

Landis Kan sat open-mouthed. Goose bumps appeared on his arms and he shivered. ‘Lantern was Skilgannon? Sweet Heaven! The madman who slew all those people outside Cethelin’s church?’