David Gemmell: The Swords of Night and Day

Today he chose stories not of his own legends, but of the ancient lands. He was searching for details that would offer him links to a past he could not summon. He carried a bundle of ancient scrolls to a window seat and slowly began to read them.

The first of them brought no fresh insights. It told of a war among races he had no memory of, but the second, far older, talked of a people called the Drenai. Skilgannon felt his heartbeat quicken. A name came to him.

Druss.

He saw a powerful figure, in clothes of black and silver. Holding to the memory, he closed his eyes.

Scenes flowed up from his subconscious. Druss the Axeman, storming the stairs at the citadel, seeking.

seeking. . the child Elanin. Another face appeared, the features disfigured. Another name surfaced.

Boranius. Ironmask. Skilgannon saw himself fighting this man, blades flashing and blocking, lunging and parrying. The image began to shimmer. Skilgannon struggled to retain it, but it flowed away from him like a dream upon wakening.

He returned to his room and found a cloak of dark brown wool, edged with black leather. Swirling it round his shoulders he walked out of the palace. For the first time since he had returned to life he felt relaxed and free. He walked through the town of Petar, bypassing the crowded market place, coming at last to an old stone bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. He saw a young lad sitting on the parapet of the bridge, a fishing rod in his hands. Beyond the bridge the area leading to the hills had been fenced off. This was puzzling to Skilgannon, for he could see no cattle or sheep. He walked on to a locked gate.

‘Hey there, Outlander!’

Skilgannon turned. The blond-haired boy put aside his fishing rod. ‘Best not to walk the hills,’ he said.

Swinging his legs back over the parapet the boy jumped down onto the bridge and walked over to Skilgannon. ‘Dangerous up there.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Jems. That’s where they train. They don’t like people.’

Skilgannon smiled. ‘I don’t like people either.’ With that he vaulted the gate and set off towards the hills. After a while he broke into an easy lope, then a run. Higher and higher he went, pushing his body hard, until at last, breathless and weary, he halted beside a stream. Kneeling, he drank deeply. The water was cold and wonderfully refreshing. Sitting beside the water he saw that the stream bed contained hundreds of rounded pebbles. Most were pure white, but here and there he could see darker stones, some green, some jet black. Plunging his hand into the water he ran his fingers over the pebbles, scooping up several. Once his life would have been as full of memories as this stream was of stones.

Now all he had were a few scattered remnants. Tipping his hand, he dropped the pebbles back into the water and rose.

The sky was bright and clear, and a cool breeze was blowing across the mountain foothills. Skilgannon gazed out over the land, and the white town far below. I do not belong here, he thought, as his eyes drank in the alien landscape.

A sound came to him. Then another. A series of dry cracks and thuds. Intrigued, he followed the sounds, climbing over the crest of the hill and making his way down into the trees beyond. In a clearing far below he saw what at first seemed to be a group of bearded warriors, practising with quarterstaffs.

They were wearing body armour of black leather, and leggings of leather and fur. Skilgannon stood and watched them. His eyes narrowed, and something cold touched his heart.

They were not men at all. Their faces were twisted and misshapen, jaws elongated. Jems, the boy had called them. Joinings was how Skilgannon remembered them. A brief memory flared, of women and children huddling together in a circle while Skilgannon and a group of fighters prepared to face an attack.

The creatures had been large, some close to eight feet tall. Much larger, in fact, than the Jiamads training below. And more bestial in appearance. These seemed to Skilgannon to be more human. Perhaps it was that they were clothed in breastplates of black leather, and leather kilts.

The wind shifted, carrying his scent down into the clearing. Almost immediately the Jiamads ceased their training and turned, staring up towards where Skilgannon stood, hidden in the shadows of the trees.

Though tempted to turn and walk away, he did not. Instead he strolled out into the open and down towards them. As he approached he noted that each of them wore a blue jewel upon its temple. It seemed incongruous that such beings would wear adornments.

The largest of the creatures, almost seven feet tall, its fur jet black, stepped towards him. ‘Skins stay away,’ it said, the voice guttural. Skilgannon, who was a tall man, found himself staring up into a pair of golden eyes, which glittered with cold malice.

‘And why is that?’ he countered. The other Jiamads shuffled forward, surrounding him.

‘Our place. Danger for Skins.’ The elongated mouth gaped, showing sharp fangs. A snorting sound rasped from it, which was echoed by the others. Skilgannon took it to be laughter.

‘I am new to this land,’ he said. ‘I am unaware of the customs here. Why would it be dangerous?’

‘Skins brittle. Break easy.’ The Jiamad stared hard at Skilgannon, and the warrior sensed its hatred.

‘You go now.’

The other beasts gathered even closer. One, its face flatter than the rest, the mouth more widely flared, like a cat began to sniff the air. ‘No other Skins,’ it said. ‘It is alone.’

‘Leave him,’ said the first.

‘Kill it,’ said another.

The first beast snarled suddenly, the sound harsh and chilling. Then it spoke. ‘No!’ The golden eyes stared at Skilgannon. ‘Go now, Skin.’

Skilgannon turned. The cat creature’s quarterstaff suddenly jabbed out towards his legs. Instantly, and without conscious thought, Skilgannon spun on his heel and leapt high, his foot hammering into the other’s face, hurling it from its feet. Skilgannon landed lightly and stepped in, hefting the quarterstaff the beast had dropped. With an angry growl the Jiamad sprang to its feet and lunged at the man. Skilgannon twirled the staff, cracking it hard against its temple. The creature slumped to the ground, dazed. Stepping back, Skilgannon raised the weapon against any new attack. For a moment there was no movement, then the leader stepped forward.

‘Not good,’ it said. ‘Go!’

Skilgannon smiled coldly, then tossed the staff to the ground. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed your training,’ he said. ‘What is your

name?’

‘Longbear.’

‘I shall remember it.’ With that, Skilgannon walked away.

As he topped the rise he heard a terrible cry, full of pain and despair. It was a death cry. He did not look back.

As Skilgannon made the long descent back towards the town he saw a horseman riding across the bridge: Landis Kan. Skilgannon waited. Landis was not a natural rider. His body out of balance, he jerked around in the saddle, unable to harmonize himself with the rhythm of the sturdy chestnut he rode.

A memory came to Skilgannon, of a chubby priest with a frightened face. It was as if a window had opened in his soul, and he saw himself back at the monastery of Cobalsin, working the land, studying in the library, beneath the benevolent gaze of the Abbot Cethelin.

Skilgannon took a deep breath. The air was fresh and cold, and he felt suddenly at peace. More memories flowed then. The chubby priest had been called Braygan. Skilgannon had left him in the war-torn city of Mellicane, before he and Druss the Legend and a group of fighters had set off to rescue the child, Elanin, held in a citadel by Nadir warriors.

A savage exultation coursed through Skilgannon, drowning the frustration of these last few days. He could not remember everything, but he knew he had fought no dragons. There was no winged horse.