David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Tears formed, flowing down his bearded cheek. He brushed them away, and his hand came away stained red. For however long he lived, this would be the Day of the Beast in his memory. He would never forget it, not one dreadful part of it.

The pack had run for hours, eating up the miles in a steady fast lope. Then they had come to a line of wooded hills, and Shakul had paused. ‘What is it?’ asked Stavut.

‘Fight finished,’ said Shakul. Stavut glanced at the other beasts. They all had their heads high, sniffing the air. ‘Much blood,’ added Shakul.

‘Show me,’ Stavut ordered him.

Shakul ran on, up the slope and through the trees, the pack following. They came to a stretch of open ground. Bodies were everywhere. Stavut stepped down from Shakul’s back and walked among the corpses. He saw Kinyon first, his head crushed. Arin, the logger from Harad’s settlement, was pinned against a tree, a broken lance impaling him to the trunk. His wife, Kerena, was close by. Her throat had been cut, but not before she had been brutally raped by the soldiers. She was lying on her back, her skirt over her breast, her legs splayed. Other women had been similarly abused before being slain. There was no point checking for survivors. All of the men had been hacked to death, save Arin.

Shakul loomed alongside him. ‘Four Jems,’ he said. ‘Stood by trees.’

‘What?’

‘We go now?’

‘Go? Yes, we go. We find the soldiers responsible for this.’ A cold anger began in the pit of Stavut’s belly, a rage unlike anything he had ever experienced. ‘We find them. We kill them. Every one.’

‘As Bloodshirt says,’ muttered Shakul.

‘How far away are they?’

‘Not far. Catch soon.’

‘Then let’s be going.’ Stavut reached up and took hold of the baldric. Shakul crouched down, allowing Stavut to place his foot in the loop. Then the great beast reared up, Stavut on his back, and let out a howl. He began to run. As he did so his right arm swept out, and he called an order. Some fifteen of the pack veered off to the right. Shakul barked out a second order, and another group headed towards the left. The rest of the pack ran on silently.

Stavut ducked down as Shakul ploughed through thick undergrowth and low-hanging branches. Then the Jiamad slowed and pointed forward. A column of men were marching over the brow of a hill, some quarter of a mile ahead. ‘How many?’ asked Stavut.

Shakul lifted up his huge, taloned hands, opening and closing them three times. ‘Few more, few less,’

he said.

Then they ran again, pounding up the hillside. As they crested the hill they saw the troop still marching ahead of them, oblivious of the danger. Then one of the soldiers swung round, and shouted a warning.

The troop drew their weapons, and tried to form a defensive wall. There was no time. The Jiamads tore into them. Stavut was thrown clear of Shakul. He hit the ground hard, and rolled. A swordsman loomed over him. Shakul’s talons tore the man’s face away. Blood bubbled from his ruined throat, and he fell.

Stavut grabbed the man’s sword and ran into the fray, hacking and stabbing. An officer on a tall horse was leading the men. When he saw the carnage he tried to flee. Grava hurtled across the grass, and leapt at the man’s mount, ripping its neck open. The horse reared, hurling the rider to the earth. Stavut ran across the killing ground, slashing his sword into the bodies of men trying to flee. Not one escaped. Their skulls were crushed or bitten through, or their backbones shattered by iron-shod clubs. Stavut paused and looked around. A few men were still moving, trying to crawl. The beasts leapt upon them, long fangs slicing into vulnerable necks.

Then Stavut saw the leader, lying very still. Grava was close by, his long, curved fangs tearing chunks of flesh from the body of the dead horse. Stavut walked to the officer, a young man, slim and handsome, his beard carefully shaped and trimmed. ‘I have information,’ said the man. ‘Agrias will find it very useful, if you take me to him.’

‘I don’t serve Agrias,’ said Stavut.

‘I. . don’t understand. Who do you serve?’

‘A man named Kinyon, and a young girl called Kerena. And others whose names I don’t recall now. I don’t suppose you asked their names before you killed them and raped their women.’ Stavut raised the bloody sword.

‘No, wait!’ shrieked the officer, lifting his arm high. Stavut’s blade slashed down smashing the forearm, and cutting deeply through muscle and sinew. The man screamed. ‘Mercy! I beg you!’

‘Mercy? You’ll get what you gave, you whoreson!’ The sword slashed down again, clanging against the man’s breastplate, then ricocheting down to slice into his thigh. He began to scramble backwards.

Stavut followed him, the sword hammering again and again, sometimes striking the metal armour, but more often cutting into flesh and bone. A massive blow caught the young officer on the side of the face, shattering several teeth and opening up a long cut down to the chin. The man rolled to his side, curling his legs up in a foetal position, and began to sob. Stavut hacked at him. Then Shakul grabbed his arm, pulling him back, and pushing him to the ground. The huge beast crouched over the mewing man and slashed his throat swiftly. The officer sank to the ground. Shakul moved away. Stavut sat very still, suddenly weary.

He had avenged the villagers. Only it didn’t help. They were still dead, their dreams soaking into the earth with their blood. Kinyon, a big man who only wanted to cook for others, to have them visit his little kitchen, and tell him his pies were delicious. Kerena, who wanted five children, and a little house on the high hills overlooking Petar. Their deaths had been cruel and meaningless. Stavut sighed. As had the deaths of these soldiers.

Pushing himself to his feet he saw Shakul standing with the four Jiamads who had marched with the troop. ‘Why are they still alive?’ he asked, moving alongside Shakul.

‘You want dead? I kill.’

‘Why did you not kill them already?’

‘Bigger pack, better hunt.’

‘They killed my people.’

‘No, Bloodshirt. Stood by trees.’ Stavut recalled the scene of the horror, and realized there were no fang or talon marks on the dead. ‘I kill now?’ asked Shakul. The four Jiamads backed away, raising their clubs.

‘No,’ said Stavut wearily. Then he sighed. ‘Why do they want to join us?’

‘Be free,’ said Shakul. ‘Run. Hunt. Feast. Sleep. No Skins.’

‘I am a Skin.’

Shakul gave the low, rumbling, broken series of grunts that Stavut had discovered was his version of laughter. ‘You Bloodshirt.’

Stavut realized it was a compliment. He was about to reply when he saw blood on Shakul’s side.

‘You are wounded,’ he said.

‘Not wound,’ said Shakul. ‘Boot.’ He pointed to Stavut’s feet. The fur had been ripped away and the skin rubbed raw by Stavut’s boot during the long run. Yet the beast had said nothing.

‘I am sorry, my friend,’ said Stavut. Then he took a deep breath and walked to stand before the towering enemy Jiamads. ‘You wish to run with Bloodshirt’s pack? To be free in the mountains?’

They stared at him with cold, golden eyes. ‘Run free,’ said one. ‘Yes.’

‘Then join us. There will be no killing of Skins. . unless I order it. There will be no fighting amongst us. You understand? We are all brothers. Family,’ he said. He recognized the look of non-comprehension on their faces. ‘You will not stand alone. Your enemies are my enemies. They are Shakul’s enemies and Grava’s enemies. We are friends. We are. .’ He swung to Shakul. ‘How can I make this clear to them?’

‘We are pack!’ said Shakul. ‘Bloodshirt’s pack.’