LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Virae, furious, had insisted that she be allowed to wait on the first wall with the others, but Rek had summarily refused. An argument was swiftly ended by Druss: ‘Obey your husband, woman!’ he thun­dered. Rek had winced at that, closing his eyes against the expected outburst. Strangely Virae had merely nodded and retired to Musif, Wall Two, to stand beside Hogun and Orrin.

Now Rek crouched by Druss and gazed left and right along the wall. Swords and spears in hand, the men of Dros Delnoch waited grimly for the deadly storm to cease.

During the second reloading Druss ordered half the men back to stand beneath the second wall, out of range of the catapults. There they joined Bowman’s archers.

For three hours the assault continued, pulverising sections of the wall, butchering men and obliterating one overhanging tower, which collapsed under the titanic impact and crumbled slowly into the valley below. Most of the men leapt to safety and only four were carried screaming over the edge to be broken on the rocks below.

Stretcher-bearers braved the barrage to carry wounded men back to the Eldibar field hospital. Several rocks had hit the building, but it was solidly built and so far none had broken through. Bar Britan, black-bearded and powerful, raced alongside the bearers with sword in hand, urging them on.

‘Gods, that’s bravery!’ said Rek, nudging Druss and pointing. Druss nodded, noting Rek’s obvious pride at the man’s courage. Rek’s heart went out to Britan as the man ignored the lethal storm.

At least fifty men had been stretchered away. Fewer than Druss had feared. He raised himself to stare over the battlements.

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘They are massing behind the siege towers.’

A boulder crashed through the wall ten paces away from him, scattering men like sand in the wind. Miraculously only one failed to rise, the rest rejoin­ing their comrades. Druss raised his arm to signal Orrin. A trumpet sounded and Bowman and the rest of the men surged forward. Each archer carried five quivers of twenty arrows as they raced across the open ground, over the fire-gully bridges and on towards the battlements.

With a roar of hate, almost tangible to the defenders, the Nadir swept towards the wall in a vast black mass, a dark tide set to sweep the Bros before it. Thousands of the barbarians began to haul the huge siege towers forward, while others ran with ladders and ropes. The plain before the walls seemed alive as the Nadir poured forward, screaming their battle cries.

Breathless and panting, Bowman arrived to stand beside Druss, Rek and Serbitar. The outlaws spread out along the wall.

‘Shoot when you’re ready,’ said Druss. The green-clad outlaw swept a slender hand through his blond hair and grinned.

‘We can hardly miss,’ he said. ‘But it will be like spitting into a storm.’

‘Every little helps,’ said the axeman.

Bowman strung his yew bow and notched an arrow. To the left and right of him, the move was repeated a thousand times. Bowman sighted on a leading warrior and released the string, the shaft slashing the air to slice and hammer through the man’s leather jerkin. As he stumbled and fell, a ragged cheer went up along the wall. A thousand arrows followed, then another thousand and another. Many Nadir warriors carried shields, but many did not. Hundreds fell as the arrows struck, tripping the men behind. But still the black mass kept coming, trampling the wounded and dead beneath them.

Armed with his Vagrian bow, Rek loosed shaft after shaft into the horde, his lack of skill an irrel­evant factor since, as Bowman had said, one could hardly miss. The arrows were a barbed mockery of the clumsy ballistae attack so recently used against them. But it was taking a heavier toll.

The Nadir were close enough now for individual faces to be clearly seen. Rough looking men, thought Rek, but tough and hardy – raised to war and blood. Many of them lacked armour, others wore mail-shirts, but most were clad in black breastplates of lacquered leather and wood. Their screaming battle cries were almost bestial; no words could be heard, only their hate could be felt. Like the angry scream of some vast, inchoate monster, thought Rek as the familiar sensation of fear gripped his belly.