David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Not quite all, he hoped.

The failure of his Reborns to survive beyond childhood was proving bitter and frightening. How was it that beings fashioned from his own bones should prove so frail? Why indeed had he not died as a child?

Lighting a lantern, he gathered up yet more of the papers he had discovered in the artefacts chamber and began to study them. They were interesting. Landis Kan had a fine mind, and many of his theories were thought-provoking. Yet nothing Memnon found cast any new light on the problem he faced.

Pushing the papers aside he lay back on a couch, staring up at the ornate ceiling.

As he drifted towards exhausted sleep he released his mind, allowing it to float clear of his weary frame. His spirit drifted along deserted corridors and down to the servants’ quarters, where young women were preparing food for the soldiers who guarded the palace. Their conversation was dull and predictable and he flowed past them, and down into the artefact chambers below the palace. Here his two aides were also studying Landis Kan’s journals. Patiacus, bald and round-shouldered, sat hunched by a table reading slowly. The younger Oranin suddenly leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. ‘A clever man,’ he said.

‘Too clever,’ responded Patiacus. ‘His ashes are scattered through the gardens.’

‘Why do you think he spent so much time drawing necklaces?’

‘Necklaces?’

‘These notes are full of them. He talks of structures and debilities and instabilities. I cannot understand a tenth of it.’

‘Look for references to the Lord Memnon,’ advised Patiacus. ‘That is what is important.’

Oranin rose from his chair and ran his hand over his close-cropped red hair. ‘There are hundreds of these journals. It will take weeks.’

‘You have other plans?’ asked Patiacus.

‘There is a plump serving girl with inviting eyes. I think she likes me.’

‘Then she has no taste,’ observed Patiacus. ‘Now stop interrupting me.’

The two men returned to their work. It was obvious to Memnon, and not for the first time, that the two men liked one another. In a way he could not explain Memnon found this dispiriting. Affection was an emotion he had never experienced. There had never been anyone that Memnon had truly liked. At first he thought most people were like him, learning how to socialize, establishing working relationships, knowing when to smile and when to be solemn. But he was older and wiser now, and knew that he was different from others in many subtle ways. Mostly he tried to convince himself that his lack of emotional response to people was an asset. At times like this his confidence in that belief was less sure.

Returning to his body, he sat up and drank a little water.

People believed he was devoted to the Eternal. Once, when floating unobserved above Unwallis, he had listened as the statesman told a colleague: ‘It is his only redeeming human quality.’

Yet even this was not true. He looked upon the Eternal as he looked upon his clothes. Beautiful to gaze upon, to observe, to enjoy.

‘ You think I am evil, Memnon ?’ she had asked.

‘ I do not know what evil is ,’ he had replied.

It was not strictly true. Evil was anything that hampered or obstructed his life and his plans. Good was anything that facilitated his desires.

He felt the weariness of his body and decided to float free once more. In spirit form there was no exhaustion, no heavy weariness. He swam up to the royal apartments, and watched as Jianna entertained the young cavalry officer, their bodies locked together, sweat glistening on their skin. Then he moved away and saw Unwallis pacing the corridor outside, his eyes angry.

Memnon relaxed. Who could possibly desire to know such jealousy? Who could want to be locked in such a sweaty embrace with a stranger? Leaving the palace, his spirit soared up and over the mountains.

The machines of the ancients were incredibly complex, their component parts a mystery. It was not even possible to ascertain the method of their construction. The metals were extraordinarily fine and light, alloys, Memnon guessed, of gold and other metals unknown in the present. When the power was in them they functioned automatically, following a pattern laid down by ancient wizards, whose knowledge was as far above Memnon’s as could be imagined. They were perfect. Which made the failures of Memnon’s own Reborns all the more galling. His Reborns should have been exact duplicates of himself. Why they should be prone to cancerous growths in childhood was a mystery that filled his mind. He could not recall ever being ill. His own body seemed capable of fighting off any infection or disease.

Pausing in his flight, he realized he had come to the site of the lost temple. He gazed down at the two passes leading to what had once been the Mountain of the Resurrection. Now there was just an empty bowl of land, full of twisted shrubs. He saw the wind blow a dust cloud towards the bowl. The cloud disappeared as it reached it.

How Skilgannon’s heart would sink when he saw this place.

He thought of the man he had encountered in Gamal’s dream place. Jianna was right. There was a fierce intelligence in his eyes, and there was no doubt he was possessed of an indomitable spirit. Memnon had observed the peasant girl placing the swords in his hands, and had seen him awaken. He was weak and disoriented — and yet still he summoned the strength to kill the beast that came at him.

Memnon turned south, soaring high above the river Rostrias and back towards the distant mountains.

He passed over valleys and hills, forests and streams, seeking out the swordsman. At one point he saw a group of Joinings and a small man in a red tunic. It was an incongruous sight. Two of the Joinings were hauling a wagon. At any other time such a tableau would have piqued his interest. He flew on, scanning the forest trails.

Then he saw a flickering campfire set in a wooded hollow. It was well placed and could not have been seen from ground level. Memnon floated down, to hover above the trio sitting quietly by the fire. He gazed at Skilgannon. The man’s expression was stern and distant. Close by, the Eternal Reborn kept glancing at him. Beyond them both was the huge peasant with the ancient axe.

‘How did you die. . the first time?’ he heard the woman ask.

‘Painfully,’ replied Skilgannon. He glanced across at the peasant. ‘How are you faring, Harad?’

‘I’m hungry,’ answered the man. He looked up. ‘Did you see Druss in the Void when you were there?’

‘I do not remember. It is all hazy now.’

‘Why did you not reach the Golden Valley he spoke of?’

‘The evils of my life prevented me. All I remember is that I did not look as you see me now. My arms were scaled. There were no mirrors there, but I would guess my face was scaled also. The evil do not cross into the Valley.’

‘What do they do?’ asked the woman.

‘They fight to survive.’

‘But they are already dead,’ said the woman. ‘What more can happen to them?’

Skilgannon shrugged. ‘I do not have the answer to that. When you kill a beast in the Void it simply disappears. Ceases to exist, perhaps.’

‘And these beasts attack those who. . who are not scaled?’ asked Harad.

‘Yes.’

‘Hardly seems fair,’ pointed out the woman. ‘Someone good dies, enters the Void, and is then killed again by a demon.’

Skilgannon laughed. ‘Fair? In my previous life I heard that so often. I would like to meet the man who first suggested that life was fair. It is not. It is just life. Some people are lucky. Some are not. Fairness has nothing to do with it. And if that is the situation in life, then why should the Void operate any differently?’