David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

The Jiamads nodded vigorously. ‘We are pack!’ they echoed. Then all of the beasts began to howl and stamp their feet. The sound went on for some time, then faded away. Shakul approached Stavut.

‘Where now, Bloodshirt?’

‘Back to where we camped. We’ll rest up for a day or two.’

The journey back was slower for Stavut. Shakul sent some of the others on ahead, but he and Grava walked alongside the human. Stavut felt wearier than at any point in his life, but he refused all their offers to carry him.

Back at the campsite the Jiamads retrieved the meat they had hung in the high tree branches, and began to eat. Stavut had no appetite. He sat alone, the events of the day going round and round in his head.

I am an educated man, he thought. Civilized. And yet it was not the Jiamads who tortured and killed the villagers, and not the Jiamads who hacked and cut at a defenceless man on the ground. In fact it was a Jiamad who stopped me, and put an end to the officer’s misery.

This would always be the Day of the Beast to Stavut. And shame burned in him that he had been the beast.

Gilden was growing worried as he led the riders down a treacherous slope towards the east. Alahir had been gone too long, and he feared some disaster had befallen him. The veteran soldier had every faith in Alahir’s skills with bow or blade, but in the mountains a horse could stumble, pitching its rider over the edge of a precipice, or fall, trapping him beneath its body. One man had been killed last year when his horse fell and rolled, the saddle pommel crushing his breastbone. No matter how skilled the rider, or how brave, accidents could kill.

The young aide, Bagalan, rode alongside Gilden as the trail widened. By rights he should be leading the troop, for he was the only officer present. But the lad was canny, and knew Gilden had the experience. So he stayed silent, and followed Gilden’s lead. The elder man drew rein, scanning the ground ahead. Bagalan leaned over to him. ‘Why did you never accept a commission?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I know Alahir has twice tried to make you an officer.’

‘Family tradition,’ answered Gilden, straight-faced. ‘Peasant stock. We hate officers. If I took a commission my father would never speak to me again.’

‘Gods!’ said the boy. ‘Is he still alive? He must be a hundred and twenty.’

‘Sixty-eight,’ snapped Gilden. ‘And if that skittish horse of yours has killed Alahir you won’t forget what I’ll do to you if you live a hundred and twenty years.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said the young man. ‘It was stupid — but I wasn’t expecting earthquakes.’

A burly rider eased his way up to Gilden. ‘That slope looks treacherous,’ he said, indicating the scree-covered ground ahead.

‘It does,’ agreed Gilden. ‘So you’d better scout it.’

‘Why me?’

‘You know how it goes, Barik. The least useful gets the most dangerous assignments.’

Barik gave a broad grin, showing a broken front tooth. ‘I see. Not because you owe me a month’s wages then?’

‘That did have a small part to play in my decision.’

‘Nothing worse than a bad loser,’ replied Barik, touching heels to his mount, and carefully picking out a path through the scree. Twice the horse slithered, but Barik was probably the best rider in the troop, and Gilden had little doubt he would find a way down.

‘You follow him,’ he told Bagalan. ‘I was lying when I said he was the least useful. I’m not lying when I say it to you.’

‘No way to speak to an officer, grandfather.’ The boy chuckled and set off after Barik.

I should be a grandfather, thought Gilden. I should be sitting on the two acres of land my service has paid for. I should be watching my crops grow, and my horses feed. There should be children at my feet.

And a wife? The thought sprang unbidden.

Gilden had been wed twice, outliving the first. The second had been a mistake. Loneliness had clouded his judgement. She had begun an affair with a neighbour, and Gilden had challenged him, and killed him in a sabre duel. He still regretted that. He had liked the man. After that he had gone to the public square and snapped the Marriage Wand, giving the pieces to the Source priest there. His wife had married a merchant, and now lived on his ship.

So, no grandchildren, and the farmland he had been awarded for his twenty years was being managed by tenants, and he sat in his saddle, waiting to negotiate a dangerous slope.

Gilden sighed, raised his arm, and led his troops out onto the slope. Barik and Bagalan had made it to firmer ground. Gilden followed the trail they had set, and soon joined them. Both men looked tense, and said nothing. Gilden glanced down the trail and saw Alahir’s horse standing, reins trailing.

‘Well,’ said the sergeant, ‘let’s find out the worst.’

The earthquake had felled several trees ahead, but Gilden rode at them with speed, leaping his mount over the obstructions until he drew level with the waiting horse. He glanced up at the rock-slide ahead, and saw Alahir sitting there.

‘Nice afternoon for a nap,’ said Gilden, trying to keep the relief from his voice. Alahir did not respond.

One by one the other riders gathered at the foot of the slide. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Something you need to see,’ Alahir told him. ‘Come up. Bring Barik and Bagalan with you. The others can take turns later.’

Gilden dismounted and scrambled up the slope. ‘What’s wrong with you, lad?’ he asked.

‘Nothing and everything. You’ll understand. Follow me.’

Alahir led the three Drenai soldiers through the half-covered entrance and along the corridor beyond.

Once into the inner chamber all three men stopped, and stared at the Armour of Bronze.

‘That cannot be what I think it is?’ said Gilden at last.

‘It is,’ Alahir told him.

‘No, it is a hoax of some kind,’ said Barik. ‘You don’t stumble on the answer to your dreams in a rockslide.’

‘I have always wanted to know what it really looked like,’ said Alahir, his tone reverential. ‘I never dreamed it would be so beautiful.’

‘What good is it, though?’ asked Bagalan. ‘Locked in crystal.’

‘It is not crystal,’ Alahir told him. ‘It is some sort of illusion. Try it. I have already done so.’

Bagalan strolled over to the huge, shimmering crystal and thrust out his hand towards the winged helm.

He cried out as his fingers cracked against the cold, hard block, and stared accusingly at Alahir. ‘I could have broken my hand.’ Gilden walked to the block and reached out. The surface was cool and firm and seamless. Carefully he ran his hand over the entire front. There was no opening. Alahir stepped forward, and Gilden could see the reluctance in his every movement. Slowly the captain reached out his hand. It passed through the crystal, his fingers curling round the winged sword hilt. The weapon slid free of the scabbard.

‘How in the name of the Source did you do that?’ asked Bagalan, still rubbing at his bruised fingers.

Alahir sighed and passed the blade to Gilden. Then he moved across the chamber and sat down on a shelf of rock. ‘It is all wrong,’ he said.

Gilden sat beside him. ‘Tell it all, lad. What is going on here?’

He listened as Alahir talked of the voice that led him to the Armour, and how it had said he should don it. Then he stopped. ‘There is more,’ prompted Gilden.

‘She said I was the Earl of Bronze, by blood and by right.’

‘And that has dispirited you?’

‘Of course it has,’ said Alahir. ‘I’m not a Druss the Legend, Gil. I’m just a soldier. I was third from last in my class at the academy. You’re a better swordsman, and Barik a finer archer. The voice was wrong. I’d follow the Earl of Bronze into fire. I’d willingly give my life for the Drenai. But I am not good enough for this.’