David Gemmell - Legend

"No. Listen to me. I did enter Delnoch and I saw death there. Terrible death!"

"The Nadir are there already?" asked Rek.

"No. Be silent. I could not see the man clearly, but I saw the Musif well being poisoned behind Wall Two. Anyone who drinks from that well will die."

"But we should arrive before the fall of Wall One," said Rek. "And surely they will not need the Musif well until then?"

"That is not the point. Eldibar, or Wall One as you call it, is indefensible. It is too wide; any capable commander will give it up. Don't you understand? That's why the traitor poisoned the other well. Druss is bound to fight his first battle there and the men will be fed that day at dawn. By midday the deaths will begin, and by dusk you will have an army of ghosts."

"We must ride," said Rek. "Now! Get him on a horse."

Rek ran to find Virae as The Thirty saddled their mounts. Vintar and Arbedark helped Serbitar to his feet.

"There was more, was there not?" said Vintar.

"Aye, but some tragedies are best left unspoken."

For three days they rode in the shadow of the Delnoch range into deep glens, and over wooded hills. They rode swiftly but with caution, Menahem scouting ahead and pulsing messages to Serbitar. Virae had said little since the argument and avoided Rek studiously. He in turn gave no ground and made no attempt to breach the silence, though it hurt him deeply.

On the morning of the fourth day, as they breasted a small hill above thick woods, Serbitar held up a hand to halt the column.

"What's wrong?" asked Rek, drawing alongside.

"I have lost contact with Menahem."

"Trouble?"

"I don't know. He could have been thrown from his horse."

"Let us go and find out," said Rek, spurring the mare.

"No!" called Serbitar, but the horse was already on the move downhill and gathering speed. Rek tugged at the reins to bring the animal's head up, then leaned back in the saddle as the beast slithered to the foot of the hill. Once more on firm ground Rek glanced about him. Amongst the trees he could see Menahem's grey standing with head down, and beyond the warrior himself lying face down on the grass. Rek cantered the mare towards him, but as he passed under the first tree a whisper of movement alerted him and he flung himself from his saddle as a man leapt from the branches. Rek landed on his side, rolled and regained his feet, dragging his sword free of its scabbard. His attacker was joined by two others, all wore the flowing white robes of the Sathuli.

Rek backed towards the fallen Menahem and glanced down. The warrior's head was bleeding at the temple. Slingshot, Rek realised, but had no chance to check if the priest was still alive. Other Sathuli now crept from the undergrowth, their broad tulwars and long knives in hand.

Slowly they advanced, grins splitting their dark, bearded features. Rek grinned back.

"This is a good day to die," he said. "Why don't you join me?"

He slid his right hand further up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy sword-play; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt a strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.

With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through theàthroat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them,àhis blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault they fell back, then leapt forward again screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowthàbehind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.

Rek was not aware of the arrival of The Thrity. He parried a blow and back-handed his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.

Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.

The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disembowelled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of elder legends.

Rek's anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of Earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman's tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.

"Enough!" he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. "Put up your swords, all of you!" The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.

All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one's words were spoken with power and his voice held them momentarily.

"Let your leader step forth," ordered Rek, plunging his sword blade into the ground at his feet and folding his arms, though the Sathuli blades still ringed him.

The men before him stepped aside as a tall broad-shouldered man in robes of blue and white moved forward. He was as tall as Rek, though hawk-nosed and swarthy. A trident beard gave him a sardonic look and the sabre scar from brow to chin completed the impression.

"I am Regnak, Earl of Dros Delnoch," said Rek.

"I am Sathuli — Joachim Sathuli — and I shall kill you," replied the man grimly.

"Matters like this should be settled by men such as you and I," said Rek. "Look about you — everywhere are Sathuli corpses. How many of my men are among them?"

"They will join them soon," said Joachim.

"Why do we not settle this like princes?" said Rek. "You and I alone."

The man's scarred eyebrow lifted. "That would only equal the odds against you. You have no bargaining power, wherefore should I grant you this?"

"Because it will save Sathuli lives. Oh, I know they give their lives gladly, but for what? We carry no provisions, no gold. We have only horses and the Delnoch ranges are full of them. This is now a matter of pride, not of booty. Such matters are for you and I to decide."

"Like all Drenai, you talk a good fight," said the Sathuli, turning away.

"Has fear turned your bowels to water?" asked Rek, softly.

The man turned back, smiling. "Ah, now you seek to anger me. Very well! We will fight. When you die, your men will lay down their swords?"

"Yes."

"And if I die, we allow you to pass?"

"Yes."

"So be it. I swear this on the soul of Mehmet, Blessed be His Name."

Joachim drew a slender scimitar and the Sathulis around Rek moved back to form a circle about the two men. Rek drew his blade from the earth and the battle began.

The Sathuli was an accomplished swordsman and Rek was forced back as soon as the fight started. Serbitar, Virae and the others watched calmly as blade met blade time and again. Parry, riposte, thrust and parry, slash and check. Rek defended frantically at first, then slowly began to counter. The battle wore on, with both men sweating freely. It was obvious to all that they were evenly matched in skill, and virtually identical in strength and reach. Rek's blade sliced the skin above Joachim's shoulder. The scimitar licked out to open a wound on the back of Rek's hand. Both men circled warily, breathing deeply.

Joachim attacked; Rek parried, launching a riposte. Joachim jumped back and they circled again, Arbedark, the finest swordsman of The Thirty, was lost in wonder at their technique.

Not that he could not match it, for he could; rather that his skill was honed by mental powers which the two combatants would never comprehend on a conscious level. Yet both were using the same skills subconsciously. It was as much a battle of minds as of blades, yet even here the men were well-matched.

Serbitar pulsed a question to Arbedark. "It is too close for me to judge. Who will win?"

"I know not," replied Arbedark. "It is fascinating."

Both men were tiring fast. Rek had established a two-handed grip on his longsword, his right arm no longer able to bear the full weight of the blade. He launched an attack which Joachim parried desperately; then his sword caught the scimitar an inch above the hilt — and the curved blade snapped. Rek stepped forward, touching the point of his sword to Joachim's jugular. The swarthy Sathuli did not move but merely gazed back defiantly, his brown eyes meeting Rek's gaze.

"And what is your life worth, Joachim Sathuli?"

"A broken sword," answered Joachim. Rek held out his hand and received the useless hilt.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked the surprised Sathuli leader.

"It is simple," answered Rek. "All of us here are as dead men. We ride for Dros Delnoch to face an army the like of which has not been seen before in this world. We shall not survive the summer. You are a warrior, Joachim, and a worthy one. Your life is worth more than a broken blade. We proved nothing by this contest, save that we are men. Before me I have nothing but enemies and war.

"Since we will meet no more in this life, I would like to believe that I have left at least a few friends behind me. Will you take my hand?" Rek sheathed his sword and held out his hand.

The tall Sathuli smiled. "There is a strangeness in this meeting," he said, "for as my blade broke I wondered, in that moment when death faced me, what would I have done had your sword snapped. Tell me, why do you ride to your death?"

"Because I must," said Rek simply.

"So be it, then. You ask me for friendship and I give it, though I have sworn mighty oaths that no Drenai would feel safe on Sathuli land. I give you this friendship because you are a warrior, and because you are to die."

"Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?"

"I would have killed you," said the Sathuli.

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.