David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

‘There is a point to this?’ demanded Harad.

‘We rarely get to choose the manner of our passing. You did not kill Charis. The earthquake killed her. Listen to me, Harad. Guilt always follows bereavement. It is a natural part of the process. Someone we love dies and the first question we ask ourselves is: could we have done anything to prevent it? And even if we couldn’t the guilt remains. Did we love them enough? Did we give them enough of our time?

We remember arguments or rows, or tears or misunderstandings. And every one of them comes back to us like a knife in the heart. You are not alone in your suffering. Every man or woman old enough to know someone who has died feels the same. For me it was my wife. She was pregnant and happy. Then the plague struck. For years I suffered, knowing that I had not loved her enough. I travelled the world with a shard of her bone and a lock of her hair, seeking the very place we are now trying to find. I wanted to bring her back, to repay her for the days of love she had given me. Charis loved you, Harad. The gift of love is priceless. You are a better man for having loved her, and for having been loved by her. Let the grief flow by all means. But rid yourself of the guilt. You have nothing to feel guilty about.’

Harad sat silently for a moment, then he let out a sigh. ‘I will think on what you have said,’ he told Skilgannon. Leaning forward, he wrenched the axe from the deck. ‘Why are we in these damned barges?’ he asked. ‘I could walk to the desert faster than this.’

‘Tomorrow you will see. Alahir says the waterway opens out into a great submerged canyon. We will have to leave the oxen behind, for there is no land for them to walk on. There are sheer mountains all round. Alahir claims it is the fastest way to the Rostrias. If we had to ride it would take another two weeks to skirt the mountains.’

‘I have another question,’ said Harad.

‘Ask it.’

‘What happens if we do stop the source of the magic?’

Skilgannon was puzzled. ‘The Eternal will be able to create no more Jiamads or Reborns. Have I not said this before?’

‘Yes, you have. I meant what happens to the Jiamads?’

‘I really don’t know. They are melded by magic. It could be that removing it would cause the meld to come apart. Or it could be that nothing will happen to them. You are concerned about the welfare of the beasts?’

‘As a matter of fact I am,’ said Harad. ‘But I was thinking more about you, and me, and Askari.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Were we not also created by magic? Are we not, in our own way, just as unnatural as the Jems?

Perhaps destroying the source will kill us too.’

‘That is a thought I could have done without,’ admitted Skilgannon. He looked at Harad. ‘Does it make a difference?’

‘No,’ said the axeman. ‘We are doing this to protect the weak from the evil strong. We are following the code. Have you any idea of how to find this temple?’

‘I know where it was,’ said Skilgannon. ‘We’ll start from there.’

Seventy years before, when Unwallis had first travelled to Diranan, one of the first important people he had met had been Agrias. His position as the Queen’s favourite, and Chief Councillor, had seemed unassailable. Fiercely intelligent, handsome and multi-talented, Agrias had radiated power and authority.

Unwallis had stammered foolishly upon being introduced, muttered some dreadful banality, and then had stood like a country bumpkin as Agrias and his entourage swept on through the palace.

Physically Agrias had not changed. He still looked young. He was still handsome and tall. But now he radiated nothing but fear, as he was dragged before the Eternal. For five days he had been kept tied in a covered pit amid the ruins. He was hauled out on the fifth morning, blinking and squinting against the sunlight, his long pale robe soiled with his own excrement. Unwallis wanted to look away, but there was something magnetic about the man’s disintegration.

When he saw the Eternal, sitting on a high-backed chair, and flanked by the senior officers of her Eternal Guard, Agrias struggled to find some last shreds of dignity. As the guards released their hold on his bound arms he drew himself upright.

‘No pretty compliments for me, Agrias?’ said the Eternal. ‘Are you not going to tell me how my hair gleams in the sunshine in raven beauty? Or that to gaze upon my face fills your heart with light?’

‘You, my dear,’ said Agrias, rediscovering his manhood, ‘may look beautiful on the surface, but beneath the smooth skin there are the rotting bones of the long dead, and a stench of corruption.’

A guard struck him violently on the side of the head. Agrias staggered but did not fall. A trickle of blood seeped from a cut in his temple. He suddenly laughed.

‘Oh, do share your good humour,’ said the Eternal. ‘Amuse us while you still can.’

‘When I was a young priest,’ said Agrias, ‘I was gifted with visions. These faded as I grew older, and became enamoured of power and material wealth.’

‘Wonderful,’ said the Eternal. ‘I do so love a morality tale. Does it have a happy ending?’

‘There are no happy endings for the likes of you and me, gorgeous one.’

‘Ah! That compliment brings back happy memories. You have won a few extra moments of life, Agrias. Pray continue.’

‘As I said, I once had a talent for prophecy. Last night, as I sat in the charming apartments you set aside for me, I had another vision. I cannot say that it entirely lifted rny spirits, for my own death was part of it. Doom is upon you, Jianna. The world is about to change. The Armour of Bronze is once more gleaming in the sunshine. And heroes long dead will consign your empire to dust. You are about to become a legend, a creature of the past. Future generations will listen in horror to your tale. They will shiver and reach for talismans at the mention of your name.’

Jianna clapped her hands. ‘I already know that Alahir and his Legend Riders deserted you when they found an ancient relic. The story you have built around their desertion is diverting, but not as fascinating as I had hoped.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I am glad you liked the apartments I chose for you. Even now bricks and mortar are being brought so that we can give you a more permanent roof. You will have no need of doorways or windows. You can spend your last days, or perhaps weeks, in quiet, lonely contemplation of your treachery.’

Unwallis shivered at the sentence. The man was to be buried alive. Now he looked away, not wishing to dwell on the stricken expression of the former councillor. As Agrias was dragged away his courage broke. ‘Kill me now!’ he screamed. ‘For mercy’s sake!’ He was cuffed to silence. Unwallis eased himself back through the watching crowd of soldiers.

There had been two great men serving the Eternal, Landis Kan and Agrias, seventy years ago. Both had now been dealt with. Landis was dead, his body burnt, his ashes scattered. Now Agrias would die in a filthy pit amid the ruins of an ancient city. There had been others, who had not scaled the heights of Agrias and Landis, but nevertheless were great men. Gamal, hunted down and murdered; Perisis, poisoned after he quit the Eternal’s service; Joran, killed by Memnon’s Shadows. The list went on and on.

Unwallis remembered the day Landis Kan had left Diranan for the lands granted to him by the Eternal.

He had wondered then if the Shadows would be despatched after him. He and Landis had spoken briefly on that last morning, as servants packed Landis’s belongings.

‘Why are you leaving, my friend?’

‘I am tired, Unwallis. I want to rest and look at the mountains. I cannot face another war.’