David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘I cannot swim,’ he said.

‘Then you can wade.’ Naked she stood before him. ‘Stavi, the stench of you could fell an ox. Now get out of those clothes.’ He stood very still, but did not resist as she stepped closer and lifted his bloodied tunic over his head. Then she saw the deep scratches. ‘Did one of the beasts do that to you?’

‘To stop me falling from a cliff. Saved my life.’

‘You have other clothes in the wagon, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let us discard these.’

A huge beast pushed its way through the undergrowth, and stood, staring at Askari. She remembered it as one of the creatures who had attacked her in the cave, the one Skilgannon had spoken to. It was around eight feet tall, and its golden eyes were fixed on her coldly.

‘This is my friend, Shakul,’ said Stavut, walking to the beast, and slapping him on the shoulder.

‘Shakul, this is my friend, Askari.’ Then he paused. ‘Oh. I expect you remember her.’ Shakul said nothing. ‘Ah, I can see you are going to get along famously. I sense a real bonding taking place.’

Askari approached the beast, her heart hammering. ‘I have told him he should bathe,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light. ‘But he won’t get into the water.’

The beast’s huge head began to sway back and forth. Then he suddenly grabbed Stavut and hurled him into the pool. He landed with a huge splash and came up spluttering. The beast let out a series of short, staccato grunts, then turned away and wandered back through the undergrowth. ‘Well, thank you for that,’ Stavut called from the pool. ‘It is freezing in here.’

Askari ran down to the pool’s edge and waded in. He was right. The water was deliciously cold.

Reaching Stavut she told him to duck under the surface once more. Then she rubbed at his hair, until the dirt and the blood were gone. Finally she looked once more into his face. The sun was setting, turning the mountains to gold. ‘Are you still in there, Stavi?’ she asked him, her voice soft, her hands cupping his face.

‘I am here. A little wiser, maybe. A little sadder. But I am here.’

Leaning in she kissed him on the lips, and drew him into an embrace. ‘That is the kiss I owe you,’ she said.

‘There is not enough fletching thread in the world to merit that,’ he told her.

She laughed and kissed him again. Stepping back he gave a broad smile, and was Stavi again. Then he looked past her and laughed aloud. ‘Can no-one get any privacy here?’ he called. Askari turned. The sound of the rushing water had masked the approach of the pack, and she saw the pool was ringed by beasts, all staring at them. ‘Go away, you rascals!’ said Stavut, still smiling. The Jiamads turned at once and vanished into the woods.

Wading back to her he opened his arms. ‘I think that is enough for now,’ she told him. ‘Come, let us find you some fresh clothes.’

A little later, with Stavut in clean leggings and yet another crimson tunic shirt, they sat by the fire.

Askari, with a blanket round her shoulders as she waited for her clothes to dry, gazed round the campsite. Some of the beasts were feeding, others stretched out, sleeping. The sun was down now, the light fading fast. Stavut told her of his climb down to rescue Shakul, and how the beast had been embarrassed by fear.

‘You talk of him as a friend, Stavi,’ she said, her voice low, ‘but they do not understand friendship.

Landis Kan spoke of Jiamads often. He was a man who liked to talk. He said that the merging of beast and man eliminated the best of both species. You lead because you offer them something. There is no affection there, no loyalty. No understanding of genuine love. No compassion.’

‘You are wrong. There is, in them, something far greater than anything we have allowed to develop.

Put aside your prejudices for a moment. Shakul came after us because he was curious. When you told him I would not enter the pool he threw me in. That sound you heard from him was laughter. You see? It was a practical joke. And when Shakul was hanging from the cliff face, the beast that pulled him up was one he had fought the night before to confirm his place in the pack.’

‘That is what I am saying,’ she insisted. ‘They fight for place and position. No loyalty.’

‘Men do the same. But men will assassinate rivals, or plot to see them removed from power. When Shakul fought Broga there was no blood spilt. There is no animosity between them. Merely, rank is decided on strength, because the pack leadership needs to be strong. These creatures have never been allowed to develop. They have been subject to iron discipline, and used only for war and death. Out here they are forming bonds, and learning to cooperate. They no longer need me, Askari. If what you said was true then Shakul would just kill me and lead the pack himself.’

Askari was unconvinced. Stavut added wood to the fire. ‘You are happy among them, aren’t you?’

she said.

He grinned at her. ‘Yes, I am. I couldn’t begin to tell you why. I am watching them grow. I am seeing their joy at running free. It is a wonderful feeling.’

Askari relaxed. This was the Stavut she knew, an intuitive man, generous and sweet-natured. She gazed at him fondly, then realized it was more than fondness she felt for him. The kiss had lingered long in her mind.

He saw her looking at him. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked her.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

Stavut laughed then. ‘When a woman says that, a man knows he is in deep trouble.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I forgot that you have known many women.’

‘Yes, I have,’ he said. ‘But I would not trade that kiss in the pool for all the wealth in the world.’

She relaxed. ‘Sometimes you do know how to say the right words.’

‘Would you like to take another walk with me?’ he asked her.

‘I think that I would.’

Rising, he held out his hand, and together they walked into the woods.

Memnon had seen death before. Many times. Yet the feeling he had now was most odd. His spirit floated above the narrow bed, and he stared down at the dying child. The boy’s thin face was drawn and pale, his skin glistening, his breathing ragged. His mother was at the bedside, holding his hand. Tears were streaming down her face. Behind her, his hand on her shoulder, stood the man who believed himself to be the father. His face was set, his eyes red-rimmed. Memnon saw the boy shudder, then all movement ceased. The mother cried out, and threw herself across the dead child.

‘There, there, my love,’ said the father. ‘There, there.’

The mother’s wailing grated on Memnon’s nerves, irritating him. Also he could no longer see the boy’s face. He floated to the right. Now he could see the child in profile. It was a sad face, a lost face.

His face.

That is all the feeling is, thought Memnon. A remembrance of a childhood that lacked warmth. It was not the death he mourned. And yet the strange feeling remained, a hollow emptiness. It is a regret, he told himself. That is all. An experiment failed. The mother took the boy’s face in her hands and kissed both his cheeks. Memnon could not remember anyone ever kissing his cheek. Nor, had he died as this child had, would anyone have wept over him. But then he had chosen these parents well. The man was a merchant, dealing in linen and cotton. The woman was a seamstress, and well known for her gentle nature. They lived by the sea, on the Lentrian coast. Memnon had thought the air would be good for a growing boy.

He had grown now, as far as he would ever grow. An immense sadness touched Memnon then. An experiment failed, he told himself again.

The father walked across the room, and picked up a pottery jug. ‘No more of these useless potions,’