‘Black bread and creamed cheese,’ said Bregan, smiling. ‘We’ve only had it three times and I’m already tired of it.’
‘Are the carts still coming in?’ asked Gilad.
‘By the score. Still, I expect they know best what a warrior needs,’ said Bregan. ‘I wonder how Lotis and the boys are bearing up.’
‘News should be in later. Sybad always gets letters.’
‘Yes. I’ve only been here two weeks and yet I miss the family terribly,’ said Bregan. ‘I only joined up on the spur of the moment, Gil. That officer’s speech just got to me, I suppose.’
Gilad had heard it before – almost every day for the two weeks since first they had been issued with armour. Bregan shouldn’t be at Delnoch, he knew; he was tough enough, but in a way he lacked the heart. He was a farmer, a man who loved growing things. To destroy was alien to him.
‘By the way,’ said Bregan suddenly, his face echoing his excitement, ‘you’ll never guess who’s just arrived!’
‘Who?’
‘Druss the Legend. Can you believe it?’
‘Are you sure, Bregan? I thought he was dead.’
‘No. He arrived an hour ago. The whole mess hall is buzzing with the news. They say he’s bringing five thousand archers and a legion of axemen.’
‘Don’t count on it, my friend,’ said Gilad. ‘I’ve not been here long, but I would like a copper coin for every story I’ve heard about reinforcements, peace plans, treaties and leave.’
‘Well, even if he brings no one it’s still good news, isn’t it? I mean, he is a hero, isn’t he?’
‘He certainly is. Gods, he must be about seventy though. That’s a bit old, isn’t it?’
‘But he’s a hero.’ Bregan stressed the word, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was a farmer’s son. And he’s never lost, Gil. Not ever. And he will be with us. Us! The next song about Druss the Legend will have us in it. Oh, I know we won’t be named – but we’ll know, won’t we? I’ll be able to tell little Legan that I fought beside Druss the Legend. It makes a difference, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course it does,’ said Gilad, dipping his black bread into the cheese and scanning the horizon. Still no movement. ‘Does your helmet fit?’ he asked.
‘No, it’s too small. Why?’
Try mine.’
‘We’ve been through that, Gil. Bar Kistrid says it’s against the rules to swap.’
‘A pox on Bar Kistrid and his stupid rules. Try it on.’
‘They all have numbers stamped inside.’
‘Who cares? Try it on, for Missael’s sake.’
Bregan carefully looked around, reached across and tried on Gilad’s helm.
‘Well?’ asked Gilad.
‘It’s better. Still a little tight, but much better.’
‘Give me yours.’ Gilad placed Bregan’s helm over his own head; it was close to perfect. ‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘This will do.’
‘But the rules . . .’
‘There is no rule that says a helm must not fit,’ said Gilad. ‘How’s the swordplay coming along?’
‘Not bad,’ said Bregan. ‘It’s when it’s in the scabbard that I feel stupid. It keeps flapping between my legs and tripping me.’ Gilad burst into laughter, a fine lilting sound that echoed high into the mountains.
‘Ah, Breg, what are we doing here?’
‘Fighting for our country. It’s nothing to laugh at, Gil.’
‘I’m not laughing at you,’ he lied. ‘I’m laughing at the whole stupid business. We face the biggest threat in our history and they give me a helmet too big, and you a helmet too small, and tell us we can’t exchange them. It’s too much. Really. Two farmers on a high wall tripping over their swords.’ He giggled, then laughed aloud again.
‘They probably won’t notice we’ve swapped,’ said Bregan.
‘No. All I need now is to find a man with a large chest wearing my breastplate.’ Gilad leaned forward, the laughter hurting his side.
‘It is good news about Druss, isn’t it?’ said Bregan, mystified by Gilad’s sudden good humour.
‘What? Oh yes.’ Gilad took a deep breath, then smiled at his friend. Yes, it was good news, if it could so lift a man like Bregan, he thought. A hero indeed. Not a hero, Bregan, you fool. Just a warrior. You are the hero. You have left the family and the farm you love to come here and die in order to protect them. And who will sing your song – or mine? If they remember Dros Delnoch at all in years to come, it will be because a white-maned old man died here. He could hear the psalmists and saga-poets chanting their rhymes. And the teachers telling young children – Nadir children and Drenai – the tale of Druss: ‘And at the end of a long, glorious life, Druss the Legend came at last to Dros Delnoch, where he fought mightily, and fell.’