The Swords of Night and Day

by David Gemmell

Stavut had walked into the room, which was no more than twenty feet long and around fifteen wide. A fire was burning in a stone hearth, and there were only two armchairs, set to the left and right of the blaze. It was an ordinary living room, with the exception that it contained three rough-hewn tables with bench seats. “I have a venison pie, with fresh onions, and a raisin cake, if you have a taste for sweet delicacies,” said the tall, sandy-haired man.

  Stavut looked around. He could not understand how any profit could be made from a dining hall in a village as small as this. “Sounds fine,” he said. “Where shall I sit?”

  “Anywhere you please. My name is Kinyon,” said the man, thrusting out his hand. Stavut shook it, then walked to the farthest table, set alongside a narrow window overlooking a vegetable garden.

  “I also have some ale. Dark ale, but tasty if you have the stomach for it.”

  The ale had been extraordinary, almost black, but with a head that was white as lamb’s fleece, and the food was the best Stavut had enjoyed in a long time. Later that evening other villagers had turned up and sat in Kinyon’s house, chatting, laughing, and drinking.

  Askari had entered the small room late in the evening, resting her longbow against the wall by the door and laying her quiver of arrows alongside it. Stavut had been transfixed. She was tall and slim, and wearing a sleeveless buckskin jerkin, leather leggings, and calf-length moccasins. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a black leather headband. Stavut had sat very still. He had seen some beautiful women in his twenty-six years—had even had the extreme joy of sharing their beds—but never had he seen anyone as beautiful as this girl. She laughed and joked with Kinyon, and then sat down at a table close by. He waited until she looked at him, then gave his best smile. All the women he had known always complimented his smile. He had come to think of it as his strongest weapon of seduction. The girl had nodded to him, then looked away, apparently unimpressed.

  Undeterred, he leaned forward. “I am Stavut,” he said.

  “Of course you are,” she responded. Then she ignored him. She had eaten a meal and then left.

  Later that evening, after the villagers had gone, Stavut paid Kinyon for his meal and made to leave.

  “Are you intending to sleep by your wagon?” Kinyon asked him.

  “That was my plan.”

  “I have another bed. Use that. I think it will rain tonight.”

  Stavut had accepted gratefully, and after seeing to his horses he had sat with Kinyon by the fire, chatting about life, his travels, and entertaining the tanner with amusing stories from Outside. “Who was the girl who came in with the bow?” he asked, at last.

  Kinyon laughed. “I saw you looking at her. I think your tongue almost flopped to the tabletop.”

  “That obvious?”

  Kinyon nodded. “She is Askari. Extraordinary girl. You should see her shoot. She can bring down a running quail with a head shot. Can you believe that? I’ve seen her do it. More like magic than skill. And that bow has a sixty-pound pull. You’d think a slim young child like that would never be able to draw it.”

  “Is she a relative of yours?” asked Stavut, anxious not to say anything that might offend the man.

  “No. She was brought here as a child with her mother. Nice woman. Looked nothing like Askari. Sweet and diffident. Weak lungs, though. Always coughing. Died when Askari was around ten. After that she lived with Shan and his wife . . . the baker who was here earlier.” Stavut recalled the man, small and round shouldered, but with powerful forearms and large hands. When the girl had left she had walked to him and kissed his brow.

  “Is she betrothed?”

  “No,” said Kinyon. “And unlikely to be to anyone here.”

  “Why is that?”

  Kinyon suddenly looked wary. “The Lord Landis sometimes visits, and often rides out to speak with Askari. I think he entertains a certain fondness for her. Still, best we don’t speak about the ways of the mighty, eh? I’ll show you your room.”

  It had taken Stavut three visits to the settlement before he managed to engage Askari’s interest. Stavut had given the matter a great deal of thought on his travels. She was obviously not interested in his smile, and therefore he would need to plan his campaign with care. There would be no point in bringing her jewelry. People in Landis Khan’s realm wore none. Perfume would be equally useless. No, the girl was an archer. So Stavut sought out bowmen in other towns and asked about the craft. He learned there were many different arrowheads, some heavily barbed, some smooth, some cast in iron, some in bronze. He knew from Kinyon that Askari fashioned her own from flint. He had purchased twenty arrowheads, said to be perfect for the hunting of deer. Askari had looked at them with interest, but with no enthusiasm. Stavut had finally taken the problem to the Legend rider Alahir. His warriors all carried bows and were highly skilled with them.

  “Her biggest problem is probably with the fletching of the arrows,” said Alahir. “The thread that binds the feathers also separates them. This affects the accuracy. The thread needs to be strong, but very thin. Were I you, I would take some high-quality fletching thread.”

  “I’ll try that,” Stavut told him.

  Alahir grinned. “You want a little more advice?”

  “As long as it’s free.”

  “Don’t give her the thread.”

  “What then would be the point of taking it?”

  “Sell her the thread. A gift will make her nervous, and she is likely to refuse it. If you sell her the thread you’ll have opportunities to talk to her about how effective it is.”

  “And then I can use my charm to win her over.”

  “You have charm? You have kept it well hidden.”

  “Ha! This from a man who has to pay for female company?”

  Alahir laughed. “I choose to pay. I am cursed with a staff a stallion would be proud of. It takes an experienced woman to accept it. There are even some whores who hide when they see me coming.”

  “Yes, you keep telling yourself that’s why they hide,” said Stavut. “Why am I taking seduction advice from a man whose idea of foreplay is to slam coins on a table and shout: ‘Who wants to ride the big horse?’ ”

  Alahir leaned in and chuckled. “Because he knows best, Tinker.”

  Annoyingly enough, he had known best. When Stavut took the fletching thread to Askari, she had looked at it, then at him, and said: “All right, I will accept your gift.”

  “Gift? You misunderstand, huntress. I am a merchant. I am offering this for sale.”

  It was the first and only time he had seen her discomfited. She had reddened. “Of course,” she told him. “How much?”

  “A hundred gold Raq,” he said, with a smile, “or one kiss to my cheek.”

  She had laughed then. “I have no kisses to spare at present.”

  “Then I will give you credit. I will claim the kiss on my next visit.”

  Askari had relaxed, and he had walked with her to the high hills. Here she had a camp and a rough-built lean-to covered with branches. Stretched deerskins had been tied to poles for cleaning and drying, and there was a bag of food hanging from a high branch.

  “How did you learn to use a bow?” he asked her as they sat in the sunshine, eating raisin bread.

  “How does anyone learn to use a bow?” she countered.

  “No, I meant you were raised by the baker. Is he an archer?”

  “No. There used to be an old hunter who traveled these mountains. He taught me. He made me my first bow. I liked him greatly.”

  “I take it he died.”

  “No, he married a nomad woman and now lives out on the steppes. Are you really letting me have the thread for one kiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder you are not a rich merchant.”

  “A kiss from you and I would be richer than the Eternal.”

  She looked at him closely. “Kinyon says you would make me happy in bed and unhappy in life.”

  Stavut sighed. “Kinyon is a ver
y wise man. My friend who gave me the fletching thread said that the longbow is not as accurate as the recurve bows he and his men carry. He claims that, although the recurve is shorter, it has greater power.”

  “I have heard that. Is your friend with the Legend riders?”

  Stavut smiled. “Yes. Strange folk—but noble in their way. They call themselves the Last of the Drenai. No magic in their lands, no Jiamads. They hold to the old ways—or they did. Now they have to give tribute to Agrias and fight alongside his forces. It is the price they pay to keep the Jiamads from their lands.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  “His name is Alahir. He is a fine man, and ridiculously brave.”

  “I would like to meet him.”

  “—and very ugly,” added Stavut. “No manners at all. And he hears voices in his head. Did I mention that?”

  “Voices?”

  “He told me once—when drunk—that he hears voices whispering in his mind.”

  “Ghosts, you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Stavut told her. “Can we stop talking about Alahir? He really is very boring, you know.”

  “But he knows archery,” she said.

  “I may have overstated his skills.”

  “You are a funny man, Stavut. I like you.”

  And so had begun the friendship. Stavut had never claimed his kiss. Kinyon was right. Askari deserved a better man than he, though it would break his heart when she found him.

  T he huntress Askari had never felt comfortable for long around people. She preferred the solitude of the high country and the lonely mountains. It was not that she disliked any single individual in the settlement, nor indeed that she did not enjoy the occasional evening in Kinyon’s kitchen, talking to villagers about the events of the day or the vagaries of the seasons. Sometimes, after several weeks in the wilderness, she found herself longing for the laughter and camaraderie of the little town. But these needs were short lived. Mostly she found peace and harmony in her own company, walking the forest paths or climbing to a high vantage point and sitting staring out toward the northern steppes under a magnificent sky.

  Sometimes she would run over the hills, not for any purpose other than to feel the cool mountain air filling her lungs, and joy in the strength and stamina of her youth. Even in childhood she had been solitary—she had awaited eagerly the visits of the Lord Landis Khan. He would bring her small gifts, and sit and talk with her. He was like a favorite uncle whose arrival made the child clap her hands with glee. But since she had become a young woman the tone of the conversations with Landis had changed. She had seen him looking at her with an interest that disquieted her. One day recently he had reached out and stroked her long dark hair. Askari did not like to be touched and had drawn back.

  “I meant no offense,” said Landis, softly, a look of hurt on his face. He had run his hands over his close-cropped, iron-gray hair. “Once my own hair was the color of yours,” he said, seeking to lighten the mood. Askari had forced a smile, and tried to relax. “Are you content here?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “But would you not like to travel? Too see a little more of the world? I am thinking of journeying across the ocean. There are beautiful places there to see.”

  “It is beautiful here,” she told him.

  “Yet dangerous. The war will come here one day. It would please me greatly if you were to accompany me.”

  And there was that look again, his gaze straying to her slim body. Askari suppressed a shudder. Even if young and handsome, she would not want this man too close to her. It was not that she disliked him. He had, after all, always been kind to her, and she felt great affection for him. But the thought of him lying beside her naked was repulsive. Askari was young and inexperienced, and yet she knew instinctively that he desired her.

  He had come once more only ten days ago, but Askari had seen him from a distance and faded back into the forest, traveling up to one of her high camps.

  Thoughts of Landis faded from her mind as she saw Stavut’s wagon on the ridge road. She smiled and stood quietly, her longbow in her hand. Stavut had gotten down from the wagon and was inching toward the edge of the drop, then peering over. He always did that. She wondered what he was looking at. Thoughts of the red-garbed merchant lifted her spirits. He was a good companion, witty and sharp, and she loved his gift for storytelling. When he regaled her with tales of his travels, he would act out conversations, his voice mimicking the people he spoke about. His friend Alahir’s voice was deep, with a slow drawl. Of course he spoke about Alahir less often now. Askari smiled. “He sounds wonderful,” she had said once. She had watched Stavut’s expression darken as jealousy flared. Askari knew he desired her. Unlike Landis that desire was open and honest. There was nothing sly about Stavut. And he had a beautiful smile, which was impish and infectious.

  He had promised her a new bow, though she did not desire one. Her own longbow was powerful and accurate and had served her well. She was, however, anxious to see the recurve weapon he had spoken of. Koras the Hunter had told her of such weapons, maintaining they were perfect for mounted warfare. The Legend people could nock an arrow at full gallop and send it unerringly into any target.

  For a while longer she watched Stavut negotiating his wagon down the steep slope, then returned to her main camp, just inside the tree line. Stavut would stop first at Kinyon’s house and eat. Then he would tend to his horses. It would be late afternoon before he strolled up to her camp. She thought of going down to the settlement to greet him, but decided against it. She did not want to seem anxious to see him. Stavut was a man used to having women fawn over him, and Askari had no desire to boost his ego. Even so it was an effort to merely sit and wait.

  The long afternoon wore on. Askari bathed in the stream, ate a meal of hard bread and broth, then gathered wood for the evening’s fire. She kept glancing back down the slope to the settlement. It was an hour before dusk before she saw him walking up the hill. He was carrying a canvas rucksack, and she could see a bow hanging from it. But by now she was irritated. He had tarried in the settlement for too long, making her wait.

  Before he could see her she moved back into the trees and squatted down behind a screen of bushes.

  He strode up to the campsite, looked around, then called out her name. She ignored him. Stavut doffed his pack and sat down on a log. From her hiding place she watched him. She saw a swelling on his right cheekbone and a touch of blood upon his brow. Had he been in a fight? Askari sat quietly. Stavut began to whistle a cheerful tune, but as the darkness gathered she could sense his nervousness. Not a man who enjoyed wilderness nights. Askari hunkered down farther, then, cupping her hands over her mouth, let out a low wolf howl. Stavut leapt to his feet, eyes fearfully scanning the trees. She watched him grab the bow from the pack, then scout around for arrows. There were none. Dropping the bow, he pulled out a small knife, looked at it, swore, and sheathed it. Then he ran to the pile of wood Askari had gathered for the night’s fire and hefted a large chunk, holding it two-handed like a club. Holding back laughter, she crept through the undergrowth then let out another fearsome howl—this time closer.

  Stavut backed away from the trees and then stood very still, awaiting an attack.

  Askari rose from her hiding place and strolled out into the camp. “What do you think you are doing?” she asked.

  “Wolves,” he said. “You must have heard them.”

  “They do not attack people unless there is no other source of food. You should know that.”

  “I know that,” he said, wandering back to the camp and dropping the club. “But do the wolves know that?”

  “What happened to your face?”

  Stavut sighed. “I was attacked by Jiamads on the northern road.”

  “And all they did was bruise your face?”

  “No,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice, “they were going to kill me. Happily for me a group of warriors were hunting them. They arrived before I coul
d be eaten.”

  “Legend riders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your friend Alahir?”

  “Er . . . No, just some other riders. Anyway . . . as you can see I have your bow.”

  “Did you try it out on the Jiamads?”

  “No. It was in the wagon, under the cover.”

  She laughed then. “You will never be a warrior, Stavut. You are always so ill prepared. Let me see it.” Strolling over to him, she took the weapon and hefted it. The grip was covered with the finest leather. Askari traced her fingers along the graceful lines of the weapon, all the way to the recurved tip. “It feels good.” Extending her arm, she smoothly drew back the string until it nestled against her lips. “Let’s see what it can do,” she said, drawing an arrow from her quiver. “Pick up your club again and walk out onto the slope. I will tell you where to stop.”

  Stavut took the club and strolled away. After thirty paces she called out for him to halt.

  “Where do you want me to put it?” he shouted.

  “Hold it up in the air.”

  “Then what?”

  “I shall shoot it.”

  “I think not!” he said, dropping the club as if it were on fire. He strode back to where she waited. “You think my mother raised stupid children?”

  “You don’t trust my skill?” she asked sweetly, her eyes narrowing.

  “Ah,” he said, “I know this scene. A man thinks he is on solid ground, and suddenly he is tiptoeing through quicksand.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Of course I trust your skill. It is your arrows I don’t trust. You could hit the club, the arrow could glance off and kill me.”

  “I would wager that Alahir would not be afraid to hold the club.”

  He wagged his finger at her. “True, but Alahir, wonderful friend that he is, is still an idiot. And you can’t goad me into a display of stupidity by mentioning Alahir.”

  “I always thought you to be a brave man,” she said, shaking her head, as if in disappointment.

  “No, that won’t work either,” he said brightly. “Now, would you like me to plunge that wood into the ground, so that you can shoot at something?”