LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Who could even picture such a number?

They would wash over Dros Delnoch like an angry sea, Rek knew.

If I thought there was a chance, I still wouldn’t go. Face it, he thought. Even if victory was certain, still he would avoid the battle.

Who will care in a hundred years whether the Drenai survived? It would be like Skeln pass, shrouded in legend and glorified beyond truth.

War!

Flies settling like a black stain over a man’s entrails as he weeps with the pain and holds his body together with crimson fingers, hoping for a miracle. Hunger, cold, fear, disease, gangrene, death!

War for soldiers.

The day he left Dros Corteswain he was approach­ed by one of the Culs, who nervously offered him a tight-wrapped bundle.

‘From the troop, sir,’ he said.

He had opened it, embarrassed and empty of words, to see a blue cloak with an eagle clasp in crafted bronze.

‘I don’t know how to thank you all.’

‘The men want me to say . . . well, we’re sorry you’re leaving. That’s all, sir.’

‘I’m sorry too, Korvac. Family business, you know?’

The man had nodded, probably wishing he had family business which would allow him to depart the Dros. But Culs had no commission to resign – only the Dun class could leave a fortress during a war.

‘Well, good luck, sir. See you soon, I hope . . . we all hope.’

‘Yes! Soon.’

That was two years ago. Gan Javi had died from a stroke and several of Rek’s brother officers had been killed in the Sathuli battles. No message reached him of individual Culs.

The days passed – cold, gloomy, but mercifully without incident until the morning of the fifth day when, on a high trail skirting a grove of elm, he heard the one sound he disliked above all others – the clash of steel on steel. He should have ridden on, he knew he should. But for some reason his curiosity fractionally outweighed his fear. He hobbled the horse, swung the quiver to his back and strung the horn bow. Then carefully he worked his way through the trees and down into the snow-covered glen. Moving stealthily, with catlike care, he came to a clearing. Sounds of battle echoed in the glade.

A young woman, in armour of silver and bronze, stood with her back to a tree, desperately fending off a combined assault from three outlaws, burly men and bearded, armed with swords and daggers. The woman held a slender blade, a flickering, danc­ing rapier that cut and thrust with devastating speed.

The three, clumsy swordsmen at best, were hampering each other. But the girl was tiring fast.

These were Reinard’s men, Rek knew, cursing his own curiosity. One of them cried out as the rapier lanced across his forearm.

‘Take that, you dung beetle,’ shouted the girl.

Rek smiled. No beauty, but she could fence.

He notched an arrow to his bow and waited for the right moment to let fly. The girl ducked under a vicious cut and flashed her blade through the eye of the swordsman. As he screamed and fell the other two fell back, more wary now; they moved apart, ready to attack from both flanks. The girl had been dreading this moment, for there was no defence but flight. Her gaze flickered from man to man. Take the tall one first, forget about the other and hope his first thrust is not mortal. Maybe she could take them both with her.

The tall one moved to the left while his comrade crossed to the right. At this moment Rek loosed a shaft at the tall outlaw’s back, which lanced through his left calf. Swiftly he notched a second arrow, as the bewildered man spun round, saw Rek and hobbled towards him, screaming hatred.

Rek drew back the string until it touched his cheek, locked his left arm and loosed the shaft.

This time the aim was slightly better. He had been aiming for the chest – the largest target – but the arrow was high and now the outlaw lay on his back, the black shaft jutting from his forehead and blood bubbling to the snow.