David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘Come in,’ he ordered, hoping it was a servant. Instead it was the old statesman Unwallis. Decado gazed at him curiously. The man seemed different, younger. Lines of stress had vanished from his face.

Though his hair was still iron grey there was a brightness to his eyes, and the smile he offered was warm and friendly.

‘Welcome back, Decado,’ he said. ‘How was your mission?’

‘I fell ill. The Eternal ordered me back here. Let me know when she returns.’

‘Returns?’

‘I saw her in the high country. She said to come back to Petar.’

‘Er. . She is here, in Landis Kan’s old apartments.’

‘That’s not possible. She could not have returned before me.’

Decado saw the confusion in Unwallis. The statesman stood silently for a moment. ‘May I come in?

We should sit down and talk.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Decado, my boy, there is everything to talk about. The Eternal arrived here two days ago. She has not left the palace.’ He sighed. ‘Is it possible you dreamed it? I know of the head pains, and the narcotics Memnon supplies. They are very powerful.’

‘Yes, they are,’ snapped Decado. ‘But I always know the difference between dreams and reality. She was there, dressed as a hunter. She even had a bow.’ He went on to explain how he had been following the trail of the blind man, but had been struck down by terrible pain in the head. Then he described how she came to him, and ordered him back to Petar. Unwallis listened intently.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘there were some things Landis did not note down. Fascinating.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She was not the Eternal. That is the only point you need to realize. I take it you did not find the nephew?’

‘No.’

‘Then you should know he is not the nephew. Landis Kan rebirthed the bones of Skilgannon. He also found the man’s soul and reunited them. The man you were chasing is the legendary Skilgannon himself.’

Decado walked back into the apartment, and sat down on a wide couch. The Swords of Blood and Fire were beside him, and he absently reached out and laid his hand on one of the hilts. Unwallis moved into the room and sat beside him. ‘The woman you saw is a Reborn. Landis obviously stole some bones from the Eternal’s last resurrection two decades ago.’

‘I need to see Jianna,’ said Decado. ‘I need to explain. .’

‘Of course — but may I suggest that you bathe first? The days of travel have left you. . somewhat pungent, Decado. Servants are preparing a bath downstairs.’

Decado, still shaken by what the statesman had told him, nodded. ‘Yes, that is a good idea. Thank you, Unwallis.’

‘A pleasure, my boy. Come. I will have fresh clothes brought for you.’

‘Just lead on!’ snapped the swordsman. As he followed Unwallis from the room he felt foolish. There was something about the urbane statesman that always riled him. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had once been a lover of the Eternal. Decado didn’t know — but he did know she did not want Unwallis killed. This was a problem for the young swordsman. Often he had no control over such matters. Just like the first time in the orchard. He would hear a roaring in his ears, and then — apparently — pass out. Only he did not pass out. He would awake some time later to discover either bloodstains on his clothing, or the corpses of those he had slain. Only later would the memories return, and with them the shame of his murderous rage. Memnon called it the Sleep of Death and had offered advice on how to prevent, or at worst delay, its onset. Curiously it involved being more aggressive with people. According to Memnon the condition was triggered by Decado’s attempts to hold in his rage. ‘Let it out a little at a time with angry words,’ Memnon had advised. Mostly it worked, though as Decado followed Unwallis down the long corridor he saw more bloodstains on the rugs there, and he remembered the unfortunate servants who had fallen victim to his insanity. A deep depression settled on the young man, and he focused on the murals they passed, hoping his concentration on works of art would blot out the images of the terrified victims. It was a vain hope.

They reached the lower levels and Decado followed Unwallis into a small, lantern-lit bathhouse. There was already hot water in the deep marble bath. Decado sighed. If only he could wash away the sins of his flesh as simply as he could sponge away the dust and the dirt on his body.

‘I will leave you to relax, my boy,’ said Unwallis, stepping to the long garden window and pulling shut the heavy drapes.

‘I. . thank you,’ said Decado. ‘I am sorry that I have been so boorish in your company.’ Unwallis looked shocked. He stood waiting for some barbed comment. When he realized none was to come he smiled.

‘Enjoy the bath,’ he said. Decado stripped off his travel-stained clothes and laid them on a chair, placing his scabbarded swords on top of them. Then he moved towards the bath. There was a mirror on the wall and his anger returned. Decado did not like mirrors. He could not stand to look at himself. The eyes always accused, as if the man in the mirror was someone else entirely. Someone who knew him, and, knowing him, loathed him. Almost against his wishes he stared back at his slender, naked reflection.

‘You do not deserve to live,’ the mirror man told him.

‘I know,’ he replied. Stepping forward he lifted the mirror from the wall, intending to smash it. Yet he did not. He had destroyed so much in his young life. Instead he placed the mirror on the floor, resting it against a table on which clean white towels had been laid.

Then he entered the bath. The warmth was welcome. The water was lightly perfumed. Decado sank beneath the surface, running his fingers through his hair, to wash off the dust. Then he surfaced, and looked around for some soap. He saw several small blocks in a wicker basket to his right. As he reached for one he froze. In the mirror he had placed against the table he saw the reflection of a crossbowman, stealthily moving from the door behind him.

The weapon came up. Decado hurled himself to his left. The twang of the twisted string came to him, just before the bolt splashed into the water. Decado heaved himself from the bath and rolled to his feet.

The crossbowman, a slim, dark-haired young man, threw aside his weapon and drew a dagger from his belt. Decado darted towards him. Even as he did so he saw the heavy drapes over the garden window drawn back, and another armed man ran in. The first assassin rushed forward, dagger extended.

Decado flung himself to the floor, swinging around to kick the man’s legs from under him. The assassin fell heavily, cracking his head on the marble floor.

Decado came up fast. The second man came at him. Decado leapt feet first, his heel slamming into the man’s chin, hurling him back. Rising, Decado ran for the Swords of Blood and Fire. Two more killers had entered the room. They were soldiers, and carried both swords and daggers. Decado drew his swords and ran to meet them. The newcomers were terrified. One tried to run, the other slashed his sabre at the swordsman. The Sword of Blood clove into his neck, severing the jugular and slicing through muscle, sinew and bone. The fleeing soldier had reached the door, but, as he pulled it open, the Sword of Fire plunged through his back. The soldier gave a gurgling cry and slid down the door. Decado spun. The second attacker was unconscious. The first groaned and tried to sit. Blood was smeared above his left eye, and flowing down over his right.

Decado ran to the drapes, pulling them shut, then moved to the injured man, pushing him to his back.

Resting the Sword of Blood against the man’s throat he said, ‘Who sent you?’