David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Reaction time,’ Memnon had said, after the servants had gone. ‘You see the stick fall, you send a message to your arm and hand, then — and only then — do you instruct the hand to catch the stick. In that time the stick is already falling away from the reach. But not for you, Decado. Your reactions are lightning swift. This is good.’

Decado failed to see how this — until now — unrealized skill could have any benefit. One did not have to catch falling clay in order to make a pot. However, the tests engaged Memnon’s interest, and as long as he was interested he would continue to invite Decado to spend time with him. It was a fair trade. Decado was free from the bullies, and all he had to do was catch sticks, or juggle knives, or pluck insects from the air. In the evenings Decado would ask the lord about his dreams, or talk about the Eternal and the wars being fought. Decado found talk of war unsettling. There was a man in the village, a friend of Caridas, who had lost an arm during a battle. He had once, according to Caridas, been a fine potter.

Now he was a cripple, bitter and lost.

On the last morning, before the journey to Diranan, Decado had asked Memnon if he could go and say goodbye to Caridas. The lord shook his head.

‘Best not, child.’

‘He is my friend.’

‘You will make new friends.’

On the journey the head pains had started again. Memnon gave him more of the black draught and Decado had fallen into a dream-filled sleep.

As he awoke he remembered the incident in the orchard. The boys had been laughing as they threw hard fruit at him. The dreadful pain in his head had increased, and he had rushed at Tobin. At some point he had snatched Tobin’s dagger from its sheath and slashed the blade across the boy’s throat. Blood had bubbled and sprayed from the wound. Decado had shrieked like an animal and leapt on another boy, bearing him to the ground, and plunging the small dagger again and again between his shoulder blades. At first the boy had struggled and screamed, but then there was silence.

Someone grabbed Decado and hauled him off the boy. Decado had spun, the blade flashing out and plunging through Caridas’s right eye. The old man cried out and fell back. His body had twisted and convulsed. Then it too lay still alongside Tobin and the other boy.

In the back of the long coach Decado had screamed. Memnon, who had been reading a parchment, put it aside and leaned over the boy.

‘What is it, child?’

‘I killed Caridas!’ he said. ‘I killed others.’

‘I know,’ said Memnon soothingly. ‘I am very proud of you.’

Askari eased her way up the slope, keeping downwind of the Jiamad travelling with the riders. Even so she knew that the creature would also have keen hearing, and each time she moved she waited for the breeze to blow, rustling the leaves in the trees above her, and the undergrowth around her. It was slow going. At one point she thought she would lose sight of the riders, but now they had stopped halfway up the slope, some fifty paces from her hiding place. One rider had stepped down from the saddle, staggered, and then slumped to the ground. It seemed that he was ill. The other cavalrymen sat on their horses for a while, then, without conversation, dismounted, and stood quietly. The small Jiamad squatted down on its haunches waiting for orders.

The man on the ground cried out in pain, startling the horses. The riders calmed them. Then a tall man approached the one in pain, crouching down alongside him, and speaking softly. After that the riders drew back, remounted, and set off towards the north, the Jiamad in the lead. Askari waited. They had tethered the suffering man’s horse to a bush and left him behind. He groaned again, then cried out.

What was wrong with the man?

Askari rose from her hiding place, drew her hunting knife and silently approached him.

He was young, dark-haired and — even though his face was contorted in pain — he was handsome.

Beside him lay a single scabbard, from which jutted the ivory hilts of two swords. This then was the demonic Decado. Moonlight shone on the blade in Askari’s hand. It would be the work of but a moment to plunge that blade through his vile throat. Askari knelt beside him, ready to slash open his jugular.

His eyes flickered open. ‘I am sorry, my love,’ he said. ‘I tried. The red mist came. I could not hold it back. Landis is dead, though, his ashes scattered. The blind man is close. I will find him.’

Askari’s knife slid up to the man’s pale throat, the blade resting against the pulse point.

‘Do not be angry with me, Jianna,’ he said. Then his eyes closed.

Jianna!

The name Skilgannon had used when first he saw her. Askari readied herself for the death blow once more.

And could not do it. As a huntress she had killed for meat and skin. As hunted prey she had killed to protect herself and Stavut. This, however, would be murder. Sheathing her blade she looked down at the pale, pain-filled face. Once more his eyes opened. His hand reached up and lightly stroked the skin of her cheek. Instinctively she brushed the hand away. He looked hurt, and almost childlike. ‘What must I do?’ he asked.

‘Go back to Petar,’ she said.

‘What of the blind man? You wanted him dead.’

‘Not any more. Leave him. Go back.’

He struggled to rise, groaned in pain and fell back. Askari took his arm, hauling him to his feet. He sagged against her, and she felt him gently kiss her cheek. ‘Go now!’ she said. Decado took a deep breath, then picked up the sword scabbard and looped it over his shoulder. Askari helped him to his horse, half lifting him to the saddle. ‘Go!’ she shouted, slapping her hand to the grey’s rump. The gelding set off down the hillside. She thought Decado would fall, but he held to the saddle.

And then he was gone.

Askari sighed. I should have killed him, she thought. She shivered. Too late now to worry about it, she decided. Scouting around she found several sticks of dry dead wood. Arranging them in the shape of an arrow pointing north she set off after the hunting party. As she moved higher up the slope the woods grew more dense. The riders had kept to a narrow deer trail, and Askari followed it for around half a mile. Then it swung towards the west. This was a problem. The breeze had shifted and was now blowing from the east. If she continued along the trail she would no longer be downwind of the Jiamad leading them. It would pick up her scent. If it doubled back through the shadow-shrouded trees she would have no warning of its approach. Lifting the bow from her shoulder she notched a shaft to the string. You are Askari the Huntress, she told herself. If it comes you will kill it.

Then she set off once more.

The trail, which had been rising, now dipped down towards a heavily wooded valley. She found where the horses had left the trail, moving down the slope, and caught a glimpse of the last two riders far below, entering the trees. They were around a quarter of a mile ahead.

Askari squatted down to think through her route. Straight ahead would put her on open ground, but to skirt around the bare hillside would take too long. As she considered the question she heard movement in the undergrowth behind her. Spinning round, she drew back the bow string. Skilgannon moved into sight, Harad behind him. Askari eased the pressure on the string. Swiftly she told Skilgannon of the route the riders had taken. He listened quietly. Then his sapphire gaze locked to her eyes. ‘We saw a rider heading south,’ he said.

‘That was Decado.’

He nodded. ‘On the hillside I followed your tracks. You met a man there.’

‘Yes.’

‘The footprints showed you stood very close to him.’