Legend - David Gemmell

Gilad laughed, his tension flowing from him. "Never mind Druss," he said. "I'm glad you're with me, Breg, I really am."

Bregan's brown eyes searched Gilad's face for any sign of sarcasm. Satisfied, he smiled. "Thanks for saying that. We never had much to do with one another at the village and I always felt you thought I was dull."

"I was wrong. Here, take my hand on it. We will stick together, you and I, see off the Nadir and journey back to the Supper with tall tales."

Bregan gripped his hand, grinning, then: "Not like that," he said suddenly. "It has to be the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist."

Both men chuckled.

"Never mind about saga-poets," said Gilad. "We will compose our own song. Bregan of the Broadsword and Gilad, the demon of Dros Delnoch. How's that?"

"I think you ought to find another name for yourself. My Legan has always been afraid of demons."

The sound of Gilad's laughter reached the eagle high above the pass. It banked sharply and flew to the south.

10

Druss paced impatiently in the great hall of the keep, gazing absently at the marble statues of past heroes flanking the high walls. No one had questioned him as he entered the Dros, and everywhere soldiers were sitting in the spring sunshine, some dicing their meagre wages, others asleep in the shade. The city folk moved about their business as usual and a dull, apathetic air hung over the fortress. The old man's eyes had blazed with a cold fury. Officers chatted among the enlisted men — it was almost more than the old warrior could bear. Angry beyond endurance, he had marched to the Keep and hailed a young officer in a red cloak who stood in the shade of the portcullis gate.

"You! Where will I find the Earl?"

"How should I know?" answered the man, walking past the black-garbed axeman. A mighty hand curled round the folds of the red cloak and tugged, contemptuously. The officer checked in his stride, lost his footing and crashed back into the old man, who grabbed him by the belt and hoisted him from the floor. His breastplate clanged as his back hit the gateway.

"Maybe you didn't hear me, you son of a slut!" hissed Druss. The young man swallowed hard.

"I think he's in the great hall," he said. "Sir!" he added hurriedly. The officers had never seen battle nor any degree of violence, yet he knew instinctively the threat contained in the ice-cold eyes. He's insane, he thought as the old man slowly lowered him to the ground.

"Lead me to him and announce me. The name is Druss. Do you think you can remember it?"

The young man nodded so vigorously that his horse-hair crested helm slipped over his eyes.

Minutes later Druss paced in the great hall, his anger barely held in check. Was this how empires fell?

"Druss, old friend, how you delight my eyes!" If Druss had been surprised by the state of the fortress, he was doubly shocked by the appearance of Earl Delnar, Lord Warden of the North. Supported by the young officer, the man would not pass for the shadow he had cast at Skeln Pass a scant fifteen years before. His skin stretched like parchment over a skull-like countenance, yellow and dry, his eyes burning brightly — feverishly — in dark sockets. The young officer brought him close to the old warrior and the Earl extended a hand like a claw. Gods of Missael, thought Druss. He is five years younger than I!

"I do not find you in good health, my lord," said Druss.

"Still the blunt speaker, I see! No, you do not. I am dying, Druss." He patted the young soldier's arm. "Ease me into that chair by the sunlight, Mendar." The young man pulled the chair into place. Once settled, the Earl smiled his thanks and dismissed him to fetch wine. "You frightened the boy, Druss. He was shaking more than I — and I have good reason." He stopped speaking and began to take deep, shuddering breaths. His arms trembled. Druss leaned forward, resting a huge hand on the frail shoulder, wishing he could pour strength into the man. "I will not last another week. But Vintar came to me in a dream yesterday. He rides with The Thirty and my Virae. They will be here within the month."

"So will the Nadir," said Druss, pulling up a high-backed chair to sit opposite the dying Earl.

"True. In the interim I would like you to take over the Dros. Prepare the men. Desertions are high. Morale is low. You must… take over." Once more the Earl paused to breathe.

"I cannot do that — even for you. I am no general, Delnar. A man must know his limitations. I am a warrior — sometimes a champion, but never a Gan. I understand little of the clerk's work involved in running this city. No, I cannot do that. But I will stay and fight — that will have to be enough."

The Earl's fever-sick eyes focused on the ice-blue orbs of the axeman. "I know your limitations, Druss, and I understand your fears. But there is no one else. When The Thirty arrive they will plan and organise. Until then, it is as a warrior that you will be needed. Not to fight, although the gods know how well you do that, but to train: to pass on your years of experience. Think of the men here as a rusty weapon which needs a warrior's firm hand. It needs to be sharpened, honed, prepared. It's useless else."

"I may have to kill Gan Orrin," said Druss.

"No! You must understand that he is not evil, nor even wilful. He is a man out of his depth, and struggling hard. I don't think he lacks courage. See him and then judge for yourself."

A racking cough burst from the old man's lips, his body shuddering violently. Blood frothed at his mouth as Druss leapt to his side. The Earl's hand fluttered towards his sleeve and the cloth held there. Druss pulled it clear and dabbed the Earl's mouth, easing him forward and gently tapping his back. At last the fit subsided.

"There is no justice when such as you must die like this," said Druss, hating the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed him.

"None of us… can choose… the manner of our passing. No, that is not true… For you are here, old warhorse. I see that you at least have chosen wisely."

Druss laughed, loud and heartily. The young officer, Mendar, returned with a flagon of wine and two crystal goblets. He poured for the Earl, who produced a small bottle from a pocket in his purple tunic; he uncorked it and poured several drops of dark liquid into his wine. As he drank, a semblance of colour returned to his face.

"Darkseed," he said. "It helps me."

"It is habit forming," said Druss, but the Earl chuckled.

"Tell me, Druss," he said, "why did you laugh when I said you had chosen your death?"

"Because I am not ready to give in to the old bastard yet. He wants me, but I will make it damned hard for him."

"You have always seen death as your own personal enemy. Does he exist, do you think?"

"Who knows? I like to think so. I like to think this is all a game. All life is a test between him and me."

"But is it?"

"No. But it gives me an edge. I have six hundred archers joining us within fourteen days."

"That is wonderful news. How in heavens did you manage it? Woundweaver sent word he could spare not a man."

"They are outlaws and I have promised them a pardon — and five gold Raq a head."

"I don't like it, Druss. They are mercenaries and not to be trusted."

"You have asked me to take over," said Druss. "So trust me; I won't let you down. Order the pardons to be drawn up and prepare notes against the treasury in Drenan." He turned to the young officer standing patiently by the window. "You, young Mendar!"

"Sir?"

"Go, and tell… ask… Gan Orrin if he will see me in an hour. My friend and I have much to talk over, but tell him that I would be grateful for a meeting. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then get on with it." The officer saluted and left. "Now, before you tire, my friend, let us get down to business. How many fighting men have you?"

"Just over nine thousand. But six thousand of those are recruits, and only a thousand — The Legion — are battle-hardened warriors."

"Surgeons?"

"Ten, led by Calvar Syn. You remember him?"

"Aye. A point on the credit side."

For the rest of the hour Druss questioned the Earl, and by the end of the time he was visibly weaker. He began to cough blood once more, eyes squeezed shut against the pain that wracked him. Druss lifted him from his chair. "Where is your room?" he asked. But the Earl was unconscious.

Druss strode from the hall, bearing the limp form of the Warden of the North. He hailed a passing soldier, gained directions and ordered Calvar Syn to be summoned.

Druss sat at the foot of the Earl's bed as the elderly surgeon ministered to the dying man. Calvar Syn had changed little; his shaven head still gleamed like polished marble, and his black-eye-patch looked even more tattered than Druss remembered.

"How is he?" asked Druss.

"How do you think he is, you old fool?" answered the surgeon. "He is dying. He cannot last another two days."

"I see you have retained your good humour, doctor," said Druss, grinning.

"What is there to be good-humoured about?" queried the surgeon. "An old friend is dying, and thousands of young men will follow him within the next few weeks."

"Perhaps. It is good to see you, anyway," said Druss, rising.

"Well it's not good to see you," said Calvar Syn, a gleam in his eye and a faint smile on his lips. "Where you go, the crows gather. Anyway, how is it that you seem so ridiculously healthy?"

"You're the doctor — you tell me."

"Because you are not human! You were carved out of stone on a winter's night and given life by a demon. Now get out! I have work to do."

"Where will I find Gan Orrin?"

"Main Barracks. Now go!" Druss grinned and left the room.

Dun Mendar took a deep breath. "You don't like him, sir?"

"Like him? Of course I like him!" snapped the surgeon. "He kills men clean, boy. Saves me work. Now you get out, too."

As Druss walked across the parade ground before the main barracks building, he became aware of the stares of the soldiers and the muted whispers as he passed. He smiled inwardly. It had begun! From now on he would be unable to relax for a moment.

Never could he show these men a glimpse of Druss the Man. He was The Legend. The invincible Captain of the Axe. Indestructible Druss.

He ignored the salutes until he reached the main entrance, where two guards snapped to attention.

"Where will I find Gan Orrin?" he asked the first.

"Third doorway of the fifth corridor on the right," answered the soldier, back straight, eyes staring a head.

Druss marched inside, located the room and knocked on the door.

"Come!" said a voice from within and Druss entered. The desk was immaculately tidy, the office spartanly furnished but smart. The man behind the desk was tubby, with soft doelike dark eyes. He looked out of place in the gold epaulettes of a Drenai Gan.

"You are Gan Orrin?" asked Druss.

"I am. You must be Druss. Come in, my dear fellow, and have a seat. You have seen the Earl? Yes, of course you have. Of course you have. I expect he has told you about our problems here. Not easy. Not easy at all. Have you eaten?" The man was sweating and ill at ease and Druss felt sorry for him. He had served under countless commanders in his lifetime. Many were fine, but as many were incompetent, foolish, vain or cowardly. He did not know as yet into which category Orrin fell, but he sympathised with his problems.

On a shelf by the window stood a wooden platter bearing black bread and cheese. "I will have some of that, if I may?" said Druss.

"But of course." Orrin passed it to him. "How is the Earl? A bad business. Such a fine man. A friend of his, weren't you? At Skeln together. Wonderful story. Inspiring."

Druss ate slowly, enjoying the gritty bread. The cheese was good too, mellow and full-flavoured. He rethought his original plan to tackle Orrin by pointing out the shambles into which the Dros had fallen, the apathy and the ram-shackle organisation. A man must know his limitations, he thought. If he exceeds them, nature has a way of playing cruel tricks. Orrin should never have accepted Gan rank, but in peacetime he would be easily absorbed. Now he stood out like a wooden horse in a charge.

"You must be exhausted," Druss said at last.

"What?"

"Exhausted. The workload here is enough to break a lesser man. Organisation of supplies, training, patrols, strategy, planning. You must be completely worn out."

"Yes, it is tiring," said Orrin, wiping the sweat from his brow, his relief evident. "Not many people realise the problems of command. It's a nightmare. Can I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you. Would it help if I took some of the weight from your shoulders?"

"In what way? You are not asking me to stand down, are you?"

"Great Missael no," said Druss, with feeling. "I would be lost. No, I meant nothing of that kind.

"But time is short and no one can expect you to bear this burden alone. I would suggest you turn over to me the training and all the responsibility for preparing the defence. We need to block those tunnels behind the gates, and set work parties to razing the buildings from Wall Four to Wall Six."

"Block the tunnels? Raze the buildings? I don't understand you, Druss," said Orrin. They are all privately owned. There would be an uproar."

"Exactly!" said the old warrior, gently. "And that is why you must appoint an outsider to take the responsibility. Those tunnels behind the gates were built so that a small rearguard could hold an enemy force long enough to allow the defenders to move back to the next wall. I propose to destroy the buildings between Walls Four and Six and use the rubble to block the tunnels. Ulric will expend a lot of men in order to breach the gates. And it will avail him nothing."

"But why destroy the buildings?" asked Orrin. "We can bring rubble in from the south of the pass."

"There is no killing ground," said the old warrior. "We must get back to the original plan of the Dros. When Ulric's men breach the first wall, I want every archer in the Dros peppering them. Every yard of open ground will be littered with Nadir dead. We're outnumbered five hundred to one and we have to level the odds somehow."

Orrin bit his lip and rubbed his chin, his mind working furiously. He glanced at the white-bearded warrior seated calmly before him. As soon as he heard Druss had arrived, he had prepared for the certainty that he would be replaced — sent back to Drenan in disgrace. Now he was being offered a lifetime. He should have thought of razing the buildings and blocking the tunnels; he knew it, just as he knew he was miscast as a Gan. It was a hard fact to accept.

Throughout the last five years, since his elevation, he had avoided self-examination. However, only days before he had sent Hogun and 200 of his Legion Lancers into the outlands. At first he had held to the belief that it was a sensible military decision. But as the days passed and no word came he had agonised over his orders. It had little to do with strategy, but everything to do with jealousy. Hogun, he had realised with sick horror, was the best soldier in the Dros. When he had returned and told Orrin that his decision had proved a wise one, far from bolstering Orrin it had finally opened his eyes to his own inadequacy. He had considered resigning, but could not face the disgrace. He had even contemplated suicide, but could not bear the thought of the dishonour it would bring to his uncle, Abalayn. All he could do was to die on the first wall. And this he was prepared for. He had feared Druss would rob him even of that.