But they’ll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they’ll learn! Horeb’s eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters who were clearing tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to marry the baker’s apprentice Norvas. Good girls. Gifts of joy. Then his gaze fell on the tall figure in the blue cloak seated by the window.
‘Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,’ he muttered, knowing the man would never hear him. Horeb turned away, cursed, then removed his leather apron and grasped a half-empty jug of ale and a tankard. As an afterthought he opened a small cupboard and removed a bottle of port he had been saving for Nessa’s wedding.
‘A problem shared is a problem doubled,’ he said, squeezing into the seat opposite Rek.
‘A friend in need is a friend to be avoided,’ Rek countered, accepting the proffered bottle and refilling his glass. ‘I knew a general once,’ he said, staring at the wine, twirling the glass slowly with his long fingers. ‘Never lost a battle. Never won one either.’
‘How so?’ asked Horeb.
‘You know the answer. I’ve told you before.’
‘I have a bad memory. Anyway, I like to listen to you tell stories. How could he never lose and never win?’
‘He surrendered whenever threatened,’ said Rek. ‘Clever, eh?’
‘How come men followed him if he never won?’
‘Because he never lost. Neither did they.’
‘Would you have followed him?’ asked Horeb.
‘I don’t follow anyone any more. Least of all generals.’ Rek turned his head, listening to the interweaving chatter. He closed his eyes, concentrating. ‘Listen to them,’ he said, softly. ‘Listen to their talk of glory.’
‘They don’t know any better, Rek, my friend. They haven’t seen it, tasted it. Crows like a black cloud over a battlefield feasting on dead men’s eyes, foxes jerking at severed tendons, worms . . .’
‘Stop it, damn you . . . I don’t need reminding. Well, I’m damned if I’ll go. When’s Nessa getting married?’
‘In three days,’ answered Horeb. ‘He’s a good boy, he’ll look after her. Keeps baking her cakes. She’ll be like a tub before long.’
‘One way or another,’ said Rek, with a wink.
‘Indeed yes,’ answered Horeb, grinning broadly.
The men sat in their own silence allowing the noise to wash over them, each drinking and thinking, secure within their circle of two. After a while Rek leaned forward.
‘The first attack will be at Dros Delnoch,’ he said. ‘Do you know they’ve only 10,000 men there?’
‘I heard it was less than that. Abalayn’s been cutting back on the regulars and concentrating on militia. Still, there’re six high walls and a strong keep. And Delnar’s no fool – he was at the battle of Skein.’
‘Really?’ said Rek. ‘I heard that was one man against ten thousand, hurling mountains on the foe.’
‘The saga of Druss the Legend,’ said Horeb, deepening his voice. ‘The tale of a giant whose eyes were death, and whose axe was terror. Gather round, children, and keep from the shadows lest evil lurks as I tell my tale.’
‘You bastard!’ said Rek. ‘That used to terrify me. You knew him, didn’t you – the Legend, I mean?’
‘A long time ago. They say he’s dead. If not, he must be over sixty. We were in three campaigns together, but I only spoke to him twice. I saw him in action once, though.’
‘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.’