LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘Move away! Make room!’ called the man behind them.

‘You wait there, goat-breath,’ said Tsubodai.Tll just ask the round-eyes to help you over. Hey, Nakrash, stretch those long legs of yours and tell me where Deathwalker is.’

Nakrash pointed to the right. ‘I think you will soon get a chance at those horses. He looks closer than before.’ Tsubodai leapt lightly to the ramparts, straining to see the old man in action.

‘Those Greens are just stepping up and asking for his axe, the fools.’ But no one heard him above the clamour.

The thick wedge of men ahead of them was thin­ning fast, and Nakrash leapt into a gap and slashed open the throat of a Drenai soldier who was trying desperately to free his sword from a Nadir belly. Tsubodai was soon beside him hacking and cutting at the tall round-eyed southerners.

Battle lust swept over him, as it had during ten years of warfare under Ulric’s banner. He had been a youngster when the first battle began, tending his father’s goats on the granite steppes far to the north. Ulric had been a war leader for only a few years at that time. He had subdued the Long Monkey tribe and offered their men the chance to ride with his forces under their own banner. They had refused and died to a man. Tsubodai remembered that day: Ulric had personally tied their chieftain to two horses and ordered him torn apart. Eight hundred men had been beheaded and their armour handed over to youngsters like Tsubodai.

On the next raid he had taken part in the first charge. Ulric’s brother Gat-sun had praised him highly and given him a shield of stretched cowhide, edged with brass. He had lost it in a knuckle-bone game the same night, but he still remembered the gift with affection. Poor Gat-sun! Ulric had him executed the following year for trying to lead a rebe­llion. Tsubodai had ridden against him and been among the loudest to cheer as his head fell. Now, with seven wives and forty horses Tsubodai was, by any reckoning, a rich man. And still to see thirty.

Surely the gods loved him?

A spear grazed his shoulder. His sword snaked out, half-severing the arm. Oh, how the gods loved him! He blocked a slashing cut with his shield.

Nakrash came to his rescue, disembowelling the attacker who fell screaming to the ground to vanish beneath the feet of the warriors pushing from behind.

To his right the Nadir line gave way and he was pushed back as Nakrash took a spear in the side. Tsubodai’s blade slashed the air, taking the lancer high in the neck; blood spurted and the man fell back. Tsubodai glanced at Nakrash, lying at his feet writhing, his hands grasping the slippery lance shaft.

Leaning down, he pulled his friend clear of the action. There was nothing more he could do, for Nakrash was dying. It was a shame, and put a pall on the day for the little tribesman. Nakrash had been a good companion for the last two years. Looking up, he saw a black-garbed figure with a white beard cleaving his way forward, a terrible axe of silver steel in his blood-splashed hands.

Tsubodai forgot about Nakrash in an instant. All he could see were Ulric’s horses. He pushed forward to meet the axeman, watching his movements, his technique. He moved well for one so old, thought Tsubodai, as the old man blocked a murderous cut and back-handed his axe across the face of a tribes­man who was hurled screaming over the battlements.

Tsubodai leapt forward, aiming a straight thrust for the old man’s belly. From then on, it seemed to him that the scene was taking place under water. The white-bearded warrior turned his blue eyes on Tsubodai and a chill of terror seeped into his blood. The axe seemed to float against his sword blade, sweeping the thrust aside, then the blade reversed and with an agonising lack of speed clove through Tsubodai’s chest.

His body slammed back into the ramparts and slid down to rest beside Nakrash. Looking down he saw bright blood, replaced by dark arterial gore. He pushed his hand into the gash, wincing as a broken rib twisted under his fist.