The Swords of Night and Day

by David Gemmell

  “No. And I am not sure I want to now.”

  Gamal laughed again. “Ah Landis! As well you know, I cannot read all of a man’s thoughts. Never could. I can tell when people are lying. I can tell when they are being deceptive. I can feel their sorrows and their joys. When you walked in you were concerned about Skilgannon. His face was in your mind. Then you saw me—and thoughts of death and loneliness overwhelmed you. So put your mind at ease, and tell me why you are concerned about our guest.”

  “He is not what I was expecting.”

  “How could he be?” asked Gamal. “You thought he would be godlike. You expected fire to blaze from his eyes.”

  “Of course not. I knew he was a man.”

  “A man who once flew a winged horse?”

  “You are doing it again!” complained Landis. “I do not believe he flew a winged horse. But that is one of the first stories I remember learning about him. I was a child, for goodness’ sake! These stories fasten themselves to the mind. That is why I see the winged horse.”

  “Forgive me, my friend,” said Gamal. “No more winged horses. Go on.”

  “It has been five days and he remains in his room most of the time, doing nothing. He asks no questions when we speak. He listens as I tell him of events, but I know nothing of his opinions. Could the old stories have been so wrong? He does not seem like a warrior at all. He is not chilling like the Shadowmen, nor overtly terrifying like Decado.”

  “I can see why you are worried,” said Gamal. “However, there are a lot of misconceptions in what you say. Firstly, you say he sits in his rooms doing nothing. This is not true.”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted Landis. “I know he exercises. I know the servant girls are besotted with him. My guess is he has already bedded one of them.”

  “Two of them,” corrected Gamal. “And a third is with him as we speak. As to what you call his exercises, they are very ancient and require high levels of suppleness, strength, and balance. Once his body would have flowed through these rituals smoothly. His new body, however, is neither as supple nor as strong as the one he recalls. Before he can truly become himself he must bring his new body into harmony with his memories. As to him not seeming like a warrior—” The old man spread his hands. “—what can I tell you? Yes, the Shadows are chilling. They were intended to be. They are bred for murder. The same, I think, can be said of Decado. He is not entirely sane. Of course Skilgannon is not frightening to you. You have done nothing to cause him to see you as an enemy. Let us hope you never do.” For a moment the old man fell silent. Then he drew in a deep breath. “Skilgannon was once a priest,” he said.

  Landis Khan gasped. “There is no mention of this in any history.”

  “Yes, there is,” said Gamal. “If one knows where to look. I found the references in Cethelin’s Book of the Empty. A fascinating piece.”

  “I have read it many times,” said Landis. “Skilgannon is not mentioned, not even as a reference.”

  “Of course he is—but by the name he adopted as a priest, Brother Lantern. Cethelin called him the Damned.”

  Landis Khan sat openmouthed. Goose bumps appeared on his arms, and he shivered. “Lantern was Skilgannon? Sweet heaven! The madman who slew all those people outside Cethelin’s church?”

  “For a man of science, Landis,” said Gamal, “you spend rather too much time leaping to conclusions. Yes, Cethelin wrote of him as a madman and a killer. But was he? One fact is clear: The mob had arrived at the church intent on killing the priests. Lantern stopped them.”

  “With murder,” pointed out Landis.

  “Only after one of the mob had stabbed Cethelin.” Gamal chuckled suddenly. “You chide me for mentioning the winged horse, my friend, but you are still trapped in memories of childhood. Skilgannon was a hero. Of this there is no doubt. He was also a killer, Landis. Those who stood against him died.”

  “He was a warrior. I know that!” snapped Landis.

  “He was more than a warrior. However, for now you should not be concerned about how frightening he is, or how chilling he appears. Give him time, Landis. Then we will see if Ustarte was gifted or demented.”

  “We have had this conversation before,” said Landis with a wry smile. “Always you find a way to cast doubt on the prophecy.”

  “As I recall the Blessed Priestess left a book of many prophecies.”

  “Ah, but that is unfair, Gamal. You know that they were not prophecies in the real sense. She said that there were many futures, and gave examples of how those futures might be shaped. Her prophecy concerning Skilgannon was altogether different.”

  “The principle remains the same, Landis. The Priestess saw many futures. She was unable to distinguish between what would be and what could be. I have no doubt that in her visions she saw the rise of the Eternal. Equally I have no doubt that she saw the return of Skilgannon as a means of combatting the Eternal. But don’t you see, Landis, that it still remains one of many futures. Nothing in life is certain.”

  Landis sighed. “I need to believe in the prophecy, Gamal. And you know why.” Rising from his chair, he walked to the edge of the balcony, staring out over the mountains. “All the while it was a dream it burned bright in my heart and my mind. I did not doubt it for a second. Now that the reality is here it seems . . . lessened. I thought to bring back a mighty hero, a man of unconquerable spirit. Now I am beginning to feel like a fool.”

  “Well, don’t! Do not judge him yet, Landis. I saw him in the Void. I felt his power and the unconquerable spirit you speak of. There are beasts there more terrifying than any that walk this earth. Skilgannon faced them with courage. I think you will discover that the myths did not exaggerate his skills. And do not take too much notice of my cynicism. Like so many cynics I am a romantic at heart. I, too, would like to believe in the Blessed Priestess and her prophecy. I, too, would like to see the Eternal humbled, and the rebel armies disbanded. So let us concentrate on all that is positive. Skilgannon is reborn. That is the first miracle. We must now help him to restore his memory. Memories are what make us who we are, Landis. They are the building blocks of our souls.”

  Landis relaxed a little. “So much rests upon him. It frightens me.”

  “It no longer frightens me,” said Gamal. “Perhaps that is a gift of mortality.”

  “Why will you not let me revive you? I could give you another thirty years of perfect health. You know this. I still do not understand this yearning for death.”

  Gamal chuckled. “I am content, Landis. I have lived many full lives. Too many. Now I find myself content with increasing frailty. Even my blindness is, in some ways, a blessing. I think my death will be, too.”

  “But we need you, Gamal. Humanity needs you.”

  “You put too great a store in my talents. Now, tell me how Harad is faring.”

  Landis leaned back in his chair. “He is strong—stronger than any man I have ever known. He seems to be enjoying his work. But he is short tempered and still prone to sudden violence. People avoid him, and he has no friends.” He glanced at the old blind man. “You think it is time for Skilgannon to meet him?”

  “No. Not yet. But very soon.” Gamal fell silent, and Landis believed him to have fallen asleep. As quietly as he could, Landis levered himself upright. Gamal sighed. “It is not too late, Landis,” he said. “There is still time for you to change your mind.”

  “Skilgannon is here now. I cannot put his bones back in the casket.”

  “That is not what I meant. I am talking of the other Reborn. What you are doing is more than foolish, Landis. It will bring ruin upon all you have built here.”

  Landis sank back in his chair. “How long have you known?”

  “Almost from the moment I arrived here in the summer. I saw her face in your thoughts. I could scarce believe that any man who knew the Eternal could be so foolhardy. She has Memnon. His skills are far greater than mine. If I discovered your secret, so will he.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Landis rose a
nd moved to stand alongside the old man. Leaning down, he patted Gamal’s hand. “You already knew my weakness. Memnon does not. And I, too, know how to cast ward spells.”

  “Ward spells will not turn aside a Shadow blade, Landis.”

  “No one knows but you and I,” said Landis.

  “Long may that prove true,” replied Gamal, with feeling.

  2

  S kilgannon stood naked on the wide balcony. His breathing deepened. Drawing in a long breath, he began to work through a series of stretching exercises. His body was more supple now, the young muscles lengthening easily. Balancing on his left foot, he bent his knee and stretched out his right leg behind him. Raising his arms, he placed his palms together and slowly—his breathing controlled and synchronized to the movement—arched his spine backward until the curve of his body formed the shape of a perfect crescent moon. Then the muscles of his right thigh began to ache and tremble, and he felt a slight pain flare under his left shoulder blade.

  Once he could have accomplished these exercises with ease. Fragments of memory, jagged and transient, came to him. Slowly he straightened and stood, leaning on the balcony, allowing the images to form.

  In his mind he saw a tall building, lit by moonlight. There was a high parapet above sharp rocks far below. He saw himself standing on the parapet, then leaping and spinning to land in perfect balance. One wrong step, one tiny misjudgment and he would have plunged to his death.

  The image faded. Skilgannon continued to exercise, not pushing his body too hard, seeking instead to stretch the muscles rather than work them at this stage. Even so it was tiring, and after an hour he stopped.

  Donning a shirt of cream-colored linen and dark leather trousers, he pulled on a pair of soft leather ankle boots and walked out of the room, making his way toward the library Landis Khan had shown him on his first day. He saw several male servants in tunics of blue cloth. They moved past him with downcast eyes. It did not bother him. He had no wish to speak to anyone.

  In the library he continued his search through the oldest of the records. Stories of his own life had not proved as helpful to his memory as he had hoped. Apparently he had fought dragons at some point, and had owned a winged horse that flew above the mountains. He had also been gifted with a cloak that made him invisible to his enemies. Incredibly he was supposed to have been born in six different lands, to four different fathers and three separate mothers. He had been golden haired, black haired, bearded, and beardless. He had been tall, and short, immensely muscled, and yet slim and lithe.

  The agreements were few. He had owned two fighting swords that sat in a single scabbard. They were called the Swords of Night and Day. He had died in a battle to save a nation. He had been a general whose wife had died. He had also loved a goddess, mysterious and enigmatic. All agreed on this, though none could agree on her name. In some tales she was the goddess of death, in others the goddess of love, or wisdom, or war.

  Today he chose stories not of his own legends, but of the ancient lands. He was searching for details that would offer him links to a past he could not summon. Skilgannon carried a bundle of ancient scrolls to a window seat and slowly began to read them.

  The first of them brought no fresh insights. It told of a war among races he had no memory of, but the second, far older, talked of a people called the Drenai. Skilgannon felt his heartbeat quicken. A name came to him.

  Druss.

  He saw a powerful figure, in clothes of black and silver. Holding to the memory, he closed his eyes. Scenes flowed up from his subconscious. Druss the Axman, storming the stairs at the citadel, seeking . . . seeking . . . the child Elanin. Another face appeared, the features disfigured. Another name surfaced. Boranius. Ironmask. Skilgannon saw himself fighting this man, blades flashing and blocking, lunging and parrying. The image began to shimmer. Skilgannon struggled to retain it, but it flowed away from him like a dream upon wakening.

  Returning to his room, he found a cloak of dark brown wool edged with black leather. Swirling it around his shoulders, he walked out of the palace. For the first time since he had returned to life he felt relaxed and free. He walked through the town of Petar, bypassing the crowded marketplace, coming at last to an old stone bridge spanning a fast-flowing river. He saw a young lad sitting on the parapet of the bridge, a fishing rod in his hands. Beyond the bridge, the area leading to the hills had been fenced off. This was puzzling to Skilgannon, for he could see no cattle or sheep. He walked on to a locked gate.

  “Hey there, Outlander!”

  Skilgannon turned. The blond-haired boy put aside his fishing rod. “Best not to walk the hills,” he said. Swinging his legs back over the parapet, the boy jumped onto the bridge and walked over to Skilgannon. “Dangerous up there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Jems. That’s where they train. They don’t like people.”

  Skilgannon smiled. “I don’t like people, either.” With that he vaulted the gate and set off toward the hills. After a while he broke into an easy lope, then a run. Higher and higher he went, pushing his body hard. At last, breathless and weary, he halted beside a stream. Kneeling, he drank deeply. The water was cold and wonderfully refreshing. Sitting beside the water, he saw that the streambed contained hundreds of rounded pebbles. Most were pure white, but here and there he could see darker stones, some green, some jet black. Plunging his hand into the water, he ran his fingers over the pebbles, scooping up several. Once his life would have been as full of memories as this stream was full of stones. Now all he had were a few scattered remnants. Tipping his hand, he dropped the pebbles back into the water and rose.

  The sky was bright and clear, and a cool breeze was blowing across the mountain foothills. Skilgannon gazed out over the land and the white town far below. I do not belong here, he thought as his eyes drank in the alien landscape.

  A sound came to him. Then another. A series of dry cracks and thuds. Intrigued, he followed the sounds, climbing over the crest of the hill and making his way down into the trees beyond. In a clearing far below he saw what at first seemed to be a group of bearded warriors practicing with quarter staffs. They were wearing body armor of black leather and leggings of leather and fur. Skilgannon stood and watched them. His eyes narrowed, and something cold touched his heart.

  They were not men at all. Their faces were twisted and misshapen, jaws elongated.

  Jems, the boy had called them. Joinings was how Skilgannon remembered them. A brief memory flared, of women and children huddling together in a circle while Skilgannon and a group of fighters prepared to face an attack. The beasts had been large, some close to eight feet tall. Much larger, in fact, than the Jiamads training below. And more bestial in appearance. These seemed to Skilgannon to be more human. Perhaps it was that they were clothed in breastplates of black leather, and leather kilts.

  The wind shifted, carrying his scent down into the clearing. Almost immediately the Jiamads ceased their training and turned, staring up toward where Skilgannon stood, hidden in the shadows of the trees. Though tempted to turn and walk away, he did not. Instead he strolled out into the open and down toward them. As he approached he noted that each of them wore a blue jewel upon its temple. It seemed incongruous that such beasts would wear adornments.

  The largest of the creatures, almost seven feet tall, its fur jet black, stepped toward him. “Skins stay away,” it said, the voice guttural. Skilgannon, who was a tall man, found himself staring up into a pair of golden eyes, which glittered with cold malice.

  “And why is that?” he countered. The other Joinings shuffled forward, surrounding him.

  “Our place. Danger for Skins.” The elongated mouth gaped, showing sharp fangs. A snorting sound rasped from it. The sound was echoed by the others. Skilgannon took it to be laughter.

  “I am new to this land,” said Skilgannon. “I am unaware of the customs here. Why would it be dangerous?”

  “Skins brittle. Break easy.” It stared hard at Skilgannon, and the warrior sensed i
ts hatred. “You go now.”

  The other beasts gathered around even closer. One, its face flatter than the rest, the mouth more widely flared, like a cat began to sniff the air. “No other Skins,” it said. “It is alone.”

  “Leave him,” said the first.

  “Kill it,” said another.

  The first beast snarled suddenly, the sound harsh and chilling. Then it spoke. “No!” The golden eyes stared at Skilgannon. “Go now, Skin.”

  Skilgannon turned. The cat creature’s quarter staff suddenly jabbed out toward his legs. Instantly, and without conscious thought, Skilgannon spun on his heel and leapt high, his foot hammering into the beast’s face, hurling it from its feet. Skilgannon landed lightly and stepped in, hefting the quarter staff dropped by the creature. With an angry growl the Jiamad sprang to its feet and lunged at the man. Skilgannon twirled the staff, cracking it hard against its temple. The Jiamad slumped to the ground, dazed. Stepping back, Skilgannon raised the weapon against any new attack. For a moment there was no movement, then the leader stepped forward.

  “Not good,” he said. “Go!”

  Skilgannon smiled coldly—then tossed the staff to the ground. “I am sorry to have disturbed your training,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Longbear.”

  “I shall remember it.”

  With that Skilgannon walked away.

  As he topped the rise he heard a terrible cry, full of pain and despair. It was a death cry. He did not look back.

  A s Skilgannon made the long descent back toward the town he saw a horseman riding across the bridge and through the gate. It was Landis Khan. Skilgannon waited. Landis was not a natural rider, his body out of balance. He jerked around in the saddle, unable to harmonize himself with the rhythm of the sturdy chestnut he rode. A memory came to Skilgannon, of a chubby priest with a frightened face. It was as if a window had opened in his soul, and he saw himself back at the temple of Cobalsin, working the land, studying in the library, beneath the benevolent gaze of Abbot Cethelin.