David Gemmell - Legend

Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, slender and wand-like against a background of oak.

At the centre of the clearing, on a fallen trunk, sat a young man, dressed in homespun garments of green tunic and brown leather leggings. Upon his legs lay a longsword, and by his side was a longbow and a quiver of goose-feathered arrows.

"Good day, old man," he said, as Druss appeared. Lithe and strong, thought Druss, noting with a warrior's eye the cat-like grace of the man as he stood, sword in hand.

"Good day, laddie," said Druss, spotting a movement to his left in the undergrowth. Another whisper of branch on cloth came from his right.

"And what brings you to our charming forest?" asked the young man. Druss casually walked to a nearby beech and sat, leaning his back against the bark.

"A desire for solitude," he said.

"Ah yes. Solitude! And now you have company. Perhaps this is not a lucky time for you."

"One time is as lucky as another," said Druss, returning the other's smile. "Why don't you ask your friends to join us? It must be damp skulking in the bushes."

"How rude of me, to be sure. Eldred, Ring, come forward and meet our guest." Sheepishly two other young men pushed their way through the greenery to stand beside the first. Both were dressed in identical clothing of green tunic and leather leggings. "Now we are all here," said the first.

"All except the bearded one with the longbow," said Druss.

The young man laughed. "Come out, Jorak. Old father here misses nothing, it seems." The fourth man came into the open. He was large — a head taller than Druss and built like an ox, his massive hands dwarfing the longbow.

"Now, dear sir, we are all here. Be so kind as to divest yourself of all your valuables, for we are in a hurry. There is a stag roasting at camp, and sweet new potatoes, garnished with mint. I don't want to be late." He smiled, almost apologetically.

Druss bunched his powerful legs beneath him, rising to his feet, his blue eyes glinting with battle joy.

"If you want my purse, you will have to earn it," he said.

"Oh damn!" said the young man, smiling and reseating himself. "I told you, Jorak, that this old fellow had a warrior look about him."

"And I told you that we should have merely shot him down and then taken his purse," said Jorak.

"Unsporting," said the first. He turned to Druss. "Listen, old man, it would be churlish of us to shoot you down from a distance and that sets us a pretty problem. We must have your purse, don't you see? No point in being a robber else?" He paused, deep in thought, then spoke once more. "You're obviously not a rich man, so whatever we get will not be worth a great deal of effort. How about spinning a coin? You win you keep your money, we win we take it. And I'll throw in a free meal. Roast stag! How does that sound?"

"How about if I win I get your purses, and a meal?" asked Druss.

"Now, now, old horse! No point in taking liberties when we're trying to be friendly. All right! How about this? Honour needs to be satisfied. How about a little skirmish with Jorak here? You look quite strong, and he's a dab hand at bare-knuckle squabbles."

"Done!" said Druss. "What are the rules?"

"Rules? Whoever is left standing wins. Win or lose, we'll stand you a supper. I rather like you — you remind me of my grandfather."

Druss grinned broadly, reached into his pack and pulled on his black gauntlets. "You don't mind do you, Jorak?" he asked. "It's the old skin on my knuckles — it tends to split."

"Let's get it over with," said Jorak, advancing.

Druss stepped in to meet him, taking in the awesome breadth of the man's shoulders. Jorak lunged, hurling a right cross. Druss ducked and crashed his own right fist into the other's belly. A whoosh of air exploded from the giant's mouth. Stepping back, Druss thundered a right hook to the jaw and Jorak hit the ground face first. He twitched once, then lay still.

"The youth of today," said Druss sadly, "have no stamina!"

The young leader chuckled. "You win, Father Time. But look, for the sake of my fast diminishing prestige, give me the opportunity of besting you at something. We will have a wager: I wager my purse against yours that I am a better archer."

"Hardly a fair bet, laddie. I will concede that point. But I will make a wager with you: strike the trunk of the tree behind me with one arrow, and I'll pay up."

"Come now, dear sir, where is the art in that? Less than fifteen paces, and the bole is three hands wide."

"Try it and see," offered Druss.

The young outlaw shrugged, hefted his bow and drew a long arrow from his doeskin quiver. With a fluid motion his strong fingers drew back the string and released the shaft. As the outlaw's bow bent, Druss drew Snaga and the axe sang through the air in a glittering arc of white light as he sliced the blade to his right. The outlaw's shaft splintered as the axe struck. The young man blinked and swallowed. "I would have paid to have seen that," he said.

"You did!" said Druss. "Where is your purse?"

"Sadly," said the young man, pulling his pouch from his belt, "it is empty. But the purse is yours as we agreed. Where did you learn that trick?"

"In Ventria, years ago."

"I've seen some axe work in the past. But that bordered on the incredible. My name is Bowman."

"I am Druss."

"I know that, old horse. Actions speak louder than words."

Hogun swallowed back despair, his mind working furiously. He and 200 of his Legion Riders faced more than a thousand Nadir dog-soldiers, the cavalry wing of Ulric's forces.

Sent out to gauge the strength and disposition of the Nadir horde, Hogun was over 150 miles from Delnoch. He had all but pleaded with Orrin to forsake this plan, but the First Gan was not to be dissuaded.

"A refusal to obey a direct order is punishable by instant dismissal for any of Gan rank. Is that what you wish, Hogun?"

"You know that's not what I'm saying. What I am telling you is that this mission is futile. We know from our spies and countless refugees the strength of Ulric's forces. Sending 200 men into that wasteland is insane."

Orrin's brown eyes had blazed with anger, his fat chin trembling in a bid to suppress his fury. "Insane, is it? I wonder. Is it just that you don't like the plan, or is the famed Corteswain warrior afraid to meet the Nadir?"

"The Black Riders are the only seasoned troops of proven worth you have here, Orrin," he said, as persuasively as he could. "You could lose all 200 men with such a scheme, and learn from it no more than we already know. Ulric has 500,000 men, and more than twice that in camp followers, cooks, engineers and whores. He will be here within six weeks."

"Hearsay," muttered Orrin. "You leave at first light."

Hogun had come close to killing him then, close enough for Orrin to sense danger.

"I am your senior officer," he said, his voice close to a whine. "You will obey me."

And Hogun had. With 200 of his finest men, mounted on black horses — bred for generations as the finest war mounts on the continent — he had thundered his troop northwards as the dawn sun breasted the Delnoch mountains.

Out of sight of the Dros he had slowed the column and signalled the men to ride at ease, free to talk to their riding companions. Dun Elicas cantered alongside him, reining his horse to a walk.

"A bad business, sir."

Hogun smiled, but did not answer. He liked young Elicas. The man was a warrior born, and a fine lieutenant. He sat a horse as if he had been born on one, a true centaur. And a hellion in battle, with his custom-made silver steel sabre, two inches shorter than the standard version.

"What are we supposed to be finding out?" he asked.

"The size and disposition of the Nadir army," answered Hogun.

"We know that already," said Elicas. "What is the fat fool playing at?"

"Enough of that, Elicas," he said sternly. "He wants to be sure the spies were not… exaggerating."

"He's jealous of you, Hogun; he wants you dead. Face it, man. No one can hear us. You know what he is — a courtier. And he has no guts. The Dros won't last a day, he'll open the gates for sure."

"He's a man under terrible pressure. The whole of the Drenai cause rests on his shoulders," said Hogun. "Give him time."

"We don't have time. Look Hogun, send me to Woundweaver. Let me explain our situation. He could be replaced."

"No. Believe me, Elicas, it would achieve nothing. He's Abalayn's nephew."

"That old man has a lot to answer for," snarled Elicas. "If we do somehow get out of this business alive, he will fall for sure."

"He has ruled for thirty years. It's too long. But, as you say, if we do get out alive it will be because of Woundweaver. And it's certain he will take control."

"Then let me ride to him now," urged Elicas.

"The time isn't right. Woundweaver cannot act. Now, leave it alone. We will do our job, and, with luck, get away without being spotted."

But luck had not been with them. Five days out from Delnoch they had come across three Nadir outriders. They had killed only two, the third ducking down over the neck of his Steppes pony and riding like the wind into a nearby wood. Hogun had ordered an immediate withdrawal, and might have pulled it off had he enjoyed an ounce of luck. Elicas has been the first to spot the mirror messages flashing from peak to peak.

"What do you think, sir?" he asked, as Hogun reined in.

"I think we will need good fortune. It depends how many dog soldiers they have in the vicinity."

The answer was not long in coming. Towards late afternoon they saw the dust-cloud south of them. Hogun glanced over his back trail.

"Lebus!" he called and a young warrior cantered alongside.

"You have eyes like a hawk. Look back there, what do you see?"

The young soldier shielded his eyes from the sun, then squinted at their back trail.

"Dust, sir. From maybe two thousand horses."

"And ahead?"

"Perhaps a thousand."

"Thank you. Rejoin the troop. Elicas!"

"Sir?"

"Cloaks furled. We will take them with lances and sabres."

"Yes, sir." He cantered back down the column. The black cloaks were unpinned and folded to be strapped to saddles. The black and silver armour glinted in the sunlight as man after man began to prepare for the charge. From saddlebags each rider removed a black and silver forearm guard and slipped it in place. Then small round bucklers were lifted from saddle horns to be fitted to the left arm. Straps were adjusted, armour tightened. The approaching Nadir could now be seen as individuals, but the sound of their battle cries was muffled by the pounding of horses' hooves.

"Helms down!" yelled Hogun. "Wedge formation!"

Hogun and Elicas formed the point of the wedge, the other riders slipping expertly into position a hundred on either side.

"Advance!" yelled Elicas. The troop broke into a canter; then, at full gallop, the lances tilted. As the distance narrowed, Hogun felt his blood racing and could hear his pounding heart in time with the rolling thunder of the black horses' iron-shod hooves.

Now he could pick out individual Nadir faces, and hear their screams.

The wedge smashed into the Nadir ranks, the larger black war horses cleaving a path through the mass of smaller hill ponies. Hogun's lance speared a Nadir chest, and snapped as the man catapulted from his pony. Then his sabre slashed into the air; he cut one man from his mount, parried a thrust from the left and back-handed his blade across the throat of the horseman. Elicas screamed a Drenai war cry from his right, his horse rearing, the front hooves caving the chest of a piebald pony who ditched his rider beneath the milling mass of Black Riders.