Legend

2

Rek watched in silence as the groom saddled the chestnut gelding. He didn't like the horse — it had a mean eye and its ears lay flat against its skull. The groom, a young slim boy, was crooning gently to it as his shaking fingers tightened the girth.

"Why couldn't you get a grey?" asked Rek. Horeb laughed.

"Because it would have taken you one step too many towards farce. Understatement is the thing, Rek. You already look like a peacock and as it is, every Lentrian sailor will be chasing you. No, a chestnut's the thing." More seriously he added, "And in Graven you may wish to be inconspicuous. A tall white horse is not easily missed."

"I don't think it likes me. See the way it looks at me?"

"Its sire was one of the fastest horses in Drenan; its dam was a war horse in Woundweaver's lancers. You couldn't get a better pedigree."

"What is it called?" asked Rek, still unconvinced.

"Lancer," answered Horeb.

"That has a nice ring to it. Lancer… Well, maybe… just maybe."

"Daffodil's ready, sir," said the groom, backing away from the chestnut. The horse swung its head, snapping at the retreating boy who stumbled and fell on the cobbles.

"Daffodil?" said Rek. "You bought me a horse called Daffodil?"

"What's in a name, Rek?" answered Horeb innocently. "Call it what you like — you must admit it's a fine beast."

"If I didn't have a fine sense for the ridiculous, I would have it muzzled. Where are the girls?"

"Too busy to be waving goodbye to layabouts who rarely pay their bills. Now, be off with you."

Rek advanced gingerly towards the gelding, speaking softly. It turned a baleful eye on him, but allowed him to swing into the high-backed saddle. He gathered the reins, adjusted his blue cloak to just the right angle over the horse's back and swung the beast towards the gate.

"Rek, I almost forgot…" called Horeb, pushing back towards the house. "Wait a moment!" The burly innkeeper disappeared from sight, emerging seconds later carrying a short bow of horn and elm and a quiver of black-shafted arrows. "Here. A customer left this behind in part payment some months ago. It looks a sturdy weapon."

"Wonderful," said Rek. "I used to be a fine bowman."

"Yes," said Horeb. "Just remember when you use it that the sharp end is pointed away from you. Now begone — and take care."

"Thanks, Horeb. You too. And remember what I said about candles."

"I will. On your way, boy. Be lucky now."

Rek rode from the south gate as the watchmen trimmed the lantern wicks. The dawn shadows were shrinking on the streets of Drenan and young children played beneath the portcullis. He had chosen the southern route for the most obvious of reasons. The Nadir were marching from the North and the fastest way from a battle was a straight line in the opposite direction.

Flicking his heels, he urged the gelding forward towards the south. To his left the rising sun was breasting the blue peaks of the eastern mountains. The sky was blue, birds sang and the sounds of an awakening city came from behind him. But the sun was rising, Rek knew, on the Nadir. For the Drenai it was dusk on the last day.

Topping a rise he gazed down on Graven Forest, white and virginal under the winter snow. And yet it was a place of evil legends which normally he would have avoided. The fact that instead he chose to enter showed he knew two things: first, the legends were built around the activities of a living man; second, he knew that man.

Reinard.

He and his band of bloodthirsty cut-throats had their headquarters in Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.

Reinard. Sired by a prince of Hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence — he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had, he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of Reinard's favourite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to flatter the hell out of him. And if that didn't work, to give him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan and ride swiftly from his domain.

Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices, slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information. Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly, knowing the caravanners' fate was in the lap of the gods.

The chestnut's hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing and his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.

The horse plodded on. At noon, Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal, hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a handful of oats. He stroked the long neck and the chestnut's head came up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backwards, falling into a deep snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.

"I knew you didn't like me," he said. The horse turned to look at him and snorted.

As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse's hind-quarters. Deep switch scars showed by the tail.

Gently, his hand moved over them. "So," he said, "someone took a whip to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn't break your spirit did they, boy?" He swung into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the forest in five days.

Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the track and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began to cast about for a good camping site, finding one an hour later in a small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it and then built a small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoulders, leaned against the oak and watched the flames dance.

A skinny fox poked its snout through a bush, peering at the fire. On impulse, Rek threw it a strip of beef. The animal flicked its eyes from the man to the morsel and back again, before darting out to snatch the meat from the frozen ground. Then it vanished into the night. Rek held out his hands to the fire and thought of Horeb.

The burly innkeeper had raised him after Rek's father had been killed in the northern wars against the Sathuli. Honest, loyal, strong and dependable — Horeb was all of these. And he was kind, a prince among men.

Rek had managed to repay him one well-remembered night when three Vagrian deserters had attacked him in an alley near the inn.

Luckily Rek had been drinking and when he first heard the sound of steel on steel he had rushed forward. Within the alley Horeb was fighting a losing battle, his kitchen knife no match for three swordsmen. Yet the old man had been a warrior and moved well. Rek had been frozen to the spot, his own sword forgotten. He tried to move forward, but his legs refused the order. Then a sword had cut through Horeb's guard, opening a huge wound in his leg.

Rek had screamed and the sound had released his terror.

The bloody skirmish was over in seconds. Rek took out the first assailant with a throat slash, parried a thrust from the second and shoulder-charged the third into a wall. From the ground Horeb grabbed the third man, pulling him down and stabbing out with his kitchen knife. The second man fled into the night.

"You were wonderful, Rek," said Horeb. "Believe me, you fight like a veteran."

Veterans don't freeze with fear, thought Rek.

Now he fed some twigs to the flames. A cloud obscured the moon, an owl hooted. Rek's shaking hand curled round his dagger.

Damn the dark, he thought. And curse all heroes!

He had been a soldier for a while, stationed at Dros Corteswain, and had enjoyed it. But then the Sathuli skirmishes had become border war and the enjoyment palled. He had done well, been promoted; his senior officers had told him he had a fine feel for tactics. But they did not know about the sleepless nights. His men had respected him, he thought. But that was because he was careful — even cautious. He had left before his nerve could betray him.

"Are you mad, Rek?" Gan Javi had asked him when he resigned his commission. "The war is expanding. We've got more troops coming and a fine officer like you can be sure of promotion. You'll lead more than a century in six months. You could be offered the Gan eagle."

"I know all that, sir — and believe me, I'm really sorry I shall be missing the action. But it's a question of family business. Damn, I would cut off my right arm to stay, you know that."

"I do, boy. And we'll miss you, by Missael. Your troop will be shattered. If you change your mind there will be a place for you here. Any time. You're a born soldier."

"I'll remember that, sir. Thank you for all your help and encouragement."

"One more thing, Rek," said Can Javi, leaning back in his carved chair. "You know there are rumours that the Nadir are preparing a march on the south?"

"There are always rumours of that, sir," answered Rek.

"I know, they've been circulating for years. But this Ulric is a canny one. He's conquered most of the tribes now and I think he's almost ready."

"But Abalayn has just signed a treaty with him," said Rek. "Mutual peace in return for trade concessions and finance for his building programme."

"That's what I mean, lad. I'll say nothing against Abalayn, he's ruled the Drenai for twenty years. But you don't stop a wolf by feeding it — believe me! Anyway, what I'm saying is that men like yourselves will be needed before long, so don't get rusty."

The last thing the Drenai needed now was a man who was afraid of the dark. What they needed was another Karnak the One-eyed — a score of them. An Earl of Bronze. A hundred like Druss the Legend. And even if, by some miracle, this were to happen, would even these stem the tide of half a million tribesmen?

Who could even picture such a number?

They would wash over Dros Delnoch like an angry sea, Rek knew.

If I thought there was a chance, I still wouldn't go. Face it, he thought. Even if victory was certain, still he would avoid the battle.

Who will care in a hundred years whether the Drenai survived? It would be like Skeln pass, shrouded in legend and glorified beyond truth.

War!

Flies settling like a black stain over a man's entrails as he weeps with the pain and holds his body together with crimson fingers, hoping for a miracle. Hunger, cold, fear, disease, gangrene, death!

War for soldiers.

The day he left Dros Corteswain he was approached by one of the Culs, who nervously offered him a tight-wrapped bundle.

"From the troop, sir," he said.

He had opened it, embarrassed and empty of words, to see a blue cloak with an eagle clasp in crafted bronze.

"I don't know how to thank you all."

"The men want me to say… well, we're sorry you're leaving. That's all, sir."

"I'm sorry too, Korvac. Family business, you know?"

The man had nodded, probably wishing he had family business which would allow him to depart the Dros. But Culs had no commission to resign — only the Dun class could leave a fortress during a war.

"Well, good luck, sir. See you soon, I hope… we all hope."

"Yes! Soon."

That was two years ago. Gan Javi had died from a stroke and several of Rek's brother officers had been killed in the Sathuli battles. No message reached him of individual Culs.

The days passed — cold, gloomy, but mercifully without incident until the morning of the fifth day when, on a high trail skirting a grove of elm, he heard the one sound he disliked above all others — the clash of steel on steel. He should have ridden on, he knew he should. But for some reason his curiosity fractionally outweighed his fear. He hobbled the horse, swung the quiver to his back and strung the horn bow. Then carefully he worked his way through the trees and down into the snow-covered glen. Moving stealthily, with catlike care, he came to a clearing. Sounds of battle echoed in the glade.

A young woman, in armour of silver and bronze, stood with her back to a tree, desperately fending off a combined assault from three outlaws, burly men and bearded, armed with swords and daggers. The woman held a slender blade, a flickering, dancing rapier that cut and thrust with devastating speed.

The three, clumsy swordsmen at best, were hampering each other. But the girl was tiring fast.

These were Reinard's men, Rek knew, cursing his own curiosity. One of them cried out as the rapier lanced across his forearm.

"Take that, you dung beetle," shouted the girl.

Rek smiled. No beauty, but she could fence.

He notched an arrow to his bow and waited for the right moment to let fly. The girl ducked under a vicious cut and flashed her blade through the eye of the swordsman. As he screamed and fell the other two fell back, more wary now; they moved apart, ready to attack from both flanks. The girl had been dreading this moment, for there was no defence but flight. Her gaze flickered from man to man. Take the tall one first, forget about the other and hope his first thrust is not mortal. Maybe she could take them both with her.

The tall one moved to the left while his comrade crossed to the right. At this moment Rek loosed a shaft at the tall outlaw's back, which lanced through his left calf. Swiftly he notched a second arrow, as the bewildered man spun round, saw Rek and hobbled towards him, screaming hatred.

Rek drew back the string until it touched his cheek, locked his left arm and loosed the shaft.

This time the aim was slightly better. He had been aiming for the chest — the largest target — but the arrow was high and now the outlaw lay on his back, the black shaft jutting from his forehead and blood bubbling to the snow.

"You took your time getting involved," said the girl coolly, stepping across the body of the third outlaw and wiping her slender blade on his shirt.

Rek tore his eyes from the face of the man he had killed.

"I just saved your life," he said, checking an angry retort.

She was tall and well-built — almost mannish, Rek thought; her hair long and mousy blonde, unkempt. Her eyes were blue and deep-set beneath thick dark brows which indicated an uncertain temper. Her figure was disguised by the silver steel mailshirt and bronze shoulder pads; her legs encased in shapeless green woollen troos laced to the thigh with leather straps.

"Well, what are you staring at?" she demanded. "Never seen a woman before?"

"Well, that answers the first question," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"You're a woman."

"Oh, very dry!" She retrieved a sheepskin jerkin from beneath the tree, dusting off the snow and slipping it on. It did nothing to enhance her appearance, thought Rek.

"They attacked me," she said. "Killed my horse, the bastards! Where's your horse?"

"Your gratitude overwhelms me," said Rek, an edge of anger in his voice. "Those are Reinard's men."

"Really? Friend of yours, is he?"

"Not exactly. But if he knew what I had done he would roast my eyes on a fire and serve them to me as an appetiser."

"All right, I appreciate your point. I'm extremely grateful. Now, where's your horse?"

Rek ignored her, gritting his teeth against his anger. He walked to the dead outlaw and dragged his arrows clear, wiping them on the man's jerkin. Then he methodically searched the pockets of all three. Seven silver coins and several gold rings the richer, he then returned to the girl.

"My horse has one saddle. I ride it," he said, icily. "I've done about all I want to do for you. You're on your own now."

"Damned chivalrous of you," she said.

"Chivalry isn't my strong point," he said, turning away.

"Neither is marksmanship," she retorted.

"What?"

"You were aiming for his back from twenty paces and you hit his leg. It's because you closed one eye — ruined your perspective."

"Thanks for the archery instruction. Good luck!"

"Wait!" she said. He turned. "I need your horse."

"So do I."

"I will pay you."

"He's not for sale."

"All right. Then I will pay you to take me to where I can buy a horse."

"How much?" he asked.

"One golden Raq."

"Five," he said.

"I could buy three horses for that," she stormed.

"It's a seller's market," he retorted.

Two — and that's final."

"Three."

"All right, three. Now, where's your horse?"

"First the money, my lady." He held out a hand. Her blue eyes were frosty as she removed the coins from a leather pouch and placed them in his palm. "My name is Regnak — Rek to my friends," he said.

"That's of no interest to me," she assured him.