David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

eyed him warily. ‘Come, eat with me, Greatheart,’ he said, offering the grass. The horse dipped its head, and took the grass from his hand. Skilgannon stroked its sleek neck, and noted there was dried blood upon the ornate, silver-mounted saddle. Two of the other horses carried cuts, and one had a broken arrow hanging loosely from the skin of its flanks. ‘Ah, you have been in a battle,’ said Skilgannon. ‘And your riders were slain, or unhorsed.’ Moving alongside the white he carried on stroking it, while taking hold of the reins along with the long, snowy mane. Then he raised his foot into the stirrup. The animal immediately reared and bolted. Skilgannon heaved himself up and swung his leg over the saddle, seeking out the second stirrup. The speed of the gallop both astonished and exhilarated him. In his previous life he had possessed some truly great horses, and this stallion would take his place among the best of them. He had no idea yet as to the beast’s temperament, but its power was outstanding. Gently, but firmly, he guided it into a wide turn, heading back up the hill towards the waiting Askari and Harad. Drawing on the rein brought an instant response. The horse slowed and stood quietly. Just as Skilgannon relaxed it leapt and bucked. He was almost unseated, but clung on. The stallion bolted again, leaping and twisting. Then it slowed once more. Skilgannon sensed what was coming. Kicking his feet from the stirrups he sprang clear just as the horse rolled. As it struggled to regain its feet Skilgannon vaulted back into the saddle.

‘Nice try, Greatheart,’ he said, patting the long sleek neck. ‘Are we done now? Do we know each other yet?’

They did not. The stallion bounded off again.

Askari watched in silent wonder, struck by the awesome beauty of the horse, and the almost uncanny skill of the rider. She had ridden only twice in her life, and had enjoyed the experience. However, the horse she had borrowed from Kinyon was a sway-back more used to pulling carts than carrying people.

There was no comparison between old Shavu and this magnificent creature. She glanced at Harad.

‘Have you ever seen a more beautiful horse?’

‘It is big,’ he said.

‘Have you ever ridden?’

He smiled. ‘Once when I was a lad. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t find the rhythm. After an hour I was wearing my arse round my shoulders.’

Askari laughed, then leaned in and kissed Harad’s bearded cheek.

‘What was that for?’

‘Good to see you smile, Harad,’ she told him.

His face darkened, and she thought she had offended him. Then she saw he was staring down the hillside. A group of heavily armed riders had emerged from the trees and had spread out as they rode towards Skilgannon.

The Armour of Bronze, wrapped in blankets, was being carried on the back of one of the spare mounts, and Alahir had once more donned his own armour. The chain mail hauberk had been worn by his grandfather at the Battle of Larness, and by his father at the Siege of Raboas. The coif head and neck protector had been a gift from his uncle, the warrior Elingel, and he had worn it proudly during the Four Year War that saw the end of the Gothir Successors. His sabre was the oldest piece in his armoury, and was said to date back to the War of the Twins, though that conflict was now considered to be mostly fable. Alahir felt more comfortable in his own armour.

Not in a physical way, he realized. The Armour of Bronze, as the voice had promised, fitted him perfectly. It was lighter than his own chain mail. Truth was it just felt wrong to be wearing it. Regnak, the Great Earl, had first donned it at Dros Delnoch, in the mighty war that claimed the life of Druss the Legend. Other heroes had worn it. That a farmer’s son from the high country should now be in possession of it seemed almost sacrilegious. He was also uncomfortable with the way the men reacted to him; men he had known since childhood seemed in awe, and responded to his every word with undue courtesy.

Alahir had become a man apart. And he didn’t like it.

After the second quake they had all waited for him to make a decision as to their actions now. Were they to ride back to camp, or was there some wondrous plan that the new earl had for them? It was all too much for Alahir.

Then he remembered the white horse. Was it an omen? Was this horse meant to be ridden by the new Earl of Bronze? Alahir had no idea, but tracking a runaway stallion at least gave the men something to think about. Indeed, it gave Alahir time to think about all that had happened.

He was no nearer a conclusion when Gilden came riding back over the brow of the hill. The veteran rode up and saluted — something Alahir could never remember him doing before.

‘What are you doing back here, Gil?’ he asked. ‘Is there trouble ahead?’

‘Could be. I just saw your friend Stavut.’

Alahir’s mood brightened. Stavut was a clever man. He might offer some answers to the problems Alahir faced.

‘Why did you not bring him with you? This is dangerous land for a merchant.’

Gilden removed his helm, pushed back his coif, and brushed his fingers through his sweat-streaked grey hair. ‘I offered to. You should know he’s travelling with a large pack of Jiamad runaways. Calls them “his lads”. I tried to tell him it’s our job to hunt them down, and you know what he said? He said he’d cut my heart out himself if anyone attacked them. What do you think of that?’

‘Stavut said that? We are talking about the same Stavut? Small man, wagon, scared rigid of Jiamads?’

‘Aye, the same. Only he’s not scared now. Must have fifty of the beasts with him. Been teaching them to hunt, he told me.’

Alahir burst out laughing. ‘What is so funny?’ asked Gilden, eyes narrowing.

‘That was a good jest, Gil. And you sold it well. I never realized you had such a dry sense of humour.

So, where is he? Is he following you?’

‘I wish it was a jest. His clothes are covered in dried blood. He even has two Jiamads pulling his wagon — and don’t you dare laugh again. This is all true. What are we to do? Our orders are clear when we come across Jems.’

‘Our orders no longer apply, Gil. Not since we found the Armour.’

‘It’s not right letting those beasts walk free. I think Stavut is deranged. They’ll kill him as soon as hunger takes them.’

‘I hate the creatures as much as you, Gil. But he was in no danger when you saw him. What else did he say?’

‘He said there’s an army moving from the south, thousands of men. Looks like the final confrontation is coming.’

‘Let’s find the horse, then we’ll swing north.’

‘Whatever you say,’ replied Gilden glumly.

The troop rode on for just under an hour, entering a thinly wooded area of flatland. As they emerged onto open ground they saw the white horse and its rider. Alahir’s breath caught in his throat. The beast was majestic, thundering across the land, seeking to unseat the man. The rider also was magnificent, reading the stallion’s every move. When the horse rolled, and the rider leapt clear, only to vault back into the saddle as it rose, Alahir felt like applauding. Every man in the troop watched with admiration as the contest of wills continued. At last the horse realized it had met its match, and the rider put it through a series of sharp turns and sudden sprints. Only then did he look up and see the Legend Riders. Patting the horse’s neck he rode towards them, drawing rein and sitting silently. Alahir stared at the man. His face was lean and handsome, his eyes ferociously blue. He did not seem ill at ease. Heeling his own mount forward Alahir spoke. ‘Thank you for finding my horse,’ he said.

‘It is not your horse,’ said the man. The words were not spoken angrily, nor was there any sense of confrontation. They were just spoken, matter of fact.