LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘So far, so good!’ he said, easing his huge frame to the grass. ‘They’re not sure what to do now. Their orders were to take the wall, and they’ve accomplished that.’

‘What next, do you think?’ asked Rek.

‘The old boy himself,’ answered Druss. ‘He will come. And he’ll want to talk.’

‘Should I go down?’ asked Rek.

‘Better if I do. The Nadir know me. “Death-walker.” I’m part of their legends. They think I’m an ancient god of death stalking the world.’

‘Are they wrong, I wonder?’ said Rek, smiling.

‘Maybe not. I never wanted it, you know. All I wanted was to get my wife back. Had slavers not taken her I would have been a farmer. Of that I am sure – though Rowena doubted it. There are times when I do not much like what I am.’

‘I’m sorry, Druss. It was a jest,’ said Rek. ‘I do not see you as a death-god. You are a man and a warrior. But most of all, a man.’

‘It’s not you, boy; your words only echo what I already feel. I shall die soon . . . Here at this Dros. And what will I have achieved in my life? I have no sons nor daughters. No living kin . . . Few friends. They will say, “Here lies Druss. He killed many and birthed none.” ‘

‘They will say more than that,’ said Virae sud­denly. ‘They’ll say, “Here lies Druss the Legend, who was never mean, petty, nor needlessly cruel. Here was a man who never gave in, never comprom­ised his ideals, never betrayed a friend, never despo­iled a woman and never used his strength against the weak.” They’ll say “He had no sons, but many a woman asleep with her babes slept more soundly for knowing Druss stood with the Drenai.” They’ll say many things, whiteboard. Through many generations they will say them, and men with no strength will find strength when they hear them.’

‘That would be pleasant,’ said the old man, smiling.

The morning drifted by and the Dros shone in the warm sunlight. One of the soldiers produced a flute and began to play a lilting springtime melody that echoed down the valley, a song of joy in a time of death.

At midday Rek and Druss were summoned to the ramparts. The Nadir had fallen back to Eldibar, but at the centre of the killing ground was a man seated on a huge purple rug. He was eating a meal of dates and cheese, and sipping wine from a golden goblet. Thrust into the ground behind him was a standard sporting a wolfs head.

‘He’s certainly got style,’ said Rek, admiring the man instantly.

‘I ought to go down before he finishes the food,’ said Druss. ‘We lose face as we wait.’

‘Be careful!’ urged Rek.

‘There are only a couple of thousand of them,’ answered Druss with a broad wink.

Hand over hand, he lowered himself to the Eldibar ground below and strolled towards the diner.

‘I am a stranger in your camp,’ he said.

The man looked up. His face was broad and clean-cut, the jaw firm. The eyes were violet and slanted beneath dark brows; they were eyes of power.

‘Welcome, stranger, and eat,’ said the man. Druss sat cross-legged opposite him. Slowly the man unbuckled his lacquered black breastplate and removed it, laying it carefully at his side. Then he removed his black greaves and forearm straps. Druss noted the powerful muscles of the man’s arms and the smooth, catlike movements. A warrior born, thought the old man.

‘I am Ulric of the Wolfshead.’

‘I am Druss of the Axe.’

‘Well met! Eat.’

Druss took a handful of dates from the silver plat­ter before him and ate slowly. He followed this with goat’s milk cheese and washed it down with a mouth­ful of red wine. His eyebrows rose.

‘Lentrian Red,’ said Ulric, ‘Without poison.’

Druss grinned. ‘I’m a hard man to kill. It’s a talent.’

‘You did well. I am glad for you.’

‘I was grieved to hear of your son. I have no sons, but I know how hard it is for a man to lose a loved one.’