David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘The Eternal has spoken the words of your death,’ said the man. ‘What choice did I have but to obey?’

‘You lie!’

‘I am not an imbecile, Decado. You think I wanted to come after you? The Eternal ordered me.

Personally. Unwallis was with her, and the Shadowlord.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Decado, stepping back from the surprised man. ‘She. . loves me.’

‘I don’t understand either,’ said the man, rubbing blood from his eye. ‘Are you going to kill me? Or can I go?’

‘Sit over there while I think,’ said Decado, gesturing to a chair. Moving to his clothes he dressed swiftly. Then he returned to the soldier. ‘What exactly did she say to you?’

‘I was summoned by my captain, and sent in to see her. She asked me if I was good with a crossbow.

I said I was. She said she wanted the death to be clean and fast. Then the Shadowlord said I was to cut off your finger and bring it to him. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I don’t need to. What happened then?’

‘Nothing,’ said the man, but he looked away.

‘Be careful, my friend, for your life depends on this.’

The other attacker groaned and started to rise. Decado stepped in, slashing a blade through the back of the man’s neck. The assassin slumped to his face, twitched once then lay still.

‘Oh, careful, is it?’ said the first man, his expression hardening at the murder of his comrade. ‘You won’t let me live anyway.’

‘Then you would have nothing to lose by speaking. You would gain a little more time. However, I am telling you the truth. Speak freely and I will let you live.’

The prisoner considered his words, then shrugged. ‘She said some stuff about you, Decado. Not complimentary. She told Memnon he’d made a mistake with you, and she didn’t want him repeating it.’

‘Exactly what did she say?’

The man took a deep breath. ‘She said you were insane, and she told me to forget the finger. We were to carry your body out into the garden and burn it to ash.’

‘Take off your clothes,’ said Decado.

‘What for?’

The Sword of Fire nicked a cut into the man’s neck. ‘So that you can live. Be swift!’ The man undressed. ‘Now get in the bath.’

The slim soldier looked nonplussed, but he slowly waded down into the water. ‘Good,’ said Decado.

‘Now come out, and pick up the two sabres your friends dropped.’

‘I can’t fight you!’

‘You don’t have to fight me. Just do as I say.’

Decado followed him across the room, to prevent any sudden flight. The naked man took up the two swords. ‘Now what?’

‘Now you can leave — through the garden.’

‘Without any clothes on?’

‘Alive, though.’

‘You’re going to stab me in the back.’

‘Just leave,’ said Decado, tapping the man’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.

‘Whatever you say.’

The man walked to the heavy drape and pulled it back. Then he opened the garden door and stepped outside. Something moved past him in a blur. He cried out and fell back into the bathhouse. Dropping the swords he began to crawl, but his body spasmed. A pale shape appeared in the doorway, large round eyes narrowed against the lantern light. Its thin face was corpse grey, and its lipless mouth hung open. A wide, curved single tooth jutted from its maw. It was stained with blood.

The Sword of Fire lanced out from behind the curtain, spearing through both the creature’s temples.

Decado dragged the blade clear, then walked back to the twitching soldier. ‘You are not dying,’ he said.

‘You will be paralysed for an hour or two. After that you will be dead. The Eternal does not appreciate failure.’

The man passed out. Decado stood silently, trying to think of what to do. The one joyous, true and perfect part of his life had been his time with the Eternal. Now she had betrayed him. Decado felt the pain of it, and a cold anger began. He considered striding through the palace and cutting out her heart.

Then he would kill Unwallis and. . Memnon?

The Shadowlord had been like a father to him, helping him with his pain, and his rages. And the soldier had said he wanted a piece of bone, and that could only have been used to bring Decado back.

Decado needed time to think.

Swords in hand he left the bathhouse. The gardens were empty, and he walked round the rear of the building until he reached the stable. There he chose a sturdy chestnut gelding, saddled it, and rode from the palace grounds.

The battle was short and fierce. Enemy lancers, some two hundred strong, hidden in the woods on the slopes of the mountains, had suddenly charged Alahir’s troop. They had obviously expected the surprise of their attack to disconcert the Legend Riders. The enemy were charging from the high ground. All the advantages were theirs. Alahir yelled an order and his fifty men coolly swung their mounts, and lifted bows from saddle pommels. The first volley sent horses and men tumbling to the ground. The charge faltered as the hurtling men behind the fallen swerved their mounts to avoid running down their own wounded. A second volley tore into them. Then a third.

Hurling aside their bows, the Legend Riders drew their sabres and heeled their mounts forward. In close order battle the long lances were of little use, and the enemy let them fall, drawing their own swords. But the impetus of their charge was lost, and they were now facing grim and deadly opponents, who slashed and cut their way through the enemy centre. Alahir was relieved to find that his borrowed mount — afraid of shadows and swirling cloaks — showed no fear in the battle. It followed his every physical command.

Alahir saw the enemy officer, on a pure white stallion, and heeled his horse towards him. A lancer tried to block his path. Alahir ducked under his slashing blade. The lancer was wearing a heavy breastplate and mail, but his arms were unprotected. Alahir’s sabre flashed out, hacking into the man’s forearm and snapping the bone. The lancer’s sword fell from his hand, and Alahir swept past him. The officer beyond, still holding to his lance, made a feeble stab at the warrior closing on him. Alahir struck the lance with his sabre, diverting it, then, as their horses crashed together, hammered his sabre against the man’s bronze helm. The officer swayed in the saddle. Alahir struck him twice more. The second time the sabre cut through the man’s ear and down through his neck. He pitched from the saddle. His white horse galloped away. Even in the chaos of battle Alahir found himself wishing he had time to catch it. It was a Ventrian purebred, and deserved better than the wretch who rode him.

Pushing thoughts of horses from his mind Alahir swung to find a fresh opponent — but the remaining lancers were fleeing in panic. The younger and less battle-hardened of his men began to give chase.

Alahir bellowed an order, and they drew rein.

Alahir gazed round the corpse-littered battlefield. About seventy lancers lay dead, or wounded. Alahir scanned the area, seeking out fallen Legend Riders. He saw eight bodies, lying unmoving, and nine more men, unhorsed and carrying heavy wounds. Gilden rode alongside. The sergeant had a deep cut on his cheek, almost exactly between the white scars. Blood was flowing freely from it, and running over his mail shirt.

‘What orders?’ he asked.

‘Deal with our wounded first, then find two prisoners who will survive a trip back to camp. Then we’ll push on.’ He pointed up the mountain slopes. ‘There’s a fine view of the south up there, and we’ll see how many troops they are funnelling through the passes.’

Leaning to his left Gilden spat blood from his mouth. ‘Luckily they weren’t great fighters.’