David Gemmell - Legend

Within the main hall once more, Druss removed his jerkin and relaxed in a high-backed chair. His knee was throbbing and his back ached like the devil. And still Hogun had not appeared.

He ordered a servant to prepare him a meal and enquired after the Earl. The servant told him the Earl was sleeping peacefully. He returned with a huge steak, lightly done, which Druss wolfed down, following it with a bottle of finest Lentrian Red. He wiped the grease from his beard and rubbed his knee. After seeing Hogun, he would have a hot bath, ready for tomorrow. He knew his first day would tax him to his limits — and he mustn't fail.

"Gan Hogun, sir," announced the servant. "And Dun Elicas."

The two men who entered lifted Druss's heart. The first — it had to be Hogun — was broad-shouldered and tall, clear-eyed, with a square jaw.

And Elicas, though slimmer and shorter, had the look of eagles about him. Both men wore the black and silver of The Legion, without badges of rank. It was a long-standing custom, going back to the days when the Earl of Bronze had formed them for the Vagrian Wars.

"Be seated, gentlemen," said Druss.

Hogun pulled up a chair, reversing it in order to lean on the back. Elicas perched himself on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest.

Elicas watched the two men carefully. He had not known what to expect from Druss, but he had begged Hogun to allow him to be present at the meeting. He worshipped Hogun, but the grim old man seated before him had always been his idol.

"Welcome to Delnoch, Druss," said Hogun. "You have lifted morale already. The men speak of nothing else. I am sorry to have missed you earlier, but I was at the first wall supervising an archery tourney."

"I understand you have already met the Nadir?" said Druss.

"Yes. They will be here in less than a month."

"We shall be ready. But it will need hard work. The men are badly trained — if trained at all. That must change. We have only ten surgeons, no medical orderlies, no stretcher-bearers and only one hospital — and that is at Wall One, which is no good to us. Comments?"

"An accurate appraisal. All I can add is that — apart from my men — there are only a dozen officers of worth."

"I have not yet decided the worth of any man here. But let us stay positive for the moment. I need a man of mathematical persuasion to take charge of the food stores and to prepare ration rotas. He will need to shift his equations to match our losses. He must also be responsible for liaison and administration with Gan Orrin." Druss watched as the two men exchanged glances, but said nothing of it.

"Dun Pinar is your man," said Hogun. "He virtually runs the Dros now."

Druss's eyes were cold as he leaned towards the young general. "There will be no more comments like that, Hogun. It does not become a professional soldier. We start today with a clean slate. Yesterday is gone. I shall make my own judgements and I do not expect my officers to make sly comments about each other."

"I would have thought you would want the truth," interposed Elicas, before Hogun could answer.

"The truth is a strange animal, laddie. It seems to vary from man to man. Now keep silent. Understand me, Hogun, I value you. Your record is a good one. But from now on, no one speaks ill of the First Gan. It is not good for morale, and what is not good for our morale is good for the Nadir. We have enough problems." Druss stretched out a length of parchment and pushed it to Elicas with a quill and ink. "Make yourself useful, boy, and take notes. Put Pinar at the top, he is our quartermaster. Now, we will need fifty medical orderlies and two hundred stretcher-bearers. The first Calvar Syn can choose from volunteers, but the bearers will need someone to train them. I want them to be able to run all day. Missael knows they will need to when the action gets warm. These men will need stout hearts. It is no easy thing to run about on a battlefield lightly armed. For they will not be able to carry swords and stretchers.

"So who do you suggest to pick and train them?"

Hogun turned to Elicas, who shrugged.

"You must be able to suggest someone," said Druss.

"I don't know the men of Dros Delnoch that well, sir," said Hogun, "and no one from the Legion would be appropriate."

"Why not?"

"They are warriors. We shall need them on the wall."

"Who is your best ranker?"

"Bar Britan. But he's a formidable warrior, sir."

"That is why he is the man. Listen well: the stretcher-bearers will be armed with daggers only, and they will risk their lives as much as the men battling on the walls. But it is not a glorious task, so the importance of it must be highlighted. When you name your best ranker as the man to train the bearers and work with them during the battle, this will come home to them. Bar Britan must also be given fifty men of his choice as a moving troop to protect the bearers as best he can."

"I bow to your logic, Druss," said Hogun.

"Bow to nothing, son. I make mistakes as well as any man. If you think me wrong, be so good as to damn well say so."

"Put your mind at rest on that score, Axeman!" snapped Hogun.

"Good! Now, as to training. I want the men trained in groups of fifty. Each group is to have a name — choose them from legends, names of heroes, battlefields, whatever, as long as the names stir the blood.

"There will be one officer to each group and five rankers, each commanding ten men. These under-leaders will be chosen after the first three day's training. By then we should have taken their mark. Understood?"

"Why names?" asked Hogun. "Would it not be simpler if each group had a number? Gods, man, that's 180 names to find!"

"There is more to warfare, Hogun, than tactics and training. I want proud men on those walls. Men who know their comrades and can identify with them. "Group Karnak" will be representing Karnak the One-eyed, where "Group Six" would be merely identified.

"Throughout the next few weeks we will set one group against another, in work, play and mock combat. We will weld them into units — proud units. We will mock and cajole them, sneer at them even. Then, slowly, when they hate us more than they do the Nadir, we will praise them. In as short a time as possible, we must make them think of themselves as an elite force. That's half the battle. These are desperate, bloody days; days of death. I want men on those walls; strong men, fit men — but most of all, proud men.

"Tomorrow you will choose the officers and allocate the groups. I want the groups running until they drop, and then running again. I want sword practice and wall scaling. I want demolition work done by day and night. After ten days we will move on to unit work. I want the stretcher-bearers running with loads of rock until their arms burn and their muscles tear.

"I want every building from Wall Four to Wall Six razed to the ground and the tunnels blocked.

"I want one thousand men at a time working on the demolition in three-hour shifts. That should straighten backs and strengthen sword arms.

"Any questions?"

Hogun spoke: "No. Everything you wish for will be done. But I want to know this: do you believe the Dros can hold until the autumn?"

"Of course I do, laddie," lied Druss easily. "Why else would I bother? The point is, do you believe it?"

"Oh yes," lied Hogun, smoothly. "Without a doubt."

The two men grinned.

"Join me in a glass of Lentrian red," said Druss. "Thirsty work, this planning business!"

In a wooden loft, its window in the shadow of the great Keep, a man waited, drumming his fingers on the broad table. Behind him, pigeons ruffled their feathers within a wickerwork coop. The man was nervous. On edge.

Footsteps on the stairs made him reach for a slender dagger. He cursed and wiped his sweating palm on his woollen trousers.

A second man entered, pushed the door shut and sat opposite the first.

The newcomer spoke: "Well? What orders are there?"

"We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here."

"One man can make no difference," said the newcomer.

"Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks."

"Five? I thought…"

"I know," said the first man. "But Ulric's firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days; and it's a bad omen for Ulric."

"Bad omens can't stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress."

"What is Druss planning?"

"He means to seal the tunnels. That's all I know so far."

"Come back in three days," said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then re-read what he had written:

Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher.

"Perhaps we should kill Druss," said the newcomer, rising.

"If we are told to," said the first man. "Not before."

"I will see you in three days then."

At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.

He was a Drenai Dun.

Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats' tails which dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four… An endless, mindless agony of effort.

Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat 600 men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armour. First man! And what did he say? "A staggering old man followed by staggering old women. Well, don't just lie there, boy. On to Wall Three!"

Then he had laughed. It was the laugh that did it.

Gilad could have killed him then — slowly. For five miserable endless days, the soldiers of Dros Delnoch had run, climbed, fought, torn down buildings in the teeth of hysterical curses from the dispossessed owners, and trundled cart upon cart of rubble into the tunnels at Walls One and Two. Working by day and night, they were bone weary. And still that fat old man urged them on.

Archery tourneys, javelin contests, sword-play, dagger work and wrestling in between the heavy work made sure that few of the Culs bothered to frequent the taverns near the Keep.

Damned Legion did though. They glided through the training with grim smiles, and hurled scornful jests at the farmers who sought to keep up with them. Let them try working eighteen hours in the fields, thought Gilad. Bastards!

Grunting with pain he sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and watched others training. He had ten minutes yet before the next shift was required to fill the rubble carts. Stretcher-bearers toiled across the open ground, bearing rocks twice the weight of an injured man. Many had bandaged hands. Alongside them the black-bearded Bar Britan shouted them on.

Bregan tottered towards him and slumped to the grass. His face was cherry red. Silently he handed Gilad an orange half — it was sweet and fresh.

"Thanks, Breg." Gilad's eyes moved over the other eight men in his group. Most were lying silently, though Midras had begun to retch. The idiot had a girl in the town and had visited her the night before, creeping back into barracks for an hour's sleep before daybreak.

He was paying for it now. Bregan was bearing up well: a little faster, a little fitter. And he never complained, which was a wonder.