“The abbot had a shard of—” In that moment he thought of the shattered crystal. Heaving her into his arms he ran for the dais. Jianna cried out.
“The pain! Put me down, Olek. Please!”
“In a moment, my love. Hold on!” He carried her back up to the dais and laid her on the ground, then searched among the shattered glass. Finding a large shard of crystal, he returned to her side. Skilgannon raised the crystal shard—then stopped. Realization struck him, and he groaned aloud.
“I can’t,” he said. “I cannot save you. I would give my life to have Jianna by my side. But I can’t allow the Eternal to return.”
“It is all right, Olek,” she whispered. “The Eternal’s time is over. I’m glad we . . . met . . . again. I missed you . . . so much.”
Her eyes closed, and her head sagged. Skilgannon leaned down and kissed her lips. Then he sat alongside her, head bowed. Her body spasmed. A single word escaped her lips.
“Stavi!”
Skilgannon spun around. Grasping the dagger hilt, he pulled it from her. She cried out. Instantly he took the crystal shard and held it to her wound. “Lie still, Askari,” he ordered her. “Just lie still until the strength returns.”
He saw the color begin to return, and her eyes opened. “Where is Stavi?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where am I?”
“Lie still. I will explain all when you are well again.”
Her eyes closed. Alahir came alongside and touched Skilgannon on the shoulder. Leaning in close, he whispered: “Stavut is dead.”
“Sit with her for a while,” Skilgannon told him. “Hold this crystal to the wound.”
He rose and walked across to Druss. “I’m ready to return to the Void. How do I do that, Druss. How do I give that young man his body back?”
“You can’t, laddie,” said Druss. “I took Charis to the Golden Valley. The lad chose to cross with her.”
The shock was intense. “I don’t want it! The only person I ever loved has just gone to the Void! I should be there!”
“You will be. But not now,” said Druss. “If I see her there, I’ll help her as best I can.”
“You are going back?”
“Aye, laddie. My time here is done. I’m going home to Rowena. It was good to breathe the mountain air, but I am done with death and slaughter. I’ll not return.”
Skilgannon sighed, then reached out and shook Druss by the hand. “One day, perhaps, I’ll make it through that Golden Valley.”
“You could have done it anytime, laddie.”
“No. I remember I was scaled, like the other demons.”
“There never was anything stopping you—save your own conscience. You believed you needed punishing—so you punished yourself. Now you have a life again. Live it well. There is a world full of evil out there, and a lot of defenseless people who will need your strength. Give it freely. Then when you go to the Void, walk straight toward the light. I’ll see you there.”
Druss walked to the wall beneath the window and lay down. “Harad will be here soon. Tell him I was proud of the way he stood his ground against the beasts.”
“I’ll do that. You be careful in the Void, Druss. Wouldn’t like to think of a demon stopping you getting home.”
The axman laughed. “In your dreams, laddie!” he said. Lying back, he closed his eyes.
Skilgannon walked back to the dais and retrieved the Sword of Night. Askari was sitting with Alahir. He had his arm around her shoulder.
Sheathing his swords, Skilgannon began to fill his pockets with more shards of crystal. Then he returned to the abbot’s chamber.
The old man was still alive, but he looked different now, his hair white and thin, his face heavily wrinkled. His breathing was ragged. Skilgannon knelt beside him, opening the man’s deformed hand and pressing a shard of crystal into it.
The abbot sighed, and his eyes opened. “Thank you,” he said. “It will not be enough to save me.” Skilgannon reached into his pocket for more shards. “No!” said the abbot, placing his hand over Skilgannon’s arm. “Save them for those who will need them more.”
“What is happening to you?” asked the swordsman.
“Time is . . . catching up on me. Those five hundred years you spoke of were not cheated. They were merely waiting to claim us all.” He fell silent for a moment. “You destroyed the crystal?”
“Yes.”
The man looked desolate. “No golden age to discover now,” he whispered. “No end to disease and starvation. No bright, sparkling cities reaching the clouds.”
A slow rumbling sound came to Skilgannon, and the walls began to vibrate. “What is happening?” he asked the abbot.
“The Mirror is closing, drawing itself back.” Tears fell from his eyes. “All I have lived for is gone now. I am so tired.”
“Then think on this, priest: You stopped the Eternal from finding greater weapons. Your actions here have led to her death. The world is free again.”
“Free? Of one tyrant perhaps. You think there will be no others?”
“No, I do not. But I know there will always be men to stand against them. You grieve because of a pure magic lost. That magic was corrupted by evil. This is how evil thrives. We find an herb that cures disease, and someone will make a poison from it. We forge iron to make a better plow, and someone will make a sharper sword. There can be no power that evil will not corrupt. There may be no golden age to come now, but equally there will be no more Joinings, no more twisted, malformed beasts. No more wizards casting dark spells.”
The old man’s fingers opened, and a black shard of stone fell from it. “The Eternal is no more?” he said, his voice barely audible.
“She is gone from the world.”
“Then . . . some small good came from . . . my actions.”
“Aye, it did.”
His eyes closed, his head sagged back. Skilgannon sat by the body for a few moments. The decay continued rapidly, the hair growing, the skin drawing tight over the skull. Then it split and peeled away, falling in dust to the floor. Skilgannon rose.
Then he walked from the temple, and out into the desert night.
EPILOGUE
T he next few days were spent by the rock pool. Skilgannon used the crystal shards to heal the worst of the wounded, but the power was soon used up, the shards turning black. Of the two-hundred-fifty men who had set out with Alahir, less than sixty survived to make the return trip.
Every day more bodies of the dead were transported down into the valley, where deep graves were dug. Alahir presided over all the funerals, speaking movingly about each man. Harad helped with the digging, and not once did Skilgannon see him holding the ax of Druss the Legend.
On the third morning Skilgannon saw Harad sitting by the pool with Askari. He joined them. “How are you feeling, my friend?” he asked.
“I am alive. I would not have been had Druss not returned. I heard what he did—and how he turned back the enemy.”
“It makes you sad?” asked Skilgannon.
“No. It makes me proud. He is a part of me. It shows me what I may become.”
“That gladdens my heart, Harad. Where will you go now?”
“Back to Petar, I think. It is my home. I am sorry about Stavut,” he said to Askari. “I liked him greatly.”
“He was a good man,” she said. “Alahir says he will miss him.” She looked at Skilgannon.
“You think his beasts survived the ending of the magic?”
“I hope so. We three survived, and we were created by the same magic.”
“And where will you go, Skilgannon?” she asked.
“I am leaving today. I will cross the sea, to the ancient kingdom of Naashan. I loved that land, but most of my life was spent away from it. I will ride the valleys and the plains, and see what is left that I still recognize. But first I will collect the white horse.”
“I think that merchant is not trustworthy,” said Harad. “He may not want to keep hi
s promise to you.”
“One way or another he will keep it,” said Skilgannon.
“He had a lot of men,” Harad pointed out. “I wouldn’t like to think of you dying over a horse.”
Skilgannon laughed, then leaned in and clapped Harad on the shoulder. “In your dreams, laddie!” he said.
Harad looked bemused. “What does that mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It just seemed the right thing to say.” Skilgannon rose and turned to Askari.
“I hope you find happiness,” he said. Rising smoothly to her feet, she stepped into his embrace. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. “It was a privilege to have known you.”
“We may meet again,” she said.
“That would please me,” he told her.
Moving to the rear of the pool, Skilgannon saddled his horse and prepared to leave.
Alahir found him there and urged him to ride with them to Siccus. “Harad is coming with us. We’re going to put Druss’s ax in the Great Museum. It would be an honor for us if you were there, too.”
Skilgannon shook his head.
“I am going back for the white stallion,” he said, “then I’ll make my way southeast to Dros Purdol. I want to go home, Alahir. I want to see Naashan again. I want to look upon the mountains of my childhood.”
Alahir was disappointed. Then he brightened. “When you have done that, you might want to come and see us. There’ll be a place of honor for you at my table.”
The two men shook hands, in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “I may just do that,” said Skilgannon, stepping into the saddle. With one last look around the battle site he rode away.
Soon afterward Askari saddled her own mount. “Are you leaving us, too?” asked Alahir.
“I think I’ll travel with him,” she said. “Good-bye, Alahir.” Then she smiled. “Or should I say Earl of Bronze?”
“Alahir is just fine.”
Vaulting to the saddle, she swung her horse and began to ride away.
“Wait!” called Alahir. “You have forgotten your bow.”
She drew rein and glanced back at him. “Of course I have. How foolish of me.” Alahir fetched it, and she looped the weapon over her shoulder.
“I hope we meet again,” he said.
“You should always be careful of what you hope for,” she told him.
Then she heeled her horse and rode after Skilgannon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID GEMMELL was born in London, England, in the summer of 1948. Expelled from school at sixteen, he became a bouncer, working nightclubs in Soho. Born with a silver tongue, Gemmell rarely needed to bounce customers, relying on his gift of gab to talk his way out of trouble. This talent eventually led to a job as freelancer for the London Daily Mail, Daily Mirror, and Daily Express. His first novel, Legend, was published in 1984 and has remained in print ever since. He became a full-time writer in 1986. His books consistently top the London Times bestseller list.
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
DARK MOON
THE DRENAI SAGA
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY
THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
THE RIGANTE
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
The Swords of Night and Day
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 2004 by David Gemmell
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.delreydigital.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004101012
eISBN 0-345-47225-X
v1.0
David Gemmell, The Swords of Night and Day
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