David Gemmell - Legend

"Too true," said Rek, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his cloak. "But you are right, we cannot just give it to them yet."

"At present," said Serbitar, "we are killing them at a rate of three to one. It is not enough. They will wear us down."

"We need more men," said Druss, sitting back on the battlements and scratching his beard.

"I sent a messenger last night to my father at Dros Segril," said Serbitar. "We should have reinforcements in about ten days."

"Drada hates the Drenai," said Druss. "Why should he send men?"

"He must send my personal bodyguard. It is the law of Vagria, and though my father and I have not spoken for twelve years, I am still his first-born son. It is my right. Three hundred swords will join me here — no more than that, but it will help."

"What was the quarrel?" asked Rek.

"Quarrel?" queried the albino.

"Between you and your father."

"There was no quarrel. He saw my talents as 'Gifts of Darkness' and tried to kill me. I would not allow it. Vintar rescued me." Serbitar removed his helm, untied the knot that bound his white hair and shook his head. The evening breeze ruffled his hair. Rek exchanged glances with Druss and changed the subject.

"Ulric must realise by now that he has a battle on his hands."

"He knew that anyway," answered Druss. "It won't worry him yet."

"I don't see why not, it worries me," said Rek, rising as Virae joined them with Menahem and Antaheim. The three members of The Thirty left without a word and Virae sat beside Rek, hugging his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Not an easy day," said Rek, gently stroking her hair.

"They looked after me," she whispered. "Just like you told them to, I suppose."

"Are you angry?"

"No."

"Good. We have only just met and I don't want to lose you yet."

"You two ought to eat," said Druss. "I know you don't feel like it, but take the advice of an old warrior." The old man stood, glanced back once at the Nadir camp and walked slowly towards the mess hall. He was tired. Almighty tired.

Ignoring his own advice, he skirted the mess hall and made for his room at the hospital. Inside the long building he paused to listen to the moans from the wards. The stench of death was everywhere. Stretcher-bearers pushed past him bearing bloodied corpses, orderlies hurled buckets of water to the floor, others with mops or buckets of sand prepared the ground for tomorrow. He spoke to none of them.

Pushing open the door of his room, he stopped. Caessa sat within. "I have food for you," she said, avoiding his eyes. Silently he took the platter of beef, red beans and thick black bread and began to eat.

"There is a bath for you in the next room," she said as he finished. He nodded and stripped off his clothing.

He sat in the hip bath and cleaned the blood from his hair and beard. When cold air touched his wet back, he knew she had entered. She knelt by the bath and poured an aromatic liquid into her hands, then began washing his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her fingers on his scalp. Rinsing his hair with warm fresh water, she rubbed it dry with a clean towel.

Back in his room, Druss found that she had laid out a clean undervest and black woollen trousers and had sponged his leather jerkin and boots. She poured him a goblet of Lentrian wine before leaving. Druss finished the wine and lay back on the bed, resting his head on his hand. Not since Rowena had a woman tended to him in this fashion, and his thoughts were mellow.

Rowena, his child bride, taken by slavers soon after the wedding at the great oak. Druss had followed them, not even stopping to bury his parents. For months he had travelled the land until, at last, in the company of Sieben the Poet, he had discovered the slavers' camp. Having found out from them that Rowena had been sold to a merchant who was heading east, he slew the leader in his tent and set out once more. For five years he wandered across the continent, a mercenary, building a reputation as the most fearsome warrior of his time, becoming at last the champion of Ventria's God-king, Gorben.

Finally he had found his wife in an eastern palace and had wept. For without her he had always been only half a man. She alone made him human, stilling for a while the dark side of his nature, making him whole, showing him the beauty in a field of flowers, where he looked for perfection in a blade of steel.

She used to wash his hair, and stroke the tension from his neck and the anger from his heart.

Now she was gone and the world was empty, a shifting blur of shimmering grey where once had been colours of dazzling brightness.

Outside a gentle rain began to fall. For a while Druss listened to it pattering on the roof. Then he slept.

Caessa sat in the open air, hugging her knees. Had anyone approached her, they could not have seen where the rain ended and the tears began.

For the first time all members of The Thirty manned Eldibar as the Nadir massed for the charge. Serbitar had warned Rek and Druss that today would be different: no bailistae bombardment, merely an endless series of charges to wear down the defenders. Druss had refused all advice to rest for the day and stood at the centre of the wall. Around him were The Thirty in their silver steel armour and white cloaks. With them was Hogun, while Rek and Virae stood with the men of Group Fire forty paces to the left. Orrin remained with Karnak on the right. Five thousand men waited, swords in hands, shields buckled, helms lowered.

The sky was dark and angry, huge clouds bunching to the north. Above the walls a patch of blue waited for the storm. Rek smiled suddenly as the poetry of the moment struck him.

The Nadir began to move forward in a seething furious mass, their pounding feet sounding like thunder.

Druss leapt to stand on the crenellated battlements above them.

"Come on, you whore-sons!" he bellowed. "Death-walker waits!" His voice boomed out over the valley, echoed by the towering granite walls. At that moment lightning split the sky, a jagged spear above the Dros. Thunder followed.

And the blood-letting began.

As Serbitar had predicted, the centre of the line suffered the most ferocious of attacks, wave upon wave of tribesmen breasting the walls to die under the steel defence of The Thirty. Their skill was consummate. A wooden club knocked Druss from his feet and a burly Nadir warrior aimed an axe blow for his skull. Serbitar leapt forward to block the blow, while Menahem despatched the man with a throat slash. Druss, exhausted, stumbled over a fallen body and pitched to the feet of three attackers. Arbedark and Hogun came to the rescue as he scrabbled for his axe.

The Nadir burst through the line on the right, forcing Orrin and Group Karnak away from the battlements and back on to the grass of the killing ground. As Nadir reinforcements swept over the wall unopposed, Druss saw the danger first and bellowed a warning. He cut two men from his path and raced alone to fill the breach. Hogun desperately tried to follow him, but his way was blocked.

Three young Culs from Karnak joined the old man as he hammered and cut his way to the walls, but they were soon surrounded. Orrin — his helm lost, his shield splintered — stood his ground with the remnants of his group. He blocked a wide, slashing cut from a bearded tribesman and lanced a return thrust through the man's belly. Then he saw Druss. And knew that save for a miracle he was doomed.

"With me, Karnak!" he yelled, hurling himself into the advancing mass. Behind him Bregan, Gilad and twenty others surged forward, joined by Bar Britan and a squad of stretcher guards. Serbitar, with fifteen of The Thirty, clove a path along the walls.

The last of Druss's young companions fell with a broken skull and the old warrior stood alone as the Nadir circle closed about him. He ducked beneath a swinging sword, grabbed the man's jerkin and smashed a head butt to his nose. A sword blade cut his upper arm and another sliced his leather jerkin above the hip. Using the stunned Nadir as a shield, Druss backed to the battlements, but an axe blade thudded into the trapped tribesman and tore him from Druss's grasp. With nowhere to go, Druss braced his foot against the battlements and dived forward into the mass; his great weight carried them back and several tumbled to the earth with him. He lost hold of Snaga, grabbed at the neck of the warrior above him and crushed his windpipe, then hugging the body to him waited for the inevitable killing thrust. As the body was kicked away, Druss lashed out at the leg beside him, sweeping the man from his feet.

"Whoa, Druss! It's me — Hogun."

The old man rolled over and saw Snaga lying several yards away. He stood and snatched up the axe.

"That was close," said the Legion Gan.

"Yes," said Druss. "Thank you! That was good work!"

"I would like to take the credit, but it was Orrin and the men from Karnak. They fought their way to you, though I don't know how."

It had begun to rain and Druss welcomed it, turning his face to the sky with mouth open, eyes closed.

"They're coming again!" someone yelled. Druss and Hogun walked to the battlements and watched the Nadir charge. It was hard to see them through the rain.

To the left Serbitar was leading The Thirty from the wall, marching silently back towards Musif.

"Where in hell's name are they going?" muttered Hogun.

"There's no time to worry about that," snarled Druss, cursing silently as his shoulder flamed with fresh agonies.

The Nadir horde swept forward. Then thunder rumbled and a huge explosion erupted at the centre of the Nadir ranks. Everything was confusion as the charge faltered.

"What happened?" asked Druss.

"Lightning struck them," said Hogun, removing his helm and unbuckling his breastplate. "It could happen here next — it's all this damned metal."

A distant trumpet sounded and the Nadir marched back to their tents. At the centre of the plain was a vast crater surrounded by blackened bodies. Smoke rose from the hole.

Druss turned and watched The Thirty enter the postern gate at Musif.

"They knew," he said softly. "What manner of men are they?"

"I don't know," answered Hogun. "But they fight like devils, and at the moment that's all I care about."

"They knew," Druss said again, shaking his head.

"So?"

"How much more do they know?"

"Do you tell fortunes?" the man asked Antaheim as they crouched together beneath the makeshift canvas roof with five others from Group Fire. Rain pattered on the canvas and dripped steadily to the stones below. The roof, hastily constructed, was pinned to the battlements behind them and supported by spears at the two front corners. Within, the men huddled together. They had seen Antaheim walking alone in the rain, and one of the men, Cul Rabil, had called him over, despite the warnings of his comrades. Now an uncomfortable atmosphere existed within the canvas shelter.

"Well, do you?" asked Rabil.

"No," said Antaheim, removing his helm and untying the battle knot in his long hair. He smiled. "I am not a magician. Merely a man as you — all of you — are. My training is different, that is all."

"But you can speak without talking," said another man. "That's not natural."

"It is to me."

"Can you see into the future?" asked a thin warrior, making the sign of the Protective Horn beneath his cloak.

"There are many futures. I can see some of them, but I do not know which will come to pass."

"How can there be many futures?" asked Rabil.

"It is not an easy concept to explain, but I will try. Tomorrow an archer will shoot an arrow. If the wind drops, it will hit one man — if the wind rises, it will hit another. Each man's future therefore depends on the wind. I cannot predict which way the wind will blow, for that too depends on many things. I can look into tomorrow and see both men die, whereas only one may actually fall."