David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘You are probably right,’ Gilden told him. ‘We are none of us worthy of our ancestors. They were giants. You said it yourself, lad, only yesterday. They had Druss, we have you and me. You say you’d ride through fire for the Earl of Bronze. There’s not one of us who wouldn’t ride into Hell itself if you gave the order.’ Clapping Alahir on the shoulder he rose. ‘Now come on, do as she bid — whoever she was. Don the Armour. I’ll help you.’

Alahir returned to the block and removed the scaled breastplate, with the flaring eagle motif, then the mail shirt and leggings, and the winged helm. Removing his own chain mail he donned the shirt. Gilden lifted the breastplate. Alahir opened his arms, allowing Gilden to buckle it into place. Then he added the wrist guards and the gauntlets. Gilden settled the scabbard belt round his waist, thrusting the sword back into its bronze sheath. Lastly Alahir lifted the winged helm. He was about to place it on his head when he stopped. ‘I feel as if I am desecrating something holy,’ he said.

‘You are not, lad. You are honouring it. Put on the helm.’

A rumble began in the stone beneath their feet. Dust fell from the ceiling, and a huge chunk of rock fell

— and bounced from the now empty crystal block.

‘Another earthquake!’ shouted Barik.

‘Everyone out!’ ordered Alahir.

They ran back through the tunnel. Gilden fell. Alahir hoisted him to his feet. Just before they reached the entrance there came what sounded like a clap of thunder from behind them. The entire roof collapsed. Then the side wall of the tunnel split open, a massive slab of rock sliding away.

Gilden, Barik and Bagalan scrambled out onto the open slope. The tremor faded away and Gilden saw the rest of the troop standing below them, looking up in awe. He turned. Standing in the new cave mouth, dust billowing around him, was a golden figure. Gilden knew it was Alahir. He had helped him don the armour. Yet now, in the bright sunlight, it seemed that a hero of legend had emerged from the bowels of the earth, his arrival heralded by an earthquake. He was Alahir no longer.

This golden man on the mountainside was the Earl of Bronze.

Memnon stood quietly in Landis Kan’s upper apartments as the Eternal and Unwallis spoke. It always fascinated the slender minister to see how men reacted around the Eternal. Whenever he did so he found himself grateful for his own lack of sexual desire. Men became such fools as they moved into the orbit of her beauty. Memnon had always rather admired Unwallis. The man had a fine intellect, but it was so obvious that the Eternal had taken him once more to her bed. He fawned around her like an ageing puppy. It had, though, Memnon conceded, improved his dress sense. Clothes were Memnon’s second obsession: delicate silks, rich satins, fine wools; brilliant and beautiful dyes. He adored designing new tunics and gowns, employing the finest embroiderers and artists. Since becoming the Eternal’s lover for the second time Unwallis had put aside the grey, lacklustre clothes that were his trademark, and was now wearing a quite delightful shirt tunic of blue silk, over cream leggings and grey boots. It seemed to Memnon that the boots were an inspired choice, complementing the silver grey of Unwallis’s hair.

The Eternal had taken less care with her appearance, but then when someone had such natural beauty it would not matter were they to dress in sackcloth. Her knee-length tunic was simple white wool, the only adornment being a filigree gold belt, with small ornaments hanging from it. Several of them were quite exquisitely fashioned, but, Memnon decided, would look better against the backdrop of a darker dress or gown.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind he stood quietly, arms folded, his fingers stroking the soft sleeves of his own, ankle-length gown of rich blue silk.

Unwallis was concerned about the prophecy. He had studied more of Landis Kan’s notes, and had become convinced — as had Landis — that Skilgannon could threaten the reign of the Eternal. Jianna did not share his conviction. ‘He is one man. No army, no magic. Even with the Swords of Night and Day he could not overcome a regiment of Jiamads, or even a troop of lancers.’

‘The prophecy says. .’ began Unwallis.

‘To hell with prophecies,’ she snapped. ‘This one is merely wish fulfilment. Can you not see it? An ancient crone talks of Skilgannon’s return, so Landis Kan brings him back. Even Landis had no idea how the prophecy could be fulfilled. You think Skilgannon will know?’

‘What I do know, Highness, is that the Blessed Priestess was a genuine seer.’

Jianna laughed. ‘Would you really like to know what she was? I met her once. She was a Joining — a Jiamad — created by men. She wore gloves to disguise her talons, and long-sleeved gowns to hide the fur.

And, yes, she was gifted — but not gifted enough to read a future a thousand years after her death.’ She turned her dark gaze on Memnon. ‘And what of Decado? I take it from your expression that he is not dead?’

‘No, Highness. He met Skilgannon, and together they killed three of my Shadows.’

‘Your invincible Shadows? Three of them?’ He thought she was going to become angry. Instead she smiled. As always the shock of her smile caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was exquisite, stunning. Even without the vile drawback of sexual arousal Memnon felt the extraordinary power of her beauty.

‘It is amusing, Highness?’ he managed to ask.

‘Only to me. The man I knew would not be killed by such creatures.’

‘Decado warned him. They were ready. The next time it will be different.’

‘There will be no next time. I do not want Olek killed. You understand me, Memnon? That man was -

is — the love of my life. If I can speak to him he will return to me.’

‘Of course, Highness. The Shadows were following Decado. It was mere happenstance that he was with Skilgannon and the others.’

‘Is he still with them?’

‘No, Highness. He rode north.’

‘And Olek?’

‘A woman with them was killed in the earthquake. They buried her and also headed north.’

‘Not my Reborn?’

‘No, Highness. A peasant from Petar.’

‘Good. What is their destination?’

‘Skilgannon seeks the lost temple,’ Memnon told her.

‘Of course he does. Haven’t we all? He will find the twisted crater that remains. Then he will seek to come after me. He will not succeed. Even if he reaches me he will be unable to kill me. I know him. I know his love for me.’

‘Then you also know how resourceful he is,’ put in Unwallis.

Memnon watched the Eternal closely, seeing her smile fade, and her dark eyes narrowing. ‘Yes, I do, Unwallis. And you are right to remind me of it. Skilgannon is unlike any other man I ever knew. He failed at nothing. Even at the tender age of sixteen he evaded the skills of trackers and assassins. By twenty-one he had won every battle he fought. Once, with only a handful of men, he assaulted a citadel, and killed a man I believed to be the finest swordsman alive. He should not be underestimated -

especially by me. Send a regiment of Eternal Guardsman and their Jiamads to the temple site. They can take ship from Draspartha.’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘Now to more immediate matters. The army should cross the mountains within the next three days. I will ride with them. We will crush Agrias once and for all.’ She turned to Unwallis. ‘Now leave me. I wish to talk to Memnon.’

He looked crestfallen, but merely bowed and backed away. As the door closed behind him Jianna raised her arms above her head and stretched. Then she sighed. ‘We will talk on the balcony,’ she said.