Legend

17

The first of the spring storms burst over the Delnoch mountains as Gilad relieved the watch sentry on Wall One. Thunder rumbled angrily overhead while crooked spears of jagged lightning tore the night sky, momentarily lighting the fortress. Fierce winds whistled along the walls, shrieking sibilantly.

Gilad hunched himself under the overhang of the gate tower, tugging the small brazier of hot coals into the lee of the wall. His cape was wet through, and water dripped steadily from his drenched hair on to his shoulders to trickle inside his breastplate, soaking the leather of his mail-shirt. But the wall reflected the heat from the brazier and Gilad had spent worse nights on the Sentran plain, digging out buried sheep in the winter blizzards. He regularly raised himself to peer over the wall to the north, waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the plain. Nothing moved there.

Further down the wall an iron brazier exploded as lightning struck it and showers of hot coals fell close to him. What a place to be wearing armour, he thought. He shuddered and hunched closer to the wall. Slowly the storm moved on, swept over the Sentran Plain by the fierce wind from the north. For a while the rain remained, sheeting against the grey stone battlements and running down the tower walls, hissing and spitting as random drops vaporised on the coals.

Gilad opened his small-pack and removed a strip of dried meat. He tore off a chunk and began to chew. Three more hours — then a warm bunk for three more.

From the darkness behind the battlements came the sound of movement. Gilad spun round, scrabbling for his sword, phantom childhood fears flooding his mind. A large figure loomed into the light from the brazier.

"Stay calm, laddie! It's only me," said Druss, seating himself on the other side of the brazier. He held out his huge hands to the flames. "Fire now, is it?"

His white beard was wet through, his black leather jerkin gleaming as if polished by the storrn. The rain had petered to a fine drizzle, and the wind had ceased its eerie howling. Druss hummed an old battle hymn for a few moments as the heat warmed him. Gilad, tense and expectant, waited for the sarcastic comments to follow. "Cold, are we? Need a little fire to keep away the phantoms, do we?" Why pick my watch, you old bastard? he thought. After a while the silence seemed oppressive and Gilad could bear it no longer.

"A cold night to be out walking, sir," he said, cursing himself for the respectful tone.

"I have seen worse. And I like the cold. It's like pain — it tells you you're alive."

The firelight cast deep shadows on the old warrior's weatherbeaten face and for the first time Gilad saw the fatigue etched there. The man is bone-tired, he thought. Beyond the legendary armour and the eyes of icy fire, he was just another old man. Tough and strong as a bull, maybe, but old. Worn out by time, the enemy that never tired.

"You may not believe it," said Druss, "but this is the worst time for a soldier — the waiting before the battle. I've seen it all before. You ever been in a battle, lad?"

"No, never."

"It's never as bad as you fear it will be — once you realise that dying is nothing special."

"Why do you say that? It's special to me. I have a wife and a farm which I'd like to see again. I've a lot of living to do yet," said Gilad.

"Of course you have. But you could survive this battle and come down with the plague, or be killed by a lion, or develop a cancer. You could be robbed and killed or fall from a horse. Ultimately you will die anyway. Everyone dies. I'm not saying you should give up and just open your arms to welcome it. You must fight it all the way. An old soldier — a good friend of mine — told me early in my life that he who fears to lose will never win. And it's true. You know what a baresark is, boy?"

"A strong warrior," said Gilad.

"Yes he is. But he's more than that: he's a killing machine who cannot be stopped. Do you know why?"

"Because he's insane?"

"Yes, there is that to him. But more. He doesn't defend, because when he's fighting he doesn't care. He just attacks, and lesser men — who do care — die."

"What do you mean by lesser men? A man doesn't have to be a killer to be great."

"That's not what I meant… But I suppose it could have been. If I tried to farm — as your neighbour — men would say that I was not as good as you. They would look down on me as a bad farmer. On these battlements men will be judged by how long they stay alive. Lesser men, or lesser soldiers if you will, either change or fall."

"Why did you come here, Druss?" asked Gilad, meaning to ask why the axeman had chosen to interrupt his watch. But the warrior misunderstood.

"I came to die," he said softly, warming his hands and staring into the coals. "To find some spot on the battlements to make a stand, and then to die. I didn't expect to have to take over the damned defence. A pox on it! I'm a soldier, not a general."

As Druss talked on, Gilad realised the axeman was not talking to him — not to Cul Gilad, the former farmer. He was chatting to just another soldier at just another fire at just another fortress. In microcosm this scene was Druss's life, the wait before the war.

"I always promised her that I would stop and tend the farm, but always someone, somewhere, had a battle to fight. I thought for years that I was representing something — liberty, treedom, I don't know. The truth was always much more simple. I love to fight. She knew, but had the good grace never to point it out. Can you imagine what it's like to be a Legend — THE damned Legend? Can you, boy?"

"No, but it must make you feel proud," said Gilad, uncertain.

"It makes you tired. It saps your strength when it should raise it. Because you can't afford to be tired. You're Druss the Legend and you're invulnerable, invincible. You laugh at pain. You can march for ever. With one blow you can topple mountains. Do I look as if I can topple mountains?"

"Yes," said Gilad.

"Well, I damned well can't. I'm an old man with a weak knee and an arthritic back. My eyes are not so good as they were either.

"When I was young and strong, the bruises always healed quickly. I was tireless then. I could fight all damned day. As I grew older I learned to fake it and snatch rest where I could. To use my experience in battle where before I had just powered my way through. In my fifties I was careful, and anyway by that time the Legend made men tremble. Three times since, I have fought men who could have beaten me, but they beat themselves because they knew who I was and were afraid.

"Do you think I'm a good leader?"

"I don't know. I'm a farmer, not a soldier," said Gilad.

"Don't hedge with me, boy. I asked for an opinion."

"No, you're probably not. But you are a great warrior. I suppose in years gone by you would have been a war chief. I can't tell. You've done wonders with the training; there's a new spirit at the Dros."

"There were always leaders in my day," said Druss. "Strong men with quick minds. I have tried to remember all their lessons. But it's hard, boy. Do you see? It's hard. I've never been afraid of enemies I can face with an axe or my hands, if needs be. But the enemies at this fortress are not the same. Morale, preparation, fire gullies, supplies, liaison, organisation. It saps the soul."

"We'll not fail you, Druss," said Gilad, his heart reaching out to the older man. "We will stand firm beside you. You have given us that, though I hated you for most of the training."

"Hate breeds strength, laddie. Of course you will hold. You're men. Did you hear about Dun Mendar?"

"Yes, it was tragic. A good job that he was there to aid you," said Gilad.

"He was there to kill me, boy. And he almost did."

"What?" said Gilad, shocked.

"You heard me. And I don't expect you to repeat it. He was in the pay of the Nadir and he led the assassins."

"But… that means you stood alone against them all," said Gilad. "Five of them and you survived?"

"Aye, but they were a motley crew, and ill-trained. Do you know why I told you that… about Mendar?"

"Because you wanted to talk?"

"No. I've never been much of a talker, and I have little need for sharing my fears. No, I wanted you to know that I trust you. I want you to take over Mendar's role. I'm promoting you to Dun."

"I don't want it," said Gilad fiercely.

"Do you think I want this responsibility? Why do you think I've spent this time here? I am trying to make you understand that often — more often than not — we are forced into doing what we fear. You will take over as of tomorrow."

"Why? Why me?"

"Because I have watched you and I think you have a talent for leadership. You've impressed me in leading your ten. And you helped Orrin in that race. That was pride. Also I need you, and others like you."

"I've no experience," said Gilad, knowing it sounded lame.

"That will come. Think on this: your friend Bregan is no soldier and some of your men will die at the first attack. Having a good officer will save some of them."

"All right. But I can't afford to dine in the officers' mess or run up an armourer's bill. You will have to supply me with the uniform."

"Mendar's gear should fit you, and you will put it to more noble use."

"Thank you. You said earlier on that you came here to die. Does that mean you think we cannot win?"

"No, it doesn't. Forget what I said."

"Damn you, Druss, don't patronise me! You just talked about trust. Well, I'm an officer now and I asked you a straight question. I won't repeat the answer. So trust me."

Druss smiled and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the young sentry.

"Very well. We have no chance in the long term. Every day brings us closer to a Nadir victory. But we will make them pay dearly. And you can believe that, laddie, for that's Druss the Legend talking."

"Never mind the Legend," said Gilad, returning the other's smile. "That's the man who took on five assassins in a darkened alley."

"Don't build me up too high because of that, Gilad. All men have talents. Some build, some paint, some write, some fight. For me it is different. I have always had a way with death."

The girl moved along the battlements, ignoring the comments of the soldiers; her auburn hair glinting in the morning sun, her long legs, slender and bronzed, the objects of many of the friendly though intimate comments from the troops. She smiled once, when one of the men she passed murmured to a companion, "I think I'm in love." She blew him a kiss and winked.

Bowman smiled, gently shaking his head. He knew Caessa was making a meal of her entrance, but with a body like hers who would blame her? As tall as most men, willowy and graceful, her every movement combined to promise pleasure to any man watching. Physically, Bowman thought, she is the perfect woman. The ultimate female.

He watched her string her longbow. Jorak looked at him questioningly but he shook his head. The rest of the archers stood back. This was Caessa's moment, and after an entrance like that she deserved a little applause.

Straw dummies had been set up one hundred paces from the wall. The heads were painted yellow, the torsos red. It was a standard distance for a fine archer, but shooting down from a battlement added several degrees to the difficulty.

Caessa reached over her shoulder to the doeskin quiver and drew a black feathered shaft. She checked it for line, then notched it to the string.

"Head," she said.

With one flowing movement she drew back the string and as it touched her cheek, she loosed the shaft. It flashed through the morning air and hammered into the neck of the nearest dummy. The watching men burst into rapturous applause and Caessa glanced at Bowman. He raised an eyebrow.

Five more arrows lanced into the straw target before Bowman raised a hand to signal the other archers forward. Then he called Caessa to him and walked from the battlements.

"You took your time getting here, lady," he said, smiling.

She linked her arm in his and blew him a kiss. As always he felt arousal stirring. As always he suppressed it.

"Did you miss me?" Her voice was deep and throaty, a sound as full of sexual promise as her body was a vision.

"I always miss you," he said. "You raise my spirits."

"Only your spirits?"

"Only my spirits."

"You lie. I can see it in your eyes," she said.

"You see nothing that I do not want you to see — or anyone else. You are safe with me, Caessa. Have I not told you? But allow me to say that for a woman who does not seek the company of men, you make a very spectacular entrance. Where are your trousers?"

"It was hot. The tunic is decorous enough," she said, absently tugging at the hem,

"I wonder if you really know what you want," he said.

"I want to be left alone."

"Then why do you seek my friendship?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do," he told her, "but I'm not sure that you do."

"You are very serious today, O Lord of the Forest. I can't think why. We are all being paid. We have our pardons and the quarters are a sight better than Skultik."

"Where have they placed you?" he asked.

"The young officer… Pinar?… insisted that I have a room in the main barracks. He wouldn't hear of me sharing with the rest of the men. It was quite touching really. He even kissed my hand!"

"He's all right," said Bowman. "Let's have a drink." He led her into the Eldibar mess hall and on through the officers' section at the rear, ordering a bottle of white wine. Seated by the window, he drank in silence for a while, watching the men train.

"Why did you agree to this?" she asked him, suddenly. "And don't give me any of that rubbish about pardons. You don't give a damn about that, or about the money."

"Still trying to read me? It can't be done," he said, sipping his wine. Then he turned and called out for bread and cheese. She waited until the serving soldier had left.

"Come on, tell me!"

"Sometimes, my dear, as you will no doubt find when you are a little older, there are no simple reasons for a man's actions. Impulse. An act spurred by the moment. Who knows why I agreed to come here? I certainly do not!"

"You're lying again. You just won't say. Is it that old man, Druss?"

"Why are you so interested? In fact, why are you here?"

"Why not? It should be exciting and not terribly dangerous. We are leaving, aren't we, when the third wall goes?"

"Of course. That was the agreement," he said.

"You don't trust me, do you?" she said, smiling.

"I don't trust anybody. You know, sometimes you do act just like every other woman I have known."

"Is that a compliment, O Master of the Green Wood?"

"I think not."

"Then what does it mean? After all, I am a woman. How do you expect me to act?"

"There you go again. Let's get back to trust. What made you ask?"

"You won't say why you came, and then you lie about leaving. Do you think I'm a complete fool? You have no intention of quitting this doomed pile of rock. You will stay to the end."

"And where do you come by this remarkable intelligence?" he asked.

"It's written all over your face. But don't worry, I won't let on to Jorak or any of the others. But don't count on me to stay. I have no intention of dying here."

"Caessa, my little dove, you only prove how little you know me. Anyway, for what it's worth…"

Bowman ceased his explanation as the tall figure of Hogun entered the doorway and the Gan threaded his way through the tables towards them. It was Caessa's first sight of the Legion general and she was impressed. He moved with grace, one hand resting on his sword hilt. His eyes were clear, his jaw strong and his features fair — handsome almost. She disliked him instantly. Her view was strengthened when he pulled up a chair, reversed it and sat facing Bowman, ignoring her totally.

"Bowman, we must talk," he said.

"Go ahead. First, let me introduce Caessa. Caessa, my dear, this is Gan Hogun of the Legion." He turned and nodded once in her direction.

"Do you mind if we talk alone?" he asked Bowman. Caessa's green eyes blazed with anger but she kept silent and stood, desperate for a parting remark that would sting the man.

"I will see you later," said Bowman, as she opened her mouth. "Get yourself some food now." As she turned on her heel and left the room, Bowman watched her, delighting in the feline grace of her walk.

"You've upset her," he said.

"Me? I didn't even speak to her," said Hogun, removing his black and silver helm and placing it on the table. "Anyway, that's immaterial. I want you to speak to your men."

"What about?"

"They spend a lot of their time loafing around and jeering at the soldiers as they train. It's not good for morale."

"Why shouldn't they? They are civilian volunteers. It will all stop when the fighting starts."

"The point is, Bowman, that the fighting may start before the Nadir arrive. I have just stopped one of my men from gutting that black-beared giant, Jorak. Much more of this and we will have murder on our hands."

"I'll talk to them," said Bowman. "Calm yourself and have a drink. What did you think of my lady archer?"

"I really didn't look too closely. She seemed pretty."

"I think it must be true what they say about the cavalry," said Bowman. "You are all in love with your horses! Great gods, man, she's more than merely pretty!"

"Talk to your men now. I will feel a lot better then. Tensions are rising pretty badly and the Nadir are only two days away."

"I said I would. Now, have a drink and relax. You're getting as edgy as your men and that can't be good for morale."

Hogun grinned suddenly. "You're right. It's always like this before a fight. Druss is like a bear with a sore head."

"I hear you lost the Open Swords to the fat one," said Bowman, grinning. "Tut, tut, old horse! This is no time to be currying favour with the hierarchy."

"I didn't let him win, he's a fine swordsman. Don't judge him too harshly, my friend; he may yet surprise you. He certainly surprised me. What did you mean when you said I upset the girl?"

Bowman smiled, then laughed loudly. He shook his head and poured another glass of wine.

"My dear Hogun, when a woman is beautiful she comes to expect a certain… how shall I say?… a certain reverence from men. You should have had the good grace to be thunderstruck by her beauty. Stunned into silence, or better still into a babbling fool. Then she would have merely ignored you and answered your devotion with arrogant disdain. Now you have slighted her and she will hate you. Worse than this, she will do all in her power to win your heart."

"I don't think that makes a great deal of sense. Why should she try to win my heart if she hates me?"

"So that she can be in a position to treat you with disdain. Do you know nothing about women?"

"I know enough," said Hogun. "I also know that I don't have time for this foolishness. Should I apologise to her, do you think?"

"And let her know you know how slighted she was? My dear boy, your education has been sadly lacking!"