David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

The grassland still seemed empty, and Druss’s last words echoed through his mind. ‘A pox on prophecies,’ he had said. And yet, ten years later, the sixty-year-old Druss had stood on the walls of Dros Delnoch, defying one of the largest armies ever seen in the world.

Skilgannon had been in a tavern in Gulgothir when he had heard Druss was back, training the recruits at Delnoch. He had seen the Great Khan, riding out with his army two days before, and had known the fortress would fall. Ulric was a brilliant strategist and a charismatic leader. The armies of the Drenai had been largely dismantled by a political leadership who believed that was the best way to avoid war. It was a reasonable theory. Lessen the strength of your army and you gave the clearest indication to neighbouring countries that you were not planning to invade them. The problem with the theory was that it required potential enemies to be equally reasonable. For all his great skills and his enormous courage Ulric was not a reasonable man. And his problems were diametrically different from those of the rich Drenai southerners. Ulric had a vast army. Armies need to be fed and paid. The larger the force, the greater the drain on the treasury. Huge armies needed plunder. Ulric had already destroyed the Gothir.

The Drenai, by reducing their fighting forces, were now virtually defenceless against him. One decrepit fortress, manned by raw recruits, farmers and peasants, against a horde of Nadir warriors, fearless and valiant. There could be only one outcome.

Skilgannon had been emotionally torn when he heard Druss was among those defenders. He loved the old man, but he also owed Ulric his life. The latter had risked everything to save him, when they had fought together. Two friends on opposite sides. Skilgannon could not help them both, save by staying clear of the conflict.

The decision was a heavy burden to bear.

A flicker of movement on the grassland caused his head to turn. There was nothing to be seen. He glanced at the stallion. Its ears were flat back against its skull now, and it was tense and nervous.

Returning his gaze to the darkening grassland he saw a small, dark patch of earth some two hundred paces from him. Movement flickered again to his left, but he kept his eyes on the dark patch. Suddenly it moved, with blistering speed. Skilgannon saw then that it was a slender figure, in a hooded dark robe.

Another movement to his right. They moved so fast it seemed they disappeared from one place only to appear in another, as if they were moving through invisible gateways.

Skilgannon walked several steps away from his horse, giving himself room to swing his blades. He could not beat these creatures for speed, so he watched them move across the flatland, heading inexorably for the hillock, and gauged their style of movement. Their attack was designed to confound the eye. One would move and drop to the ground. Another would move fractions of a heartbeat after the first. The victim would continue to seek out movement, and never quite be able to focus on any one Shadow. By now Skilgannon knew there were three of the creatures. He felt his heartbeat quicken with the thought of battle, and quelled the rising excitement. If they were to pierce him with the paralysing darts, or get close enough to bite, then he didn’t want the venom to be pumped swiftly through his system by a fast heartbeat. Many years ago, when his father’s retainer, Sperian, had been bitten by a snake, he had lain very still while his wife Molaire ran for the local apothecary. The nine-year-old Skilgannon had sat beside Sperian, who closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. Later, after the apothecary had administered an antidote, Skilgannon asked him how he could have stayed so calm. ‘Only way to stay alive, boy. Fear causes the heart to beat faster, and that pushes the poison round the blood faster. Don’t want that. Too much of it in the heart itself and that’s it. Life’s over.’

Moonlight had almost gone now and Skilgannon calmly awaited the attack.

It came suddenly. Something bright flashed before his eyes. The Sword of Day swept up. A dart cannoned from the blade, spinning off across the hillock. Skilgannon dived to his left. A second dart missed his face by inches. Rolling to his feet he lunged — the sword cutting into a dark robe, and slicing through it. Skilgannon rolled again, coming up fast. The Sword of Night swept out, biting through flesh and bone. Skilgannon had not even seen the creature’s approach. The cut had been an automatic response. The Shadow fell writhing to the ground. Something sharp bit into Skilgannon’s shoulder. He staggered back, feeling the venom in his system. He stood very still, then toppled to his knees, his arms outstretched, his sword tips resting on the earth. Staying calm he slowed his heartbeat once more, concentrating deeply. He did not blink or move. The remaining two creatures came into sight, no longer darting. They watched him. Then they moved forward, lips drawn back. One had a thick, single curved fang, which jutted over his lower lip, while the other boasted two slender fangs. Their mouths widened as they approached him, squatting down. The Swords of Night and Day swept up. One sliced through the first creature’s throat, the second almost missed, as the Shadow hurled itself backwards. But the Sword of Night cut through its ribs and across its stomach, disembowelling it. The creature tried to run, then stumbled and fell, twitching, to the earth.

Skilgannon’s limbs were getting heavy now. The swords dropped from his fingers. Numbness crept through him. Slowly he toppled sideways, not able to feel the cold grass against his cheek. Despite the paralysis he felt a sense of exultation. The three Shadows were dead, and he had won again!

And then he saw a fourth Shadow moving up the hillside.

‘ You are an arrogant man, Skilgannon.’

Oh, how true it felt at that precise moment.

The Shadow approached him and squatted down, staring at him with baleful eyes. Then it drew a wickedly curved dagger. ‘Eat your heart,’ it said.

Skilgannon could not reply. In a bewildering instant the creature was suddenly looming over him, the dagger resting on Skilgannon’s chest. He could see the dagger, but could no longer see the creature above him. He heard it grunt, though, as it slumped across him. He wondered what was happening. Was it biting through his paralysed, unfeeling neck?

Then its body was hauled away, and dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Skilgannon could see that a long shaft had shattered its temple, the point emerging on the other side.

Askari sat down beside him. ‘Well, well,’ she said, brightly, ‘what have we here? It cannot be the legendary, invincible warrior. The man who fights alone and never loses. The man who needs no help.

Must be someone who looks like him.’

The ground drifted away from him, and Skilgannon became aware he was being lifted. His body was hauled up, his head falling against Shakul’s chest.

‘You are going to have the worst headache of your life when you awake, Skilgannon. However, you deserve it,’ said Askari, leaning towards him and closing his eyes.

Once back in his apartments Memnon removed his clothes and washed the blood from his hands and arms. His satin shirt was ruined. Bloodstains rarely completely vanished from the fragile cloth. It was a shame, for the shirt was one of his favourites, dark blue, with gold trim. Once he had cleaned himself and donned fresh clothing he called for a servant to summon Oranin.

The young man arrived an hour later, bowing deeply and offering profuse apologies. ‘I was not in my room, lord, so it took them some time to find me.’

‘No matter,’ said Memnon. ‘You will be working alone for a while. I require you to search through the journals, looking for any reference to the technique Landis Kan used to create me. You understand?’