David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘They say he is a maniac,’ Gilden told Alahir, keeping his voice low.

‘A maniac with excellent hearing,’ called out Decado. ‘Move further away if you wish to discuss my merits. Better still wait for a few moments, for I shall be asleep by then.’ Finishing his meal, the swordsman stretched out on the ground.

Gilden and Alahir walked to the far side of the campsite. ‘I have heard the tales of him,’ said Alahir.

‘Cold and deadly, and utterly without mercy. However, he is a swordsman and a warrior. He could be useful.’

‘Beasts and madmen. Not very glorious, Alahir, my friend.’

‘I am not interested in glory,’ said Alahir, with a sigh. ‘I just want the Drenai to survive.’

Gilden recalled the conversation as he rode. There had been a weight of sadness in Alahir’s voice, and more than a little fear. As a Legend Rider Alahir was expected to fight for his homeland.

As the Earl of Bronze he would be expected to perform miracles.

As he rode away into the night Skilgannon’s mood was sombre. The young Legend Riders were fine men; brave. Bright-eyed and eager to fight for their homeland. Such was always the way with the young.

They had looked at him and seen someone of their own age, believed him to be filled with the same aspirations and ambitions. For the first time Skilgannon felt like a fraud. He wondered then about what was lost and what — if anything — was gained by the passage of the years. He was an old man in a young man’s body, and his thoughts of the world were sullied by his deeds in a previous lifetime. He had promised the Legend Riders that if they won it would once more become a world of men. He had made it sound as if this was something to be desired; some noble cause worth dying for.

He rode now under stars a thousand years older than when first he had seen them. And what had changed in this wondrous world of men? The strong still sought to dominate the weak. Armies still raged across the lands, killing and burning. What will truly change if we win, he wondered? The wheel of good and evil would spin on. Sometimes good would triumph for a while, but then the wheel would spin again.

The cold reality was that, even if he destroyed the current source of magic, one day another would be found.

By that token, he told himself, a man would never seek to counter the evils in his day. He would shrug and talk of spinning wheels. Perhaps, he thought, the experience of the old inevitably leads to a philosophy of despair and acquiescence.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind he rode on, enjoying the power and the grace of the stallion.

Moonlight gleamed on its bright flanks. Not the best horse on which to pass unnoticed, he thought, with a grin. His spirits lifted. In life a man could do no more than fight for what he believed to be right, without thought to future generations, or the ultimate folly of man’s dreams.

His thoughts swung to Decado. The man was a disturbing presence, and Skilgannon was unsure about trusting him. His story about being hunted by the Eternal might have been false. He could have been sent as a spy, or as an assassin. Skilgannon did not want to have to fight him. With two swordsmen of such skill it was unlikely that even the victor would escape unscathed.

Ahead he saw the ridge Decado had mentioned, and headed the stallion towards the trees.

As he rode up the hill a huge Jiamad came into sight. It stood and watched him. Controlling the urge to draw his swords Skilgannon guided the stallion closer. The horse was nervous, and began to stamp its foot and edge sideways. ‘Steady now, Greatheart,’ he said. As he came closer he recognized the Jiamad as the leader of the attack in the cave.

‘Well met, Shakul,’ he said. ‘How are you faring?’

‘Run free. It is good.’

‘I have come to see my friend Stavut.’

‘Bloodshirt with woman.’

Skilgannon dismounted. It was hard to tell from the growling delivery whether Shakul was pleased or irritated by Askari’s arrival.

‘Am I welcome in your camp?’

Shakul did not respond. Instead he turned and lumbered back into the trees. Holding firm to the reins of his mount Skilgannon walked after him. Some fifty paces beyond the tree line he came to the site.

Many of the Jiamads were asleep. Others were sitting close to one another, and speaking in low grunts.

Stavut was sitting by a campfire, Askari beside him. Skilgannon tethered his horse and walked across to them. He noted that Stavut was holding Askari’s hand, and surmised that their meeting had been a joyful one. A touch of jealousy stung him. Moving to the fire he sat down. ‘Good to see you, Stavut.’

The young merchant looked at him without warmth. ‘I’ll not take my lads into your battles,’ he said.

‘Know that straight from the outset.’

‘What he meant,’ said Askari dryly, ‘was that it is good to see you too.’

Stavut blushed. ‘It is good to see you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded brusque, but Askari has been telling me of your plan to find the temple. I don’t want my lads put in any danger.’

Skilgannon nodded. ‘Can we take this one step at a time? When last I saw you it was in the company of Kinyon and the villagers. Now you are being called the Beastmaster. I would be fascinated to know how all this occurred.’

Stavut sighed, and launched into his tale. It was told starkly and simply. Skilgannon listened, then leaned back. ‘I am sorry about the villagers,’ he said. ‘But it was their choice to return home. You have nothing to blame yourself for.’

‘Nice of you to say so, but I do blame myself. I should have realized they were fearful of the lads -

and of me. I should have taken steps to put them at their ease.’

‘I cannot fault you for that,’ said Skilgannon. ‘We all carry our guilts. So what will you do now?’

‘I. . we. . haven’t made any plans.’

‘Is that true?’ Skilgannon asked Askari. ‘No plans?’

‘I shall go with you to the temple, as I said,’ she told him.

‘What?’ burst out Stavut. ‘You can’t!’

‘I can’t?’ Her voice was cold, her expression icy.

Stavut looked crestfallen. ‘What I meant. . oh, never mind! Why do you have to go?’

‘Because her life is at risk as long the Eternal holds power. She is a Reborn, Stavut, like me. Askari was created from the bones of the Eternal herself. That is why she is the Eternal. She steals fresh bodies as her own decays. My purpose in this world is to stop her. To end the magic. If I succeed then Askari is safe from her.’

‘Then of course I’ll come with you. I’ll leave the lads with Shakul. He can lead the pack. They will be safe here. There is plenty of game, and no reason for soldiers to hunt them.’

From all about them the beasts began to move forward, squatting in a circle round the fire. Shakul leaned towards Stavut. ‘Bloodshirt leave?’ he asked.

‘You will be pack leader, Shakul. I have to go.’

‘We are pack,’ Shakul reminded him.

‘Yes, we are. But where I go there will be danger, and fighting, and death. This is my fight. Mine, Askari’s, Skilgannon’s. It is a fight for. . for Skins. It is not your fight. I don’t want to see any of you hurt. You understand?’

‘Not hurt,’ said Shakul, his great head swaying. Easing his huge bulk forward he peered at Skilgannon.

‘Not take Bloodshirt,’ he said.

‘He is not taking me,’ said Stavut. ‘I am going willingly. I don’t want to leave you lads. Truly I don’t.

You are the best friends I ever had. I am fond of all of you. But I must go.’

Shakul stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘Big fight?’ he said.

‘I think so, Shakul.’