The Swords of Night and Day

by David Gemmell

  By the time Landis came to serve the temple Hewla was long gone, though stories of her, and the dark deeds of her life, had become legend. Landis had taken the bones of the long-dead queen to Vestava and suggested—humbly—that it would “enhance our understanding of the past if we were to restore her life.”

  Vestava had smiled. “There would be little advantage in such a process, Landis. Her soul would long ago have left the Void. One day you will understand it. When you are ready I will teach you myself.”

  That one day had been twenty-six years, four months, and six days away. During that time he returned to Naashan and had the head of the statue removed, and brought back to his rooms at the temple. At nights he would sit and stare at it, and even at times talk to it. His passion for the long-dead queen did not fade. In fact it grew stronger. He began to dream of her.

  When Vestava at last chose to share the Mysteries with his student, Landis learned that the key to successful resurrection lay in an ancient ritual Hewla had called the migration of souls. In order to accomplish the transfer it usually had to be made within a day of death. On rare occasions it could be longer, if there was a mystic with power who could enter the Void and guide a soul back to the haven of his new body. But the longest time recorded was eight days. The queen of Naashan had been dead for five hundred years.

  The disappointment felt by Landis Khan was intense. That first night he lay in his chamber and wept.

  Three years passed, and then came the most glorious moment of his life so far. He showed the statue head to a young priest training in the mystic arts. The man’s skill lay in touching objects and seeing visions of their past. He and Landis had been joking about the young man’s gift. “Tell me of the statue,” said Landis. The young man had placed his hands on the cold, white stone, then taken a long, deep breath. “It was crafted by a one-eyed man. It took him five years of his life.” The young priest had smiled. “He was helped by his son, who was, perhaps, even more gifted than the father. The queen came to their workshop and sat with them. They sketched and drew her, and laughed and joked with her. Her name was Jianna.”

  “You would know that from my reports,” said Landis, trying not to be skeptical.

  “I have not read them, Brother, I assure you. The statue was placed by a lake.” He suddenly jerked. “Blood was shed there by assassins seeking to kill the queen. They failed. She did not seek to flee. She fought them. There was a man with her, his head shaved, though not on the top of his head. Odd. It looks like a horse’s mane.” Suddenly the young man screamed and threw himself backward, falling onto a couch.

  “What is wrong?” asked Landis, shocked.

  The young man shivered. “I don’t know. I felt . . . Oh, Landis I feel ill.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “She touched me. The queen touched me. She haunts this statue.”

  “Her soul is still connected to the world?”

  “I believe so. I shall not touch the thing again.”

  Landis had taken the news to Vestava. “We can bring her back,” said Landis. “Is that not so?”

  “It is not that simple, student. And if she still haunts the world then that might be reason enough never to try. Don’t you see? She has not passed the Void. What evils must she have committed to be damned for so long in that hellish place?”

  “But she could answer so many of the mysteries of that bygone era. We have mere fragments. Are we not here to pursue the path of knowledge, Master? This is what you have taught me all these years. She would know of the growth of empires that are lost to us, and the fall of civilizations. She might even have knowledge of the ancients.”

  “I will think on it, Landis,” said Vestava. “Give me time.”

  Landis knew better than to press the old man, who could be obdurate when he felt pressured. What followed was the longest year of Landis’s life. As the following winter approached, Vestava summoned him to the upper council chamber. The Five were assembled there, the most senior priests of the Resurrection. Vestava spoke: “It has been decided that this is an opportunity too promising to let pass. We will begin the process of Rebirth. Bring the bones to the lower chambers tomorrow.”

  As Landis sat quietly, locked into memories of the past, a lantern guttered and went out. He shivered and forced his mind back to the present.

  Leaving the library, he returned to his apartments in the western wing. It was growing dark; servants were in the corridors lighting lanterns. He found Gamal waiting for him in the main room.

  “You did not deceive Unwallis, Landis,” he said, sadly. “The Black Wagon will be coming. You should leave this place and journey across the sea. Find a new life somewhere beyond her power to reach you.”

  “You are wrong,” said Landis, seeking not to convince his friend, but to bolster his own failing confidence.

  Gamal sighed. “You know I am not. To bring Skilgannon back was perilous—but the girl? This was madness. Oh Landis, how could you be so foolish?”

  Landis sank into a chair. “I love her. Thoughts of her are always with me. Ever since I found the statue. I just wanted to be with her, to touch her skin, to hear her voice. I thought I could . . . I thought I could do it right this time.”

  “She knows what you have done, Landis. She will never forgive you.”

  “I will leave tomorrow. I’ll journey north. Perhaps Kydor.”

  “Do not take the Reborn with you. She will be the death of you. They are already hunting her, and they will find her.”

  Landis nodded. “Jianna was not always evil, you know. I am not fooling myself with this. I knew her, Gamal. She was warm and loving, and witty and . . . and . . .”

  “And beautiful,” said Gamal. “I know. I do not think we were intended for immortality, Landis. I knew a man once who fashioned artificial flowers from silk. They were gorgeous to behold, but they had no scent. They lacked the ephemeral beauty of a real bloom. Jianna is like that. There is no humanity left in her. Do not wait for tomorrow, Landis. Leave now. Gather what you need and ride north.”

  Gamal made his way slowly to the door, his hand reaching out ahead of him to steer him around the furniture. “I shall take you back to your rooms,” said Landis, stepping in to help the blind man.

  “No. Do as I advised. Pack and leave. I can find my own way.”

  “Gamal!”

  “What is it, my friend?”

  “You have always been dear to me. I thank you for your friendship. I will never forget it.”

  “Nor I.”

  The blind man moved out into the corridor. Landis walked out to watch him making his slow way toward the far stairwell.

  Then he returned to his apartment and closed the door.

  L andis Khan sighed and moved out to the balcony. The sun was behind the mountains now, but still casting a golden glow in the sky above the peaks. He felt tired and drained. Gamal had urged him to ride out into the night, but Landis convinced himself his friend was merely panicking. Decado and Unwallis had left, and he had no wish to ride a horse in darkness, nor camp in some dreary cave, locked in thoughts of despair.

  Dawn would be a good time. The sunlight would lift his spirits.

  Landis returned to his rooms and filled a goblet with red wine. It tasted sour.

  The lanterns flickered, as if a breeze were blowing through the room. Yet there was no breeze. One by one they went out. Landis stood very still, his mouth dry.

  “I never thought you would ever betray me,” whispered a voice.

  Landis spun. A shimmering light began in the darkest corner of the room, swelling and growing, forming a human shape. The image sharpened, and Landis gazed once more upon the features of the woman who had haunted his dreams for five hundred years. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a silver circlet upon her brow, her slender body clothed in white. Landis drank in the vision, his eyes drawn, as ever, to the tiny dark beauty spot just to the right of her mouth. Somehow this blemish only enhanced her.

  “I
love you,” he said. “I always have.”

  “How sweet! How foolish. You fell in love with a statue, Landis. What does that tell you about yourself?”

  “I gave you life,” he said. “I brought you back.”

  The image shimmered closer to him, shifting and changing. The white gown disappeared, replaced by a shaped silver breastplate and leather leggings, reinforced by silver bands upon the thigh. At her side was a sword belt.

  “You did not love me, Landis. You loved an image of me. You desired to possess that image, to have it for your own. That is not love. Now you have re-created that image. Without my permission. That is not love.”

  “Have you come here to kill me?”

  “I am not going to kill you, Landis. Tell me the truth. Are there any more bones of my past bodies?”

  “Do not harm her, Jianna. I beg you.”

  “Are there any more bones, Landis?”

  “No. She is innocent. She knows nothing, and could never harm you.”

  The Eternal laughed. “She will serve me well, Landis. She is the right age.”

  Landis’s heart sank. “Were you always evil?” he heard himself ask.

  “This is hardly the time for philosophical debate, my dear. However, I will say this: When I was a child my father was murdered, my mother killed. People I thought loyal sought my death. They all had their reasons. When I came to power I killed them. Self-preservation is a paramount desire in all of us. Good and evil are interchangeable. When the wolves pull down a fawn I don’t doubt the doe would consider it an evil act. For the wolves it is a necessity, and they would see the arrival of fresh meat as good. So let us not spend these moments in meaningless debate. I have one more question for you, Landis, and then we can say farewell. What did you find in Skilgannon’s tomb?”

  “I never found his tomb,” he lied. “I found the ax and the bones of Druss the Legend.”

  “I remember him,” said the Eternal. “I met him once. Describe the ax.” Landis did so. The Eternal listened intently. “And you sought to bring him back?”

  “Yes. We could not find his soul. All we have is a powerful young man who works as a logger.”

  “Druss would have been beyond you,” said the Eternal. “He did not wander the Void. Very well, Landis, I believe you.”

  The door opened. Landis turned to see the young swordsman Decado enter the room. The dark-haired warrior smiled at him, then drew one of his swords. Fear engulfed Landis, and he backed away. He looked at the shimmering image of the Eternal. “You said you would not kill me,” he said.

  “And I shall not. He will.” She floated toward Decado. “Not a trace of flesh or bone to be left,” she said. “Burn him to ash. I do not want him reborn.”

  “As you order, so shall it be,” said Decado.

  “Do not make him suffer, Decado. Kill him swiftly, for he was once dear to me. Then find the blind man and kill him, too.”

  “The nephew, Beloved. He insulted me. I want him, too.”

  “Kill him, my dear,” said the Eternal, “but no one else. Our troops will be here by morning. Try to remember that we will still need people to till the fields, and I would like servants to remain in the palace ready for my arrival. I do not want blind terror causing havoc here.”

  The vision swirled, appearing once more before the terrified Landis Khan. “You once told me you would die happy if my face was the last thing you were allowed to see. Be happy, Landis Khan.”

  6

  H arad was unnaturally silent as they began their return journey. He strode on ahead tirelessly, despite the weight of his pack and the double-bladed ax he carried. Skilgannon had no wish for conversation, either. The brief meeting with Druss had merely reinforced his feelings of loneliness in this new world. The two men made the long climb back into the mountains. At the top Skilgannon swung to gaze down once more on the old fortress. Then he turned away and followed Harad.

  More memories came to him then. He remembered his journeys across the Desert of Namib, in search of the lost Temple of the Resurrection. Three years he had spent in that desolate land. In order to survive he had joined a band of mercenaries and fought in several actions near the old Gothir capital of Gulgothir. Roving bands of Nadir outlaws were harassing the farmlands. Skilgannon and thirty men had been hired to find them and kill them. In the end the situation had been reversed. The captain of mercenaries—an idiot whose name Skilgannon gratefully could not recall—had led them into a trap. The battle had been furious and short. Only three mercenaries escaped into the mountains. One had died of his wounds. The others had fled south. Skilgannon circled back and entered the Nadir camp at night, killing the leader and six of his men. The following day the rest of the outlaws had pulled out.

  Lean times followed, working for a pittance as a soldier in New Gulgothir, scraping together enough coin to make more journeys in Namib. The dream had kept him going. His young wife, Dayan, a woman he had never truly loved, had died in his arms. He’d carried fragments of her bones and a lock of her hair in a locket around his neck. These bones, according to the legends, would be enough to see her live again.

  And then one day he had discovered the temple. It was in an area he had traveled through many times. This time, however, he was in the company of a young priest he had rescued from bandits. How strange are the ways of fate, he thought. The priest had been chased by five Nadir riders. Skilgannon had watched from a nearby rise as they caught him. Then they had prepared a killing fire. It was a barbarous and ghastly ritual. The priest had been thrown to the ground, his full-length pale blue robes torn from him. Naked he had been staked out on the steppes while the Nadir piled kindling and firewood between his open legs. He would have died screaming in terrible pain as his genitals roasted.

  The hideous pleasures of Nadir tribesmen were of no concern to Skilgannon. He was about to ride away when he thought of Druss the Legend, and his iron code. Old Druss would not have left this stranger to his fate. Protect the weak against the evil strong. Suddenly Skilgannon had chuckled. “Ah, Druss, I fear you have corrupted me with your simple philosophy,” he said as he heeled his horse down the slope.

  The Nadir, seeing him coming, rose from the bound prisoner and waited. Skilgannon rode up, lifted his leg over the saddle pommel, and jumped lightly to the ground. The warriors looked at him. “What do you want?” asked one, in the western tongue. Then he turned to the others and said in Nadir: “The horse will bring much silver.”

  “The horse will bring you nothing,” Skilgannon had told the surprised man. “All that awaits you here is death. There are two outcomes, Nadir. You will ride from here and sire more goat-faced children, or you will die here and the crows will eat your eyes.” They had spread out in a semicircle. The warrior on the far left suddenly drew a knife and rushed in. The Sword of Day flashed in the sunshine and the man fell, blood gushing from a terrible wound in his neck. Instantly the other Nadir charged. Skilgannon leapt to meet them. Three died within moments, and the leader fell back, his right arm severed just below the elbow, blood gouting from the open arteries. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, staring stupidly at the bleeding limb. Desperately he grabbed the stump with his left hand, seeking to stem the flow. Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the young priest and cut him free. Hauling him to his feet, he said: “Are you hurt?” The man shook his head and moved to the fallen Nadir.

  “Let me bind that,” he said. “Perhaps we can save your life.”

  The Nadir struck at him weakly. “Leave me be, gajin. May your soul rot in the Seven Hells.”

  “I just want to help you,” the priest had said. “Why do you curse me?”

  The Nadir stared malevolently up at Skilgannon. “For this worm you have destroyed me? There is no sense to it. Kill me now. Set my spirit free.”

  Ignoring the dying man, Skilgannon handed the priest his tattered robe and took him by the arm, leading him to his horse. Mounting, he drew the priest up behind him and rode away.

  They had campe
d that night out in the open. Skilgannon lit no fire. The priest, dressed in his torn blue robe, sat shivering and staring up at the stars. “I do not want those men on my conscience,” he said, at last.

  “Why would they be on your conscience, boy?”

  “They died because of me. Had you not come they would be alive still.”

  Skilgannon had laughed. “You are an irrelevance in this. All over this land people are dying, some because they are old and worn out, some because they are diseased, and some merely because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are not your concern. No more were those torturers. You are a Source priest, yes?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then you must ask yourself why I was here at this time. It might be that the Source sent me, because He wanted you alive. It might be mere happenstance. But you are alive, priest, and the evil men are dead. Where were you heading?”

  The young man had looked away. “I cannot tell you. It is forbidden.”

  “As you wish.”

  “What are you doing here, in this awful desert?” the priest asked.

  “Trying to keep a promise.”

  “That is a good thing to do. Promises are sacred.”

  “I like to think so.” Skilgannon unrolled his blankets and threw one to the young man. The priest gratefully wrapped it around his thin shoulders.