David Gemmell - Legend

"Was he good?" asked Rek.

"Awesome. It was just before Skeln and the defeat of the Immortals. Just a skirmish really. Yes, he was very good."

"You're not terribly strong on detail, Horeb."

"You want me to sound like the rest of these fools, jabbering about war and death and slaying?"

"No," said Rek, draining his wine. "No, I don't. You know me, don't you?"

"Enough to like you. Regardless."

"Regardless of what?"

"Regardless of the fact that you don't like yourself."

"On the contrary," said Rek, pouring a fresh glass, "I like myself well enough. It's just that I know myself better than most people."

"You know, Rek, sometimes I think you ask too much of yourself."

"No. No, I ask very little. I know my weaknesses."

"It's a funny thing about weakness," said Horeb. "Most people will tell you they know their weaknesses. When asked, they tell you, "Well, for one thing I'm over-generous." Come on then, list yours if you must. That's what innkeepers are for."

"Well, for one thing I'm over-generous — especially to innkeepers."

Horeb shook his head, smiled and lapsed into silence.

Too intelligent to be a hero, too frightened to be a coward, he thought. He watched his friend empty his glass, lift it to his face and peer at his own fragmented image. For a moment Horeb thought he would smash it, such had been the anger on Rek's flushed face.

Then the younger man gently returned the goblet to the wooden table.

"I'm not a fool," he said, softly. He stiffened as he realised he had spoken aloud. "Damn!" he said. "The drink finally got to me."

"Let me give you a hand to your room," offered Horeb.

"Is there a candle lit?" asked Rek, swaying in his seat.

"Of course."

"You won't let it go out on me, will you? Not keen on the dark. Not frightened, you understand. Just don't like it."

"I won't let it go out, Rek. Trust me."

"I trust you. I rescued you, didn't I? Remember?"

"I remember. Give me your arm. I'll guide you to the stairs. This way. That's good. One foot in front of the other. Good!"

"I didn't hesitate. Straight in with my sword raised, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"No, I didn't. I stood for two minutes shaking. And you got cut."

"But you still came in, Rek. Don't you see? It didn't matter about the cut — you still rescued me."

"It matters to me. Is there a candle in my room?"

Behind him was the fortress, grim and grey, outlined in flame and smoke. The sounds of battle filled his ears and he ran, heart pounding, his breathing ragged. He glanced behind him. The fortress was close, closer than it had been. Ahead were the green hills sheltering the Sentran Plain. They shimmered and retreated before him, taunting him with their tranquillity. He ran faster. A shadow fell across him. The gates of the fortress opened. He strained against the force pulling him back. He cried and begged. But the gates closed and he was back at the centre of the battle, a bloody sword in his shaking hand.

He awoke, eyes wide, nostrils flared, the beginning of a scream swelling his lungs. A soft hand stroked his face and gentle words soothed him. His eyes focused. Dawn was nearing, the pink light of a virgin day piercing the ice on the inside of the bedroom window. He rolled over.

"You were troubled in the night," Besa told him, her hand stroking his brow. He smiled, pulled the goose-down quilt over his shoulder and drew her to him under the covers.

"I'm not troubled now," said Rek. "How could I be?" The warmth of her body aroused him and his fingers caressed her back.

"Not today," she said, kissing him lightly on the forehead and pulling away. She threw back the quilt, shivered and ran across the room, gathering her clothes. "It's cold," she said. "Colder than yesterday."

"It's warm in here," he offered, raising himself to watch her dress. She blew him a kiss.

"You're fine to romp with, Rek. But I'll have no children by you. Now, get out of that bed. We've a party of travellers coming in this morning and the room is let."

"You're a beautiful woman, Besa. If I had any sense, I'd marry you."

"Then it's a good job you have none, for I'd turn you down and your ego would never stand it. I'm looking for someone more solid." Her smile took the sting from her words. Almost.

The door opened and Horeb bustled in bearing a copper tray containing bread, cheese and a tankard.

"How's the head?" he asked, placing the tray on the wooden table by the bed.

"Fine," said Rek. "Is that orange juice?"

"It is, and it'll cost you dear. Nessa waylaid the Vagrian trader as he left the ship. She waited an hour and risked frostbite just to get oranges for you. I don't think you're worth it."

"True," smiled Rek. "Sad but true."

"Are you really heading south today?" asked Besa, as Rek sipped his fruit juice. He nodded. "You're a fool. I thought you'd had enough of Reinard."

"I'll avoid him. Are my clothes cleaned?"

"Dori spent hours on them," said Besa. "And for what? So that you can get them filthy in Graven Forest."

"That's not the point. One should always look one's best when leaving a city." He glanced at the tray. "I can't face the cheese."

"Doesn't matter," said Horeb. "It's still on the bill!"

"In that case I'll force myself to eat it. Any other travellers today?"

"There's a spices caravan heading for Lentria that will go through Graven. Twenty men, well-armed. They're taking the circular route south and west. There's a woman travelling alone — but she's already left," said Horeb. "Lastly there's a group of pilgrims. But they don't leave until tomorrow."

"A woman?"

"Not quite," said Besa. "But almost."

"Now, girl," said Horeb, smiling broadly, "it's not like you to be catty. A tall girl with a fine horse. And she's armed."

"I could have travelled with her," said Rek. "It might have made the journey more pleasant."

"And she could have protected you from Reinard," said Besa. "She looked the part. Now come on, Regnak, get dressed. I've not the time to sit here and watch you breakfast like a lord. You've caused enough chaos in this house."

"I can't get up while you're here," protested Rek. "It wouldn't be decent."

"You idiot," she said, gathering up the tray. "Get him up, father, else he'll lie there all day."

"She's right, Rek," said Horeb, as the door closed behind her. "It's time for you to move, and knowing how long it takes you to prepare your public appearance I think I'll leave you to get on with it."

"One must look one's best…"

"… when leaving a city. I know. That's what you always say, Rek. I'll see you downstairs."

Once alone Rek's manner changed, the laughter lines about his eyes easing into marks of tension, sorrow almost. The Drenai were finished as a world power. Ulric and the Nadir tribes had already begun their march upon Drenan and they would ride into the cities of the plains on rivers of blood. Should every Drenai warrior kill thirty tribesmen, still there would be hundreds of thousands left.

The world was changing and Rek was running out of places to hide.

He thought of Horeb and his daughters. For six hundred years the Drenai race had stamped civilisation on a world ill suited to it. They had conquered savagely, taught wisely and, in the main, ruled well. But they had arrived at their sunset and a new empire was waiting, ready to rise from the blood and ashes of the old. He thought again of Horeb and laughed. Whatever happens, there is one old man who will survive, he thought. Even the Nadir need good inns. And the daughters? How would they fare when the hordes burst the city gates? Bloody images flooded his mind.

"Damn!" he shouted, rolling from the bed to push open the ice-sealed window.

The winter wind struck his bed-warmed body, snatching his mind back to the reality of today and the long ride south. He crossed to the bench on which his clothes had been laid out and swiftly dressed. The white woollen undershirt and the blue hose were gifts from gentle Dori; the tunic with gold embroidered collar a legacy of better days in Vagria; the reversed sheepskin jerkin and gold ties a present from Horeb and the thigh-length doeskin boots a surprise gift from a weary traveller at an outland inn. And he must have been surprised, thought Rek, remembering the thrill of fear and excitement as he had crept into the man's room to steal them only a month since. By the wardrobe stood a full-length bronze mirror, where Rek took a long look at his reflection. He saw a tall man, with shoulder-length brown hair and a well-trimmed moustache, cutting a fine figure in his stolen boots. He looped his baldric over his head and placed his longsword in the black and silver sheath.

"What a hero," he told his reflection, a cynical smile on his lips. "What a gem of a hero." He drew the sword and parried and thrust at the air, one eye on his reflection. The wrist was still supple, the grasp sure. Whatever else you are not, he told himself, you are a swordsman. From the sill by the window he took the silver circlet talisman — his good luck charm since he stole it from a brothel in Lentria — and placed it over his forehead, sweeping his dark hair back over his ears.

"You may not actually be magnificent," he told his reflection, "but by all the gods in Missael you look it!"

The eyes smiled back at him. "Don't you mock me, Regnak Wanderer," he said. Throwing his cloak over his arm, he strolled downstairs to the long room, casting an eye over the early crowd. Horeb hailed him from the bar.

"Now that's more like it, Rek my lad," he said, leaning back in mock admiration. "You could have stepped straight from one of Serbar's poems. Drink?"

"No. I think I will leave it a while yet — like ten years. Last night's brew is still fermenting in my gullet. Have you packed me some of your vile food for the journey?"

"Maggoty biscuits, mildewed cheese and a two-year-old back of bacon that will come when you call it," answered Horeb. "And a flask of the worst…"

Conversation ceased as the seer entered the inn, his faded blue habit flapping against bony legs, his quarterstaff tapping on the wooden boards. Rek swallowed his disgust at the man's appearance and avoided glancing at the ruined sockets where once the man's eyes had been.

The old man pushed out a hand of which the third finger was missing. "Silver for your future," he said, his voice like a dry wind whispering through winter branches.

"Why do they do it?" whispered Horeb.

"Their eyes, you mean?" countered Rek.

"Yes. How can a man put out his own eyes?"

"Damned if I know. They say it aids their visions."

"Sounds about as sensible as cutting off your staff in order to aid your sex life."

"It takes all sorts, Horeb, old friend."

Drawn by the sound of their voices the old man hobbled nearer, hand outstretched. "Silver for your future," he intoned. Rek turned away.

"Go on, Rek," urged Horeb. "See if the journey bodes well. Where's the harm?"

"You pay. I will listen," said Rek.

Horeb thrust a hand deep into the pocket of his leather apron and dropped a small silver coin into the old man's palm. "For my friend here," he said. "I know my future."

The old man squatted on the wooden floor and reached into a tattered pouch, producing a fistful of sand which he sprinkled about him. Then he produced six knuckle-bones, bearing crafted runes.

"They're human bones, aren't they?" whispered Horeb.

"So they say," answered Rek. The old man began to chant in the Elder tongue, his quavering voice echoing in the silence. He threw the bones to the sandy floor, then ran his hands over the runes.