David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

The beast lifted its head and sniffed the air. ‘Many soldiers. Jems. Horses.’

‘There is an army moving south of us,’ said Skilgannon.

Shakul heaved himself upright and moved back from the fire. The other beasts crowded round him.

Skilgannon looked at Stavut. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Making a decision,’ said Stavut, ‘and — if it is what I think it will be — I am going to hate you, Skilgannon.’

They sat in silence for a while, as the beasts continued to speak in low, incomprehensible grunts. Then Shakul came back to the fire. All the other Jiamads formed a circle round the humans.

‘Make choice,’ said Shakul. ‘Go with Bloodshirt.’

Stavut’s head dropped. ‘I don’t want you to be in danger,’ he said.

‘We are pack!’ said Shakul, stamping his foot. One by one the others joined in, and Skilgannon felt the earth tremble beneath him.

It was close to midnight, and Skilgannon was sitting with his back against a tree. He had tried to sleep, but Stavut’s words continued to haunt him. It was obvious that he felt strongly about the Jiamads — his lads — but it was not just that affection which concerned Skilgannon. It was the deceit he himself had perpetrated on the merchant. In making their decision to travel with Stavut the Jiamads had surprised the swordsman. They had shown loyalty and friendship — virtues Gamal had informed him were not natural to the beasts. Stavut had talked of watching them develop, forming bonds, playing practical jokes, laughing.

This was a far cry from the savage, soulless creatures Skilgannon had believed them to be. He thought then of Longbear. According to Charis Gamal had sent him away, but he had charged back and died to defend his human comrades.

It made the deceit even harder to bear.

Skilgannon had talked of ending the magic, and thereby the reign of the Eternal. What he had not said was that, in doing so, it was possible that the Jiamads, melded by magic, would die in their thousands.

This meant that Shakul and his pack might unknowingly be fighting for their own doom.

Guilt nagged at the man Skilgannon, but the strategist Skilgannon knew that the Jiamads could mean the difference between success and failure. In war, he told himself, hard decisions had to be made.

And how does this make you different from the Eternal, he wondered?

Sadness touched him, merging with the guilt. He thought of the elderly abbot, Cethelin, a man who believed love was the way to change the world. The man had been prepared to die, cut down by a vengeful mob, rather than compromise his beliefs. Skilgannon had not allowed his sacrifice — and had butchered the ringleaders. Those moments of horrifying violence had ended his own attempts to become a monk, and had left Cethelin alive, but heartbroken.

Skilgannon had promised the Legend Riders he would help them change the world. It was a lie. The world would not be changed by swords. In theory Cethelin was right. The greatest change could only occur when all men refused to take up swords; when war was seen not as glorious, but as obscene.

It would never happen, he knew. He glanced round the campsite at the sleeping beasts. We are pack, Shakul had said. It was not only wolves and Jiamads that followed this hierarchical pattern. Man was the same. The strongest male would fight to rise in the pack, to dominate lesser males. It could be seen endlessly in the natural play of children. The weak and the sensitive were brushed aside by the brutish and the powerful.

Just then, in the far distance, he heard a high-pitched series of unnatural cries. On the far side of the camp Shakul stirred and sat up. Skilgannon rose to his feet and walked to his horse. Askari rolled from her bed and called out to him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘The Shadows are abroad,’ he said. ‘There is no room to fight here.’

Askari rose and stood by as he hefted the saddle onto the stallion’s back. Tightening the cinch he looked at Askari and smiled. ‘Do not look so concerned. I shall ride out to open ground and deal with them.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No.’

‘You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon. Those creatures move with terrifying speed. You are not a god, you know.’

‘No, I am not. But I am a killer.’ Stepping into the saddle he touched heels to the stallion’s flanks.

Skilgannon rode out of the woods, and down the hill to the flat-land, constantly scanning the surrounding countryside. A quarter of a mile to the west there was a rounded hillock. From its summit he would have a clear field of vision. Against creatures of such speed he needed to be able to see them coming. Skilgannon dismounted at the top, and tethered the stallion. Then he eased himself through a series of exercises, loosening his muscles and preparing his mind. The moon was low in the sky, and there was little breeze. Drawing his swords, he waited.

‘ You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.’

This was true. The Shadows may not even be coming for you, he realized. They could be looking for Decado, or Alahir, or even Askari. The thought was an uncomfortable one. If the last was true, then he had left her unprotected. The Jiamads may be huge and powerful, but they were cumbersome, and could not prevent an attack. On the other hand, even if they paralysed her, the Shadows would not have the strength to carry Askari away from the likes of Shakul. The reasoning calmed him. She would be safe with them.

And if it was Decado they were hunting? Well, in many ways that would be a problem solved.

His exercises complete, he continued to cast his gaze over the grassland, seeking not to focus on any one spot, but allowing his peripheral vision to pick up movement. Slowly the moonlight began to fade. He glanced at the sky. There were few clouds and the stars were bright, but the moon itself would soon be behind the distant peaks.

The stallion suddenly reared, its tethered front feet thumping down on the hillock. ‘I know, Greatheart,’ he said softly. ‘They are coming.’

Yet still there was nothing to be seen on the swaying grassland.

As Malanek had taught him so many centuries before, he slipped into the Illusion of Elsewhere, freeing his body to act and react instantly, without need for conscious thought. This simple mind trick enabled him to cut down reaction time. His eyes continued to watch the land, but his mind concentrated on a single memory from the past. He saw himself standing with Druss the Legend on the high parapet of Boranius’s tower, after the rescue of the child, Elanin. Druss had been fifty years old, his beard more grey than black, his eyes a piercing winter blue. The golden-haired little girl had been standing beside him, her small hand engulfed by his own huge fist. He had talked of returning to his cabin in the mountains, and retiring from wars and battles. Skilgannon had laughed.

‘I am serious, laddie. I’ll hang Snaga on the wall and put my helm and jerkin and gauntlets into a chest.

By Heaven, I’ll even padlock it and throw away the key.’

‘So,’ said Skilgannon, ‘I have witnessed the last battle of Druss the Legend?’

‘Druss the Legend? You know I have always hated to be called that.’

I’m hungry, Uncle Druss,’ said Elanin, tugging on his arm.

‘Now that is a title I do like,’ said the old warrior, lifting the child into his arms. ‘That is who I will be.

Druss the Uncle. Druss the Farmer. And a pox on prophecies!’

‘What prophecy?’

Druss had grinned. ‘A long time ago a seer told me I would die in battle at Dros Delnoch. It was always a nonsense. Delnoch is the greatest fortress ever built, six massive walls and a keep. There’s not an army in the world could take it — and not a leader insane enough to try.’