David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Another hunt had ended successfully, and Stavut sat contentedly by the fire, cutting slices of roast venison. Shakul and nine of his pack were stretched out on the ground nearby, bellies distended, and sleeping soundly. A second pack of eighteen Jiamads had returned earlier. Led by the small, mottled grey Grava, they had also been successful, though it had taken Stavut a little while to grasp this. Grava’s speech was horribly mangled by his overlong tongue and Stavut had to struggle to understand a word he said. It was no surprise, however, that yet again Grava had returned with two more Jiamads than he had started with. Before long, thought Stavut, every runaway Jem in the high country would be part of Bloodshirt’s pack.

He grinned. His fear of the beasts had long since departed. Indeed, he found he actually enjoyed their company, and had taken to wandering off with them for longer periods. In some ways this was good.

Kinyon and the villagers had become increasingly concerned, and, despite Stavut’s best efforts, remained frightened and wary around the huge creatures. There had even been some talk of returning to their village and taking a chance on the land’s not being invaded. Stavut had soon stopped this line of conversation. ‘Skilgannon says the enemy will come back. I don’t think he’s a man given to exaggeration.

The best way is forward. I am sure Alahir will help us.’

Surprisingly, there had been little argument. People just nodded and wandered away. In fact very few people argued with Stavut now. Probably, he reasoned, because he had proved to be such a good provider and leader.

When Grava returned with the two newcomers he had pushed them to stand before Bloodshirt. Stavut had stood and stared coolly at the Jiamads. It had become a ritual, and Stavut enjoyed the drama of it.

‘You wish to join Bloodshirt’s pack?’ he asked them.

They were a scrawny pair, one heavily round-shouldered, almost hunchbacked, the second tall and thin, his fur almost black. They stared at him, then looked at Grava, who said something unintelligible in a harsh growl.

‘Serve Bloodshirt,’ said the hunchback.

‘Your names?’ asked Stavut.

‘Ironfist,’ the hunchback answered. ‘This Blackrock,’ he added, pointing to his skinny, black-furred companion.

‘You will hunt with us. You will kill no Skins.’

They both nodded.

‘Do not forget it. Now go.’

They shuffled away. Grava said something else, which Stavut did not understand, but it ended in a gargling sound, which Stavut had recognized as laughter, so he had smiled and nodded. Then he had settled down by the fire.

Shakul awoke and stretched. Then he broke wind loudly.

‘Charming,’ said Stavut.

‘Good sleep,’ said Shakul. ‘No dreams.’

‘The best kind.’ Stavut scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. Normally he was clean shaven, but lately he had decided a beard would suit Bloodshirt. ‘Time to be getting back to the villagers,’ he said.

‘They will be glad of the fresh meat.’

Shakul lifted his head and sniffed the air. ‘They have gone,’ he said.

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘Head south.’

‘They wouldn’t do that.’

Shakul shrugged, then leaned down towards the joint of roasted venison. ‘Burned,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘When did they go?’

‘We leave, they leave,’ said Shakul.

‘That was yesterday morning. ‘Why would they do that?’ said Stavut.

‘Fear us,’ said Shakul. ‘Fear Bloodshirt.’ Stavut looked into the beast’s golden eyes, and at the huge fangs in the immense face. Suddenly he realized that the villagers’ lack of argument had had nothing to do with his leadership, but everything to do with their terror of the beasts, and an increased fear of Stavut himself.

‘I would never have harmed them,’ he said.

Shakul’s head came up. The wind was southerly, and he tipped his head, his nostrils quivering.

‘Many Skins,’ he said. ‘Horses. Jems.’

‘Soldiers?’ queried Stavut.

‘They hunt us?’ responded Shakul, his eyes glinting.

‘I wouldn’t think so. Where are they?’

‘South. Your Skins see them soon.’

Stavut swore. ‘We must get to them. If it is an enemy raiding party they will be in danger.’

‘Useless Skins,’ said Shakul. ‘Don’t hunt. Do nothing. Better without them.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Stavut, ‘but, as you say, they are my Skins. We help them.’

Shakul rose and let out a howl which brought the other Jiamads to their feet. ‘Run fast,’ said Shakul.

‘Bloodshirt slow. Shakul carry Bloodshirt.’

The suggestion put Stavut in a quandary. He knew it was the only sensible choice. The Jiamads could move at terrifying speed, and if they waited for him it would be a long, slow, and pointless journey. If the villagers were in danger now that peril would be long past by the time the group reached them. On the other hand there were only two ways Stavut could be carried by Shakul. Either like a babe in arms, or clinging to the fur on his back. The first would be ludicrous, and would — Stavut believed — severely dent his authority among the beasts. The second would be equally risible, for Stavut’s arms were not powerful, and he knew he could not hang on to the fur for a long journey. This left the prospect of falling off a number of times, and then having to revert to the first ghastly option, that of being carried like a babe.

‘Right,’ said Stavut, buying time to think. ‘Let’s be sure of what we are all doing. We are seeking my comrades, who may be in danger. If they are we must rescue them. I want no-one rushing in. We get close enough to see what the situation is, then I shall give orders. Is that understood?’

‘Yes,’ said Shakul. ‘Now leave?’

Stavut gazed round at the pack. There were over forty Jiamads now. Some still carried iron-studded clubs, others heavy swords. A few retained long staffs. Several of them still wore wide baldrics on their shoulders, from which hung empty scabbards. Stavut crossed to two of them, and told them to remove their baldrics. The beasts did so without question, handing them to Stavut. Both had broad brass buckles.

He buckled them together and walked back to Shakul. ‘Bend forward,’ he said. Shakul obeyed instantly.

Stavut slipped the double-size baldric over his head. Shakul was larger than any of the Jiamads, and the leather hung to just above his hips. ‘Stand still,’ said Stavut, lifting his leg and placing it on the lowest part of the loop. Then he stood and took hold of the long fur on Shakul’s massive shoulders. ‘Now we go!’

he said.

Shakul took off at a great pace, and Stavut was briefly thrown back. He clung on grimly, seeking to read the rhythm of the great beast’s running style. Within a very short space of time he began to feel sick.

It was almost as bad as the first time he had gone to sea. With iron resolve he willed his belly to hold on to its contents, and tried to think of other things as the run continued. This was hard, for with each heavy running step Shakul took Stavut’s belly heaved.

Just when he felt he could hold on no longer he saw a sight that took all thoughts of sickness from him.

Shakul ran into the campsite they had left yesterday. Stavut’s wagon was still there, his beloved horses, Longshanks and Brightstar — or what was left of them — still tethered. ‘Stop!’ he shouted. Shakul came to a stop and Stavut leapt down. His legs almost gave way, and the ground seemed to be rocking as he gazed down at the dead beasts. He saw a movement in the trees nearby, and two grey wolves padded back from sight. The villagers had left his wagon behind, not thinking that, with the brake applied, the tethered horses would have no way to escape a wolf pack.