David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

Stavut left the merchant and walked back to where Skilgannon was waiting with Decado, Alahir and the others at the flimsy dock. ‘He says he would be prepared to take your stallion to conclude payment for the trip and the provisions,’ he told Skilgannon.

Skilgannon stood silently for a moment, then approached the merchant. The man was tall and slim, his eyes deep set. He wore a shirt of embroidered blue satin, and his long, grey hair was held back from his face by an ornate headband of filigree silver. ‘You are a man who knows horses,’ said Skilgannon.

‘I breed them for the Eternal Guard,’ said the merchant. ‘They are fastidious about the quality of their mounts. Do we have an agreement?’

‘We do not,’ said Skilgannon. ‘The horse is worth more than your barges.’

‘Then, sadly, I do not see how we can accommodate you.’

Skilgannon chuckled. ‘The Eternal’s army is marching on Agrias. Soon there will be a major battle to the west. Knowing the Eternal as I do, I am sure she will not lose this battle. You are a servant of Agrias.

Your position here will soon become perilous. And yet you quibble over a few coins?’

‘It is a merchant’s nature to quibble over coins. It is how we become rich and buy satin shirts. The problem of who governs this area is one for another day. For today I have five barges, ready to carry you to the Rostrias. I have already offered my best price.’

Decado, who had been listening, stepped forward. ‘Let me cut his miserable throat, then we can take the damned barges.’ Even as he spoke he drew one of his swords and moved towards the merchant.

The Sword of Night swept into Skilgannon’s hand, the blade flashing out to bar Decado’s path.

‘Let us not be hasty, kinsman,’ said Skilgannon softly. For a moment Harad thought Decado was going to attack Skilgannon. Instead he stepped back, his eyes wide and glittering strangely.

‘Why do you want him to live?’ asked Decado. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I like him.’ Decado shook his head in disbelief and stalked away.

‘Reassuring to be liked, I am sure,’ said the merchant. ‘But the price remains the same.’

‘I will rent you the stallion,’ said Skilgannon. ‘You will loan me one of your own mounts. I would prefer a gelding. You can use the stallion as a stud until my return. Then I shall claim him.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

‘Some weeks at the least.’

‘A dangerous mission?’

Skilgannon laughed aloud. ‘Indeed it is, Master Merchant. I might not survive.’

‘Oh, perish the thought,’ said the man, rising and holding out his hand. ‘It will be as you say. I shall have a gelding brought over immediately. The barges will leave at first light. If your beasts cause any damage to my vessels I shall seek redress upon your return.’

On the evening of the second day of travel, with the sun sinking, Harad went to his usual spot at the rear of the barge to find Decado sitting there. Askari was behind him, gently rubbing his temples. Stavut was close by. Harad eased himself past them without a word and found a place to sit, his back against a sack of grain. Decado was deathly pale.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Harad asked Askari.

‘I don’t know. It was the same when first I found him.’

Decado sighed. ‘The two of you do know I am here, do you?’

Askari laughed. ‘You are feeling a little better.’

‘Yes, the pain is fading a little.’

‘You should eat something,’ said Stavut.

‘A waste of time and energy. I might just as well get the food and throw it over the side. No, my stomach will hold nothing until the pain passes. I will be all right. I know the rhythms of these attacks.

This was not so bad. It will soon be gone.’

‘You get them often?’ asked Stavut.

‘They come and go.’ He looked up at Askari, and there was adoration in his gaze. It made Harad uncomfortable and he glanced at Stavut. The red-garbed merchant looked away, then rose.

‘We should go and get some food,’ he said, reaching out and taking Askari’s hand.

After they had gone Harad leaned his head back on the grain sack and closed his eyes.

‘I hear your woman died,’ said Decado.

Harad’s eyes snapped open. The last person he wanted to talk to about Charis was this demented swordsman.

‘Nice-looking girl. Beautiful eyes,’ said Decado. ‘I remember thinking how lucky you were. Brave too. Had she not rescued Gamal from the palace I would have killed him that first night. Took nerve.’ He glanced at Snaga. ‘I am surprised you still want to handle that weapon.’

‘Why would I not?’

Decado did not reply for a moment. ‘You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?’ he said at last.

‘No.’

‘Askari told me that when the tree struck you the axe flew from your hand. It was the axe that killed Charis. Now that is what you call bad luck.’ Decado stretched himself out on the deck and drew his cloak over his shoulders.

Harad sat very still, his grief now redoubled. If he had kept hold of the weapon Charis would still be alive.

It was as if he had killed her himself.

Skilgannon stood at the prow of the lead barge, enjoying the cool night breeze on his face. It had been a long time since he had led an army, and the weight of responsibility sat heavily on him. Most of the problems he faced were familiar to him. Men with no military experience believed that an army needed only courage and discipline to win a battle. Those with a little more insight might add that the quality of training, weapons and armour would be important. Both views were correct in part. Without those assets no army would survive for long. Yet in his long life Skilgannon had seen armies with fine weapons, good training, and strong leadership fall apart on a battlefield when faced by troops less well armed. Morale was the real key to success. Low morale would strip away the confidence of the best fighter, and, more often than not, good morale resulted from good provisions. Hunger caused discontent. The food he had purchased from the merchant would feed the force for some ten days. After that it would be down to foraging. Not a simple exercise in the desert environment they were heading for. The horses would need good water, the men full bellies. This problem was even more pressing for the Jiamads. Their appetites were prodigious.

A secondary morale problem was also worrying him. The Legend Riders loathed the Jiamads, and the beasts, in turn, sensing the hatred, were nervous and ill at ease. At the moment the problem was not serious, for the beasts travelled in separate barges. At night, when the Legend Riders took their mounts ashore for exercise and grazing, the Jiamads stayed well clear of them. Skilgannon had tried to talk to Alahir about the hostility, but he too was locked into age-old prejudices. Jiamads were demon spawn.

Jiamads were evil. Jiamads frightened the horses. It was equally difficult with Stavut, who seemed to consider his ‘lads’ as merely large puppies. And then there was Harad. Skilgannon had not known Druss as a young man, nor had he spoken to him at any length about the death of his wife. He had no idea how it had affected the Drenai hero. Had he too become unhinged when the tragedy struck? Harad spoke little to anyone now, save perhaps Askari.

Skilgannon wandered along the now empty deck and down the wide gangplank to the shore. The Legend Riders had gathered some hundred or so paces east, and were sitting round campfires, laughing and talking. The Jiamads had wandered off with Stavut. The countryside was still lush, and Skilgannon had seen game in the hills. Askari was sitting with Decado on the river bank. The swordsman was yet another concern for Skilgannon. Back at the merchant’s office Skilgannon had seen a look in the young man’s eyes that was disturbing. There had been a need in Decado to kill. For a brief moment Skilgannon had believed he would have to fight him. Then the moment had passed.