LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘I have the truth,’ he said at last.

‘Never mind the truth, old man. Give me a tale full of golden lies and glorious maidens.’

‘I have the truth,’ said the seer, as if he had not heard.

‘The hell with it!’ said Rek. ‘Tell me the truth, old man.’

‘Do you desire to hear it, Man?’

‘Never mind the damned ritual, just speak and begone!’

‘Steady, Rek, steady! It’s his way,’ said Horeb.

‘Maybe. But he’s going a long way towards spoil­ing my day. They never give good news anyway. The old bastard’s probably going to tell me I shall catch the plague.’

‘He wishes the truth,’ said Horeb, following the ritual, ‘and will use it wisely and well.’

‘Indeed he does not and will not,’ said the seer. ‘But destiny must be heard. You do not wish to hear words of your death, Regnak the Wanderer, son of Argas, and so I will withhold them. You are a man of uncertain character and only a sporadic courage. You are a thief and a dreamer and your destiny will both haunt and hunt you. You will run to avoid it, yet your steps will carry you towards it. But then this you know, Longshanks, for you dreamt it yester-eve.’

‘Is that it, old man? That meaningless garbage? Is that fair trading for a silver coin?’

‘The earl and the legend will be together at the wall. And men shall dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?’

The old man turned and was gone.

‘What was your dream last night, Rek?’ asked Horeb.

‘You surely don’t believe that idiocy, Horeb?’

‘What was your dream?’ the innkeeper persisted.

‘I didn’t dream at all. I slept like a log. Except for that bloody candle. You left it on all night and it stank. You must be more careful. It could have started a fire. Every time I stop here, I warn you about those candles. You never listen.’

2

Rek watched in silence as the groom saddled the chestnut gelding. He didn’t like the horse – it had a mean eye and its ears lay flat against its skull. The groom, a young slim boy, was crooning gently to it as his shaking fingers tightened the girth.

‘Why couldn’t you get a grey?’ asked Rek. Horeb laughed.

‘Because it would have taken you one step too many towards farce. Understatement is the thing, Rek. You already look like a peacock and as it is, every Lentrian sailor will be chasing you. No, a chestnut’s the thing.’ More seriously he added, ‘And in Graven you may wish to be inconspicuous. A tall white horse is not easily missed.’

‘I don’t think it likes me. See the way it looks at me?’

‘Its sire was one of the fastest horses in Drenan; its dam was a war horse in Woundweaver’s lancers. You couldn’t get a better pedigree.’

‘What is it called?’ asked Rek, still unconvinced.

‘Lancer,’ answered Horeb.

‘That has a nice ring to it. Lancer . . . Well, maybe . . . just maybe.’

‘Daffodil’s ready, sir,’ said the groom, backing away from the chestnut. The horse swung its head, snapping at the retreating boy who stumbled and fell on the cobbles.

‘Daffodil?’ said Rek. ‘You bought me a horse called Daffodil?’

‘What’s in a name, Rek?’ answered Horeb inno­cently. ‘Call it what you like – you must admit it’s a fine beast.’

‘If I didn’t have a fine sense for the ridiculous, I would have it muzzled. Where are the girls?’

‘Too busy to be waving goodbye to layabouts who rarely pay their bills. Now, be off with you.’

Rek advanced gingerly towards the gelding, speaking softly. It turned a baleful eye on him, but allowed him to swing into the high-backed saddle. He gathered the reins, adjusted his blue cloak to just the right angle over the horse’s back and swung the beast towards the gate.

‘Rek, I almost forgot . . .’ called Horeb, pushing back towards the house. ‘Wait a moment!’ The burly innkeeper disappeared from sight, emerging seconds later carrying a short bow of horn and elm and a quiver of black-shafted arrows. ‘Here. A customer left this behind in part payment some months ago. It looks a sturdy weapon.’