David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

When one of the Eternal’s duplicates was born Memnon had a tiny jewel inserted under the skin at the base of the infant’s skull. This jewel carries a spell. If the Eternal dies, her spirit would automatically flow to the eldest of the duplicates, wherever they might be. As far as I know this has been achieved twice. So you must not seek to kill her. It would be a waste of time. There will be more than twenty Reborns scattered around the empire.’

‘I understand,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Now tell me of Memnon.’

‘He is the Lord of the Shadows — a Jiamad, but of a unique kind. Landis created him a long time ago.

It was part of an attempt to find a formula for longer natural life, to counteract the ageing process. Landis had begun to loathe the idea of raising duplicates, only to kill their souls in order for the original to live on.

He saw it — quite rightly — as evil. So he experimented with Joinings, seeking one who could regenerate more efficiently than nature might intend. He was very successful. His experiments gave many of us longer, healthier lives. Then, a hundred years ago, came Memnon. At first we thought him a triumph.

Despite being created from animal and human he was in almost every way a perfect baby. Not a trace of Jiamad. As a child he possessed rare gifts. He could restore faded blooms to health. He could draw wild creatures to him. An amazing child.’ Gamal sighed. ‘His intelligence was — is — phenomenal. By the age of thirteen he was assisting Landis in experiments. He had mastered the machines of the ancients. By twenty he had moved beyond even Landis. The Eternal favoured him, allowing him to experiment on more and more humans. Many of them died terrible, agonizing deaths. None of this concerned Memnon at all. The pain of others passed him by. He has no conscience, no sense of what we consider good or evil. His one redeeming feature is his devotion to the Eternal.’

‘One of her lovers, I expect,’ said Skilgannon, an edge of bitterness in his voice.

‘No, not Memnon. I said he was almost perfect. There is no way he could perform any meaningful sexual act. Landis believed that was the reason for his lack of passion. He never grows angry, or sad.

Memnon just is. He created the Shadows. They will be coming after you before long, Skilgannon. Make sure there is always light around you. They favour the dark. Bright light burns their eyes.’

‘They are Jiamads?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘Of a kind. They have no fur. They are skinny — almost skeletal — and they move with bewildering speed. So fast that if a swordsman were to thrust his blade at one the sword would cut only air. They have two curved fangs, which inject poison into the victim. It is not deadly, but causes temporary paralysis. They also carry daggers, the blades dipped in similar poison. ‘

‘Apart from light what other weaknesses do they have?’

‘They lack stamina. After an attack they will find some safe, dark place to rest. And, as I said, their eyes are sensitive. Their vision is not strong. In the forest you will hear them. They emit loud, extremely high pitched shrieks. In some way this allows them to see objects. I do not understand how this works.

Neither did poor Landis.’

‘I take it that he is dead.’

‘Yes, Decado killed him. Despite his centuries of life Landis was a romantic. He believed in Ustarte’s prophecy.’

‘And you do not?’ said Skilgannon.

‘The simple answer is that I do not know. I cannot see how one warrior — even one such as you — can end the reign of the Eternal. Even if you did, what would it matter? The artefacts exist. They will always exist. They survived for thousands of years, their powers almost dormant. Nadir shamans found a way to harness the energies radiating from these sleeping machines below the ground. They did not know the artefacts were there, but, like Memnon, they were attuned to the energies pulsing from them. They acted as conduits for that power. All the physical magic in this blighted world emanates from these artefacts.’

‘So what changed?’ asked Skilgannon.

‘The Temple of the Resurrection. An abbot found a way to awaken them. The power in the artefacts swelled. All over this continent and beyond. So you see, Skilgannon, the physical death of the Eternal will do nothing to change the unhappy state of the world.’

‘What did he do, this abbot?’

The young Gamal shrugged. ‘Much is lost in myth now, but he found a passageway inside the holy mountain, and then there was light. I cannot say. I was not there.’

‘Then the answer lies at the temple.’

Gamal smiled. ‘Perhaps it would — if it was still there. Almost five hundred years ago the temple vanished.’

‘It was inside a mountain,’ said Skilgannon. ‘It could not vanish. There must have been a more powerful ward spell placed on it.’

‘No, Skilgannon. I have walked on the open land where the temple mountain once was. There is nothing there. It is an odd place now. Nothing grows there. The land twists and changes. Metal reacts in a bizarre way. I had copper coins in my pouch. They began to jingle together. I remember feeling nauseous, and not being able to maintain my balance. My companion and I left the area as soon as we could. Once clear I looked in my pouch. Five coins had somehow welded themselves together. I had to cut my belt loose, for the brass buckle was mangled and bent. Believe me, Skilgannon. The temple is gone. The mountain is gone.’

‘But the power remains,’ said Skilgannon softly.

‘Yes.’

For a while they sat in silence, Skilgannon thinking through what Gamal had said. Gamal suddenly sighed. ‘It is beginning,’ he said. ‘I can feel the pull of the Void.’

‘Are you frightened?’

‘A little. My life has not been one spent in philanthropic pursuits. I have been selfish, and my actions have resulted in the deaths of innocent people. Yet the Void is not unknown to me. I have travelled there often. It is where you and I met.’

‘I have no memory of such a meeting.’

‘As I told you, the Void is a place of spirit, and you now live in the world of flesh. The memories will return one day. I wonder if I will find Landis. I was fond of him. It would be good to see him again.’

Suddenly all noise from the waterfall ceased, and the blue sky faded to black. A chill wind blew.

Gamal looked fearful, and was staring at a point over Skilgannon’s shoulder. Skilgannon rose to his feet and turned. A tall man was standing close by, dressed in pale robes of shimmering silver. He was dark-haired and androgynously good-looking. His skin was pale gold, his cheekbones high, his eyes large, dark, and almond shaped, like the peoples of the Chiatze.

‘What are you doing here, Memnon?’ asked Gamal.

‘I have come to say farewell to an old friend,’ the man replied, his voice gentle.

‘We were not friends.’

‘Sadly, that is true. I was attempting to be polite. Go ahead and die, Gamal. It is Skilgannon I wished to speak to.’

‘No! He will not die here, Memnon.’ Gamal rose swiftly to his feet and reached towards Skilgannon.

‘Take my hand. Now!’

Memnon’s arm snapped forward. Gamal disappeared. ‘He chose a pleasant spot,’ said Memnon, moving forward to walk past Skilgannon and stare at the towering waterfall.

‘Did you kill him?’ asked Skilgannon.

Memnon shrugged. ‘Let us hope so. And before you consider attacking me you should understand that such violence will have no effect here. There is no pain. No blow of yours will concuss me, or damage my form. This is merely a dream place. Would you like to hear the water rushing? I find it an annoying distraction, but if you wish I will restore it.’

Skilgannon stepped in, his left fist hammering into what should have been Memnon’s face. The blow passed through the man. ‘Ah, I see you are a man who needs to discover his own realities. So, now that we understand the situation, let us sit and talk. A fire would be pleasant.’ Memnon gestured to the ground and a small circle of stones appeared. Flames leapt up from within them. ‘The Eternal has spoken of you often. She has such fond memories of you.’