David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

This morning had seen the first tragedy.

They had arrived at the temple mountains, and Skilgannon had seen for himself the enormous crater where the temple had been. It was a disconcerting sight. Although Gamal had said it was gone Skilgannon had nursed the hope that the man had been mistaken; that he and his companion had travelled to the wrong place.

The riders had reined in on the edge of the crater. Shakul had wandered over the rim, his great head swaying. Then he had stumbled, and almost fallen. Alahir’s young aide, Bagalan, had dismounted. When Shakul seemed in trouble he had run forward. Then he had screamed. Shakul grabbed the rider and lurched back over the rim. Bagalan had writhed in his grasp, blood bursting from his mouth and throat.

Shakul lowered him to the ground and the riders had gathered round. Alahir was the first to the young man’s side. Blood was seeping through Bagalan’s armour. His body went through a series of violent spasms. Then he died.

Alahir stared down at the boy’s twisted armour. His chain-mail gorget was mangled and blood-covered, his breastplate cracked. Lower down his hauberk was embedded in the flesh of his right thigh. It was as if his armour had come alive, and had eaten its way into his body.

Skilgannon stood over the corpse. He did not remind them that he had warned the riders to stay clear of the crater. There was no need. Bagalan’s mutilated corpse was enough of a reminder.

‘No way for a Drenai warrior to die,’ said the veteran Gilden. ‘We cannot even take his armour.’

Alahir tried to draw the boy’s sword from its scabbard, but even this had twisted and melded.

‘What kind of magic does this?’ he asked, his face ghostly pale.

‘I don’t know,’ said Skilgannon.

One of the riders swore and pointed at the crater. Bagalan’s helm was writhing on the dusty ground. It was changing shape — as if a giant, unseen hammer was pounding it. Then, as they watched, the helm rose from the ground, twisting and shimmering in the sunlight. It flew higher, then moved north, like a silver bird. The riders watched it until it disappeared. No-one spoke.

‘Move back from the rim,’ said Skilgannon, at last. ‘Set up camp over there by the stand of rocks.’

Moving to his horse he stepped into the saddle. ‘Alahir!’ he called. ‘Ride with me. We need to scout for a defensive position.’

Alahir backed away from the corpse and mounted his horse. As Skilgannon headed away towards the east Alahir and Decado joined him.

‘Maybe the bitch was lying,’ said Alahir.

‘It is a possibility, but I don’t think so. Therefore, until we know differently, we will assume we are facing a thousand riders and two hundred Jiamads. We cannot take them on open ground. They will flank us.’

‘I’ve seen the Eternal Guard in action,’ said Decado. ‘They are rather splendid, you know.’ He looked at Alahir. ‘No offence to you and your men, but I’d back the Guard to take any force. Would it not be better to stay mobile, rather than pick a battle site?’

‘Look around you, Decado,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Open land with no cover? A few water holes, and no trees. No hiding places. We cannot run. Our only hope is to locate the temple and end the magic’

‘You have not seen the Legend Riders fight,’ Alahir told Decado. ‘I would wager they will turn back these Guards of yours.’

‘An interesting idea,’ said Decado, with a wide smile. ‘However, if you lose how would you pay the wager?’

‘We do not lose,’ snapped Alahir.

‘Let us move on,’ said Skilgannon.

For two hours they rode over the arid land. Skilgannon stopped often to study the ground. He questioned Alahir about the route the Guard would take. Alahir, who had never been this far north, could offer little constructive advice. Decado volunteered his opinion. ‘They would have taken ship from Draspartha,’ he said, ‘and followed the coast. Beyond the mountains ahead of us is the Pelucid Sea.

There is only one port on the coast — well, more of a fishing settlement, really — but there is a jetty. I stopped there two years ago after returning from a campaign in Sherak. As I recall there is a mountain road leading to the old silver mines.’

‘A pass would suit us,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Somewhere narrow. That would level the odds.’

‘You might be expecting too much,’ said Decado. ‘In my experience there is rarely only one pass through any mountain range. If we form up in one, what is to stop the Guard from finding another and encircling us?’

‘First let us find a pass. Then we’ll argue about how to hold it,’ Skilgannon told him.

Angling his horse he set off towards a tower of red rock that rose like a spear above the surrounding high ground. Dismounting, he walked round the base of the tower, then levered himself up, seeking out hand- and footholds. Decado and Alahir watched him as he climbed ever higher.

Once on the face Skilgannon moved with care. The holds were good, but he was aware that the rock was soft stone and he tested each hold before applying his full weight. Several times as he gripped what seemed a solid spur the rock would crumble and fall away. Higher he went, until he was some two hundred feet above the rocks below. He glanced down. Decado and Alahir had dismounted, and were watching him keenly.

At last he levered himself over the lip of the peak, and sat staring down over the land below. From here he could see the sharp breaks in the mountains signifying passes. Decado had been right. There were several. He could not tell from this vantage point which of them might be blind canyons, but he could see the main pass, and just glimpse the sea in the far distance. He sat for a while, gathering his strength for the return climb, and continued to study the land ahead. When he had finally committed the scene to memory he eased himself back over the edge and climbed carefully down. Despite his skills, he was relieved when his feet touched solid ground.

He told the waiting men what he had seen and sent Alahir back to fetch the rest of the force, directing him to head due east towards the deep V-shaped cut in the mountains. ‘Decado and I will scout the various passes, and see which offers the best chance of success.’

As Alahir rode away Decado shook his head. ‘You are the most optimistic man I have ever met, kinsman. Do you really believe these country boys can beat the Guard?’

‘It hardly matters what I believe. We cannot run, and we cannot hide. Therefore we fight. And when I fight, Decado, I win. Be it an army or a single man.’

‘Unlike most people I love arrogance,’ said Decado happily. ‘It is so refreshing. I feel the same way.

There’s not a man born of woman who could survive me in a duel. And you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Tell me.’

‘One of us is wrong.’

‘Or both of us,’ said Skilgannon. ‘How fortunate we are on the same side.’

Decado chuckled. ‘Fortune is a fickle beast at best,’ he said.

Skilgannon walked to his horse and mounted. ‘Tell me all you can of the Guard, their training methods, their tactics, their weapons,’ he said, as Decado moved to his own mount.

Decado swung himself into the saddle. ‘Mounted or on foot they always attack,’ he said. ‘And like you, kinsman, they never lose.’

Unwallis had experienced many ambitions in his long life. Most had been fulfilled. One would never be fulfilled. For some reason that he could not understand, none of the many women in his life had ever conceived children by him. It had always been a mild regret. Until now.

He lay in the royal bed, Jianna curled up alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her thigh across his own. She was, at this moment, entirely childlike, and Unwallis felt a strong paternal affection for the sleeping queen. He lay there quietly, stroking her long, dark hair. Intellect told him this feeling was merely an illusion. The women lying in his arms was a ruthless tyrant, with the deaths of nations on her conscience. But in the dark of the tent his intellect faded back, allowing his emotions to roam free.