David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

So when Alahir started hearing voices his mother was terrified. One night Alahir had crept downstairs and listened to a conversation between mother and father. ‘Madness runs in families,’ he heard her say.

‘What if he is another Gandias?’

‘He’s just a boy with an over-active imagination,’ his father told her. ‘He will grow out of it.’

Alahir never forgot that conversation. It was why he had never married. If he was to go mad like Gandias he would do so as a single man. No wife of his would be walled up to die in a dark, airless room.

As the years passed he had grown a little more confident about the voices. Never convinced he was free, but allowing his hopes to grow.

Now they were back.

Turn east, Alahir. There is something you must see.

‘You need to step down from the saddle, man,’ said Gilden. ‘Your face is whiter than snow.’ The sergeant reached out to take his arm.

‘I’m fine!’ snapped Alahir, snatching his arm out of reach. The movement was so sudden Alahir’s skittish horse reared, and sprang to the left, moving out onto a steep scree slope. Immediately it began to slide. Alahir fought to keep its head up as it scrambled for footing. There were few riders better than the Drenai captain, but even he almost lost control. Finally firmer ground appeared under the horse’s hooves and it scrambled safely to a rock shelf some two hundred feet below the other riders. Alahir looked up at the worried faces above him and waved to show he was all right. Then he rode on, seeking a path back to the high trail.

Irritation flared as he was forced to continue along a rock trail running east, away from his men. Ahead of him was a sheer wall of rock that had been split open by the earthquake. Several tons of earth had been displaced, and a score of trees levelled. As he rode by he glanced at the desolation. His eye was caught by an odd sight. Just beyond the huge mound of fallen earth he saw a wide lintel stone above a half-buried doorway. It made no sense. Who would build a doorway into a mountain?

Alahir knew he should get back to his men. The enemy lancers might have regrouped, or been reinforced. And yet. . The doorway beckoned to him. How long must it have been hidden here, to have been covered so completely?

Dismounting, he trailed the reins of his mount and climbed over the earth mound. On closer inspection the lintel stone was beautifully carved, and an inscription had been engraved upon it. It was full of earth, and Alahir scraped some of it away with his dagger.

He soon realized it was in a language unknown to him. Considering the history of the land he decided the inscription must have been Sathuli. Possibly a tomb of some kind. His interest waned.

Then the voice came again. Go inside, Alahir.

‘Leave me alone, damn you!’

If you wish it I will never speak again. But go inside. The hope of the Drenai lies within.

No other inducement would have caused him to lever himself into the dark of the tomb, but his heart and mind had been filled with worry for his people for too long now. With a sigh he removed his crested helm, laid it on the earth, then climbed inside. Beyond the entrance was a tunnel, going off into the dark.

Alahir moved along it. Some fifty paces ahead he saw a shaft of light shining down through a crack in the ceiling. Alahir made his way towards it.

The shaft was illuminating a great block of what at first seemed to be ice, shimmering and glistening.

Squinting against the glare Alahir approached the block. It was too perfectly shaped to be ice. More like a gigantic cube of glass. Then he saw what it contained and his breath caught in his throat.

On a wooden stand within the block was a suit of armour, beautifully crafted in bronze. It had overlapping scales of plate, and the breastplate was emblazoned with a golden eagle, wings spread, flaring up and over the chest. There were scaled gauntlets, and a winged helm, crested with an eagle’s head. Beneath the breastplate was a bronze ringed mail shirt, and leggings with hinged knee caps. Then there was the sword, the hilt double-handed, the guard a pair of flaring wings, the blade gold. It shone in the shaft of light as if it was crafted from fire.

Alahir’s mouth was dry.

He stepped forward on trembling legs. His booted foot crunched down on old bones, and he glanced down to see the desiccated remains of a man. Shreds of dry cloth clung to the bones.

‘Who was he?’ he asked.

Lascarin the Thief. He saved the Armour of Bronze and brought it here, before the horror that was the last battle.

Alahir knew the story of that battle. Every Drenai child did. The civil war had raged for nine years, culminating in a fierce exchange at Dros Delnoch. The fortress had been built to withstand an assault from the north, and was virtually open to attack from the south. The defenders had been vastly outnumbered, and, three days before the last battle, the thief Lascarin had stolen the Armour of Bronze. Two days later an earthquake ripped through the fortress, bringing two of the walls down, and killing more than a thousand men. The surviving defenders had taken their families and fled north to the colony of Siccus.

These were Alahir’s ancestors.

‘Why did he steal the Armour?’ asked Alahir.

He did not steal it. He saved it.

‘Who are you?’

One who cares, Alahir. One whose voice can echo across Time’s vast valleys.

‘You are a ghost?’

In a manner of speaking. I am alive as I speak to you, but in your time I am long dead. I cannot speak for long, Alahir, so question me not. You know what you see here, and you know what it means. This is the Armour of Bronze, crafted for Egel, worn by Regnak, as he stood beside Druss the Legend. You stand before your own destiny. For this armour is yours, Alahir, by blood and by right. You are the Earl of Bronze, and it falls to you to help save your people.

‘I have less than fifty riders. The armies of Agrias are a hundred times larger. And even were I to forswear my allegiance and defeat him there would still be the Eternal.’

There is a man coming to you. He carries the Swords of Night and Day. Ride with him, Alahir.

‘And this will save my people?’

I cannot say for certain. There is much I do not know. I will try to speak again, but for now I must leave you. My strength is waning. Draw the sword, Alahir. Don the Armour.

‘Wait!’ he shouted. The word echoed, and then there was silence.

Draw the sword, the voice had said. Not an easy task when it was encased in crystal. Alahir reached out towards the hilt. His hand slid through the crystal as if it were mist.

He shivered.

Then drew the golden sword from the crystal. It was lighter than it looked, and yet perfectly balanced, the golden blade glittering in the shaft of sunlight. Alahir sighed — and returned it to its scabbard.

Askari found a deep cave in which the travellers could shelter from the wind, and the four of them hunkered down in its mouth and risked a fire. Skilgannon had been withdrawn since the death of Gamal, and had spoken little. Harad and Charis seemed oblivious of everything, except each other. They would walk hand in hand, and, at night, wander off to be alone. Askari too had left the brooding Skilgannon, and gone scouting. Her thoughts were troubled as she found the cave. So much had happened in these last few days. Her entire world had been torn asunder. Her settlement was ruined and deserted, her friends fled or slain. Landis Kan was dead. And yet the handsome swordsman filled her mind. She found herself watching him, noting with satisfaction the easy grace of his movements, the calm, assured style of his speech. It was difficult to look into those sapphire eyes without reddening. It was as if he could read her thoughts, and they were not thoughts considered seemly.