Read Online The Damned 02 - The Swords Of Night and Day by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Gemmell
Ads: Link
looked into her face he knew she had gone. There was no movement, no flicker of life.
That was the first moment Harad felt truly alone.
He had run his hand through his mother’s dark, greying hair, wanting to say something by way of farewell. There were no words. Their relationship had never been tactile, but each night she would kiss his brow, and say: ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, my son.’ Harad cherished those times. Once she had stroked his cheek as he lay abed, his body battling a fever. That was the single greatest moment of his childhood.
So, on that last day, he stroked his mother’s cheek. ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, mother,’ he said.
Then he walked down to the village and reported her death.
After that he lived alone. His strength, and an awesome stamina, made him a highly valuable asset as a logger. Yet that same strength still caused him problems. Other men would feel compelled to test it against their own, like young bulls vying for supremacy. Harad travelled throughout the timberlands.
Everywhere it was the same. At some point someone would engineer a disagreement, no matter how hard he tried to avoid confrontation.
He thought this bleak period in his life had ended last year, when he broke Masselian’s jaw. Masselian was a fistfighting legend in the high country. After that Harad had been left alone. In some strange way he had transcended the other ‘bulls’, reaching a plateau on which he was untouchable.
Now, however, he had earned the enmity of Lathar and his brothers. He had told the overseer, Balish, that the brothers would do nothing. He had said it to end the conversation with Balish, a man he didn’t like. As he sat in the dark he knew it wasn’t true.
They would come seeking revenge.
If only Charis hadn’t been there that morning. He could have enjoyed his meal, finished his work, and even now be sleeping dreamlessly.
Harad swore softly. Thoughts of Charis filled his mind. He tried to think of other things, but it was no use. If Harad found the company of men difficult, he found women impossible. He never knew what to say. Words would catch in his throat, and he would grunt some inanity.
Worse, he found much of the conversation of women incomprehensible. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? It makes one feel it’s good to be alive.’ What did that mean? It was always good to be alive. Naturally it was more comfortable when the sun shone, but did that make it more beautiful? Charis had once asked him: ‘Do you ever wonder about the stars?’ That question had haunted him all last winter. What was there to wonder about? Stars were stars. Bright little points in the sky. Night after night he had left his cabin and sat on the porch staring malevolently up at the heavens. He found no answers. But then Charis was like that. She would say things that seeded themselves in his brain, causing him endless discomfort.
Last week she had brought him some food, and sat down beside him. She had picked up an acorn.
‘Isn’t it wonderful to think that an oak tree can grow from this little thing?’
‘Yes,’ he said, simply to say something that might end this conversation before it wormed its way into his brain.
‘The acorn, though, comes from the oak tree.’
‘Of course it comes from the oak tree,’ he said.
‘So how did the first oak tree grow?’
‘What?’
‘Well, if the oak tree makes the acorn, and the acorn makes the oak tree, what made the first oak tree? There couldn’t have been any acorns, could there?’
And there it was. Yet another seed, whose growing roots would torment his mind through the long cold winter ahead.
The night breeze rustled the leaves above him, and he sighed. Perhaps when Charis married she would lose interest in tormenting him. This was a new thought for Harad. It made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t understand why. His mood darkened. Restless now, he rose to his feet and walked to
That was the first moment Harad felt truly alone.
He had run his hand through his mother’s dark, greying hair, wanting to say something by way of farewell. There were no words. Their relationship had never been tactile, but each night she would kiss his brow, and say: ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, my son.’ Harad cherished those times. Once she had stroked his cheek as he lay abed, his body battling a fever. That was the single greatest moment of his childhood.
So, on that last day, he stroked his mother’s cheek. ‘May the Blessed Priestess watch over you as you sleep, mother,’ he said.
Then he walked down to the village and reported her death.
After that he lived alone. His strength, and an awesome stamina, made him a highly valuable asset as a logger. Yet that same strength still caused him problems. Other men would feel compelled to test it against their own, like young bulls vying for supremacy. Harad travelled throughout the timberlands.
Everywhere it was the same. At some point someone would engineer a disagreement, no matter how hard he tried to avoid confrontation.
He thought this bleak period in his life had ended last year, when he broke Masselian’s jaw. Masselian was a fistfighting legend in the high country. After that Harad had been left alone. In some strange way he had transcended the other ‘bulls’, reaching a plateau on which he was untouchable.
Now, however, he had earned the enmity of Lathar and his brothers. He had told the overseer, Balish, that the brothers would do nothing. He had said it to end the conversation with Balish, a man he didn’t like. As he sat in the dark he knew it wasn’t true.
They would come seeking revenge.
If only Charis hadn’t been there that morning. He could have enjoyed his meal, finished his work, and even now be sleeping dreamlessly.
Harad swore softly. Thoughts of Charis filled his mind. He tried to think of other things, but it was no use. If Harad found the company of men difficult, he found women impossible. He never knew what to say. Words would catch in his throat, and he would grunt some inanity.
Worse, he found much of the conversation of women incomprehensible. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? It makes one feel it’s good to be alive.’ What did that mean? It was always good to be alive. Naturally it was more comfortable when the sun shone, but did that make it more beautiful? Charis had once asked him: ‘Do you ever wonder about the stars?’ That question had haunted him all last winter. What was there to wonder about? Stars were stars. Bright little points in the sky. Night after night he had left his cabin and sat on the porch staring malevolently up at the heavens. He found no answers. But then Charis was like that. She would say things that seeded themselves in his brain, causing him endless discomfort.
Last week she had brought him some food, and sat down beside him. She had picked up an acorn.
‘Isn’t it wonderful to think that an oak tree can grow from this little thing?’
‘Yes,’ he said, simply to say something that might end this conversation before it wormed its way into his brain.
‘The acorn, though, comes from the oak tree.’
‘Of course it comes from the oak tree,’ he said.
‘So how did the first oak tree grow?’
‘What?’
‘Well, if the oak tree makes the acorn, and the acorn makes the oak tree, what made the first oak tree? There couldn’t have been any acorns, could there?’
And there it was. Yet another seed, whose growing roots would torment his mind through the long cold winter ahead.
The night breeze rustled the leaves above him, and he sighed. Perhaps when Charis married she would lose interest in tormenting him. This was a new thought for Harad. It made him uncomfortable, though he couldn’t understand why. His mood darkened. Restless now, he rose to his feet and walked to
Similar Books
