LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘It was a cruel blow,’ said Ulric. ‘He was a good boy. But then all life is cruel, is it not? A man must rise above grief.’

Druss was silent, helping himself to more dates.

‘You are a great man, Druss. I am sorry you are to die here.’

‘Yes. It would be nice to live for ever. On the other hand, I am beginning to slow down. Some of your men have been getting damn close to marking me – it’s an embarrassment.’

‘There is a prize for the man who kills you. One hundred horses, picked from my own stable.’

‘How does the man prove to you that he slew me?’

‘He brings me your head and two witnesses to the blow.’

‘Don’t allow that information to reach my men. They will do it for fifty horses.’

‘I think not! You have done well. How is the new Earl settling in?’

‘He would have preferred a less noisy welcome, but I think he is enjoying himself. He fights well.’

‘As do you all. It will not be enough, however.’

‘We shall see,’ said Druss. ‘These dates are very good.’

‘Do you believe you can stop me? Tell me truly, Deathwalker.’

‘I would like to have served under you,’ said Druss. ‘I have admired you for years. I have served many kings. Some were weak, others wilful. Many were fine men, but you . . . you have the mark of greatness. I think you will get what you want eventu­ally. But not while I live.’

‘You will not live long, Druss,’ said Ulric gently. ‘We have a shaman who knows these things. He told me that he saw you standing at the gates of Wall Four – Sumitos, I believe it is called – and the grin­ning skull of Death floated above your shoulders.’

Druss laughed aloud. ‘Death always floats where I stand, Ulric! I am he who walks with death. Does your shaman not know your own legends? I may choose to die at Sumitos. I may choose to die at Musif. But wherever I choose to die, know this: as I walk into the Valley of Shadows I will take with me more than a few Nadir for company on the road.’

‘They will be proud to walk with you. Go in peace.’

23

Bloody day followed bloody day, an endless succes­sion of hacking, slaying and dying; skirmishes carry­ing groups of Nadir warriors out on to the killing ground before Musif, and threatening to trap the Drenai army on the walls. But always they were beaten back and the line held. Slowly, as Serbitar had predicted, the strong were separated from the weak. It was easy to tell the difference. By the sixth week only the strong survived. Three thousand Drenai warriors were either dead or had been removed from the battle with horrifying injuries.

Druss strode like a giant along the ramparts day after day, defying all advice to rest, daring his weary body to betray him, drawing on hidden reserves of strength from his warrior’s soul. Rek also was build­ing a name, though he cared not. Twice his baresark attacks had dismayed the Nadir and shattered their line. Orrin still fought with the remnants of Karnak, now only eighteen strong. Gilad fought beside him on the right and on his left was Bregan, still using the captured axe. Hogun had gathered fifty of the Legion about him and stood back from the rampart line, ready to fill in any gap that developed.

The days were full of agony and the screams of the dying. And the list in the Hall of the Dead grew longer at every sunrise. Dun Pinar fell, his throat torn apart by a jagged dagger. Bar Britan was found under a mound of Nadir bodies, a broken lance jutting from his chest. Tall Antaheim of The Thirty was struck by a javelin in the back. Elicas of the Legion was trapped by the rampart towers as he hurled himself at the Nadir screaming defiance and fell beneath a score of blades. Jorak, the huge outlaw, had his brains dashed out by a club – and, dying, grabbed two Nadir warriors and threw himself from the battlements, dragging them screaming to their deaths on the rocks below.