The Swords of Night and Day

by David Gemmell

  “What is the promise?”

  Skilgannon had considered telling the young man that it was none of his business. Instead he found himself talking of his time in Naashan, and the death of Dayan. Lastly, he tapped the locket and said: “So, I search. It is all that is left to me.”

  The young man had said nothing then, and had stretched himself out on the ground and gone to sleep. But soon after dawn, as Skilgannon was saddling the gelding, the priest approached him.

  “I have given much thought to your words about the Source,” he said. “And I think it is true that He sent you to me. Not just for my own safety. I am apprenticed to the Temple of the Resurrection. I am journeying there now. I will take you with me.”

  Fate was a mysterious creature. It almost made one believe in the Source.

  Almost.

  The temple had been shielded by a powerful ward spell, and only when the young priest took Skilgannon to the hidden gateway did it fade. He’d looked up at what had been the blank rock of a massive mountain, and seen the many windows carved into the stone. More than that he’d seen a great shield of gold, gleaming on the high peak.

  His heart had soared. Finally his dream would be realized, and Dayan would live again, to enjoy the life she should have known.

  Thinking on it now, Skilgannon smiled ruefully.

  The priests of the Resurrection had made him welcome. Yet he had languished inside the temple for almost a month before the chief abbot had summoned him. The man’s name was Vestava. Round shouldered and slender, he had kindly eyes.

  “We cannot do what you wish,” he said. “We can take the bones you carry, and we can resurrect, if you will, a girl child, who, in time will look exactly like your wife. Indeed, she will be, in almost every way, identical to the woman you knew. But she will not be Dayan, Skilgannon. She cannot be.”

  The shock had been great, the disappointment intense. “I will find another temple,” he said. “There will be someone who can do this.”

  “There will not,” said Vestava. “We have searched the Void and her spirit has passed through the Golden Valley. She will be at peace there, having found joy. Believe me on this.”

  “I will not accept it,” Skilgannon said, anger flaring.

  “You need to question your motives here, my boy,” the older man had replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You are an intelligent man. You also have great courage. However, this quest was not to resurrect Dayan, but to salve your own consience. In short, it was not for her. It was for you. I know you, Skilgannon, and I know your deeds. You carry a terrible weight upon your soul. I cannot ease that. Let me ask you this: Did you love Dayan with all your heart?”

  “This is none of your business, priest.”

  “You did not love her. So what would you do if I brought her back? Chain yourself to her out of duty? You think a woman would not realize that your heart was not hers? You would have me draw her back from a place of perfection so that she could spend unhappy years with an unhappy man in an unhappy world?”

  Skilgannon quelled his anger and sighed. “What do I do now?”

  “You have helped one of our brothers, and for this we are grateful. We will, if you wish it, give life to the bones you carry. In this way Dayan’s flesh will once more walk the earth. She may grow to find love, and have children of her own. For most people this is the kind of immortality they understand. It is their gift to the future. They live on through their children.”

  Skilgannon rose from his seat and wandered to a window, staring out over the bleak desert landscape. “I need time to think on this,” he said. “May I stay here for a while?”

  “Of course, my son.”

  For several days Skilgannon had dwelled in the temple, observing the priests, wandering the halls and passageways. It was a place of great serenity. There were beautiful halls, and libraries where men studied without urgency. Every piece of furniture, every painting had been chosen to enhance the harmonious atmosphere. All the harshness and violence of the world outside seemed far away. Men from all nations studied here, without rancor. The tranquility of the temple allowed Skilgannon to open his mind to truths he had hidden deep.

  Vestava’s words haunted him. He could no longer deny the truth of them. Finally he returned to Vestava. “I have given over my life to this quest,” he said. “I told myself it was for Dayan. But you are right, priest. It was for me. A poultice for the wound on my soul.”

  “What do you wish us to do?”

  “Give life to the bones. She was pregnant when she died. At least this way a part of her will feel the sun once more upon her face.”

  “A wise decision, my son. You are disappointed. I understand that. It will be as you wish. I will watch over the child, and see her grow strong, if that is the will of the Source. She will be like any other child, and subject to the whims of fate, disease, or war. I will, however, do my best to see her happy. Come back to us in a few years and watch her grow for a while. It will ease your heart.”

  “I may do that,” he had said. That afternoon he had ridden from the temple, and had not looked back.

  Up ahead Harad took off his pack and dropped it to the ground. Then he wandered down to a rippling stream and drank deeply. Skilgannon joined him. They sat in silence for a while. Harad looked intently at Skilgannon, then shivered.

  “What is wrong, Harad?”

  “I can’t get the dream from my mind,” said the young logger. “Gray skies, dead trees, no water, and no life. Demons everywhere. It was so real. I have never dreamed anything like it before.”

  “You were in the Void,” said Skilgannon. “It is a dark and dangerous place.”

  “How do you know of this?”

  “I know many things, Harad. I know that you are a good, strong man, and that you will carry Druss’s ax with pride and do his memory honor. I know that you are short tempered, but that you have a fine heart and an honest soul. I know that you have courage beyond reason, and would be a true friend and a terrible enemy. Ah yes,” he said, with a smile, “I also know you prefer red wine to ale.”

  “Aye, that is true. So, I ask again, how do you know all this? Speak truly.”

  “You are a Reborn, Harad.”

  “I have heard the word. But what does it mean?”

  “A good question. I do not have the best of answers. The priests of the Resurrection have great magic. They can take the bones of dead heroes and somehow cause them to be born again. Don’t ask me how. I have no understanding of magic, nor do I wish to acquire any. What I do know is that you were created from a shard of bone.”

  “Pah!” said Harad. “I was born to my mother. I know this.”

  “A long time ago—” Skilgannon sighed. “—a very long time ago, my wife died of the plague. For years I sought the Temple of the Resurrection, hoping that by some miracle they could restore her to life through a piece of her bone and a lock of her hair. When at last I found it I was told by the abbot there that my quest was impossible. What they could do was to allow her to be reborn. By some magical process they could take the bones and a willing woman, and the result would be a birth—a rebirth, I suppose. But they said that my Dayan would not return as I knew her. Her soul had already passed beyond the Void. What there would be was a child in every way identical to the wife I had lost.”

  “And she would be without a soul?” asked Harad.

  “I understand souls less than I understand magic, Harad. All I know is that I agreed to let them use Dayan’s bones in this way. Some years later I returned, and saw a little girl with golden hair. She was a happy child, full of laughter. When I saw her the last time she was sixteen, and had fallen in love.”

  Harad looked at him closely. “You are no older than me. Sixteen years? It is nonsense.”

  “I am infinitely older than you, my friend. I died a thousand years ago. I, too, am a Reborn. Only with me they did find my soul. I had not passed the Void. I could not pass it. The evil of my life prevent
ed me from finding paradise. What I am telling you is the truth. Do you not yet understand why Landis Khan gave you that ax?”

  Harad’s face paled. “Are you telling me that I am Druss the Legend? I do not believe it.”

  “No, you are your own man, Harad. Every inch your own man. The reason you were in the Void last night was because Druss’s spirit returned to speak with me. We were friends back then. Good friends. I loved the old man like a father.”

  “And now he wants his body back,” said Harad, a hard edge in his voice.

  “No, he does not. It is not his body. It is yours. He wants you to have a full life. Druss never had sons, Harad. You are like the son he never had. I think he might be watching over you with pride.”

  Harad sighed. “Why did Landis bring us back?” he asked. “What was his purpose?”

  “Ask him when next you see him. My name, by the way, is Skilgannon. You may call me Olek, if you wish.”

  “Is that what Druss called you?”

  Skilgannon relaxed and smiled. “No. He called me laddie. But then he called every man laddie. In truth I think he had trouble remembering names.” Moving to his pack, Skilgannon untied the cloth binding around the Swords of Night and Day and lifted them clear. His mood darkened as his hands touched the black scabbard. Pressing the precious stones on the ivory hilts, he drew the weapons clear, two curved blades, one bright and gold, the other silver-gray as a winter moon.

  “They are beautiful,” said Harad. “Did Landis Khan give them to you?”

  “Yes. But they were always mine.”

  “You sound regretful.”

  “Oh, regret does not begin to describe it. But Druss said I would need them, and I trust him.”

  S tavut the Merchant topped the last rise before the settlement and halted his wagon, allowing his exhausted two-horse team to rest. The climb had been long and hard. Applying the brake and locking it into place with a leather strap, he stepped down to the road and walked alongside the lead horse, stroking his gleaming chestnut neck. The trace leathers were covered in white lather, the horses themselves breathing heavily.

  “Almost time to replace you, Longshanks,” said the young merchant. “I think you are getting a little too long in the tooth for this.” As if it had understood him the chestnut shook his head and whinnied. Stavut laughed and moved to the gray gelding on the other side. “As for you, Brightstar, you have no excuse. You’re five years younger and grain fed. A little climb like that should be nothing to you.” The gray stared at him balefully. Stavut patted his neck, then walked closer—though not too close—to the cliff edge and stood staring down at the valley below. From here the settlement looked tiny, and the river running alongside it seemed no more than a shimmering thread of silk. Stavut sighed. He loved coming to this place, even though the profits were meager. There was something about these mountains that lifted the soul. They made thoughts of war drift away like wood smoke on the breeze. His eyes drank in the scene, from the majesty of the snowcapped peaks, through the mysterious deep green forests, and over the apparently tranquil fields dotted with cattle, sheep, and goats. Stavut felt himself relax, all tension easing from his tired frame.

  The last week had been particularly stressful. He had been warned about deserters from the rebel army. Some Jiamads had attacked outlying farms. There was talk of mutilations and murder, and the devouring of human flesh. These were not subjects Stavut liked to dwell upon. The journey south with his laden wagon had been long, but had seemed longer because every waking moment Stavut had scanned the land, expecting at any instant to see ferocious Jiamads moving toward him. His nerves were in tatters by the time he finally saw them.

  The wagon had been rounding a bend between high cliffs when several beasts emerged from behind the rocks. Stavut found it curious to recall that all his fears had suddenly vanished. The terrors he had felt had all come with the anticipation of danger. With the danger now real he drew rein, took a deep breath, and waited. Stavut carried no sword, but at his side was a curved dagger so sharp he could shave with it. He did not know whether he would have the strength, or the speed, to drive that blade through the fur-covered flesh of a Jiamad.

  There were four of them, still sporting the baldrics and leather kilts of an infantry section. Only three of them still carried swords; the fourth was holding a rough-made club.

  The scent of them caused the horses to rear. Stavut applied the brake and spoke soothingly to them. “Steady now, Longshanks! Stay calm, Brightstar. All is well.” Transferring his gaze to the Jiamads, he forced a cheerful tone and said: “You are a long way from camp.”

  They did not reply, but moved past him, lifting the cover from the back of his wagon and peering at the contents.

  “I am carrying no food,” he said.

  The closest Jiamad suddenly lunged at Stavut, grabbing his crimson jerkin and hauling him from the wagon. He landed heavily. “Oh, but you are, Skin,” said the Jiamad. “You are scrawny and small, but your blood is still sweet. And your flesh will be tender.”

  Stavut rolled to his feet and drew his dagger.

  “Look!” snorted the Jiamad. “It wants to fight for its life.”

  “Rip its arm off,” said another.

  A great calm had settled on Stavut then. He found he had only one regret. He would not see Askari again. He had promised her a new bow, and had searched long to find the perfect weapon, a beautiful recurve bow; a composite of horn and yew, the grip covered in the finest leather. He wished he had it in his hands now.

  And then the miracle happened. With death only heartbeats away there had come the sound of galloping hooves. The Jiamads had turned and run toward the hills. Cavalrymen came hurtling past Stavut.

  “I think you can sheathe your dagger now,” said a familiar voice. Stavut looked up to see the young mercenary captain, Alahir. The man was grinning at him. “I did warn you about the Jiamads, Tinker,” he said, removing his bronze helm and pushing a hand through his long blond hair.

  “I am a merchant, as well you know,” said Stavut.

  “Nonsense! You mend kettles. That makes you a tinker.”

  “One kettle does not make me a tinker.”

  Alahir laughed. Replacing his helm, he heeled his horse forward. “We will talk again when I have finished my task.”

  With that he rode away. Stavut started to walk toward his wagon, but his legs began to tremble, and he had to reach out to grab the rear of the wagon to steady himself. He tried to sheathe the dagger, but the trembling now reached his hands and he could not insert the blade into the scabbard. Laying it on the wagon cover, he took several deep breaths. He felt suddenly nauseous and slumped down with his back to the wagon wheel. “No more trips north,” he promised himself. “After the settlement I shall go down and winter with Landis Khan, and then head south to Diranan.”

  He sat there quietly waiting for the nausea to pass. Eventually the riders came back. Alahir dismounted. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No,” answered Stavut. “Just enjoying the afternoon sunshine.” Pushing himself to his feet, he was relieved to find the trembling had passed. “Did you catch them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me they are all dead.”

  “They are all dead.”

  Stavut looked up at Alahir. There was blood on his arm. Glancing around at the cavalrymen, he saw three riderless horses. “You lost men,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  “It is what we are paid for. You don’t fight Jiamads without losses.”

  “Are there more of them in the mountains?”

  Alahir shrugged. “I do not know everything, Stavut, my friend. We were told there were four in this area. Will you be coming back in the spring?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bring a cask of Southern Red. The wine in this land tastes like vinegar.”

  Alahir swung his mount and raised his hand: “Hala!” he shouted. And the troop rode off.

  Standing now close to the cliff edge, Stavut felt a great warmth
toward the young cavalryman. If he did ever journey north again, he would make sure he had a cask of Lentrian Red for him and his men.

  Stavut sighed. Edging forward to the lip of the cliff, he stared down at the awesome drop. Immediately he felt the familiar sense of giddiness, and a growing desire to jump. It was so beguiling. Then fear struck him and he staggered back from the cliff edge. “You are an idiot!” he told himself. “Why do you always do that?”

  He saw Longshanks staring at him. Stavut patted the chestnut. “I wasn’t going to jump,” he said. The horse snorted. Stavut imagined the sound to be derisory. “You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he told Longshanks. “And I won’t be criticized by a horse.”

  Climbing back to the driver’s seat, he settled himself down and took up the reins. Releasing the brake, he flipped the reins and began the long descent toward the valley.

  S tavut always enjoyed his visits to the small settlement—and not just for the opportunity to seek out Askari’s company. Though the dark-haired huntress was dazzlingly attractive and fired his blood as no woman ever had, there was a spirit of calm and joy that radiated throughout this mountain village. The people were friendly, the hospitality warm, and the food at Kinyon’s kitchen extraordinary. Kinyon was a stout and powerful man whose house also doubled as the village inn. The first time Stavut had visited the settlement—two years ago now—he had found the arrangement faintly comical. Looking for somewhere to dine, he had received directions from a woman outside the bakery and had drawn up his wagon outside Kinyon’s small house. It was an old building with tiny windows and a thatched roof. Stavut had wondered if he had misunderstood the directions, though that was unlikely in a village as small as this one. Climbing down from his wagon, he had approached the front door. It was coming toward dusk, and he could see a man beyond the open door, lighting lanterns and hanging them from the walls.

  “Good day,” called Stavut.

  “And to you, stranger. Are you hungry? Come in. Set yourself down.”