LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Amid the chaos of slashing swords many deeds of individual heroism passed unseen. One young sold­ier battling back to back with Druss saw an enemy lancer bearing down on the old man. Unthinking he threw himself in the way of the flashing steel point, to die writhing among the other broken bodies on the ramparts. Another soldier, an officer named Portitac, leapt into the breach near the gate tower and stepped on to the ramparts, where he seized the top of a ladder and flung himself forward, pulling the ladder out from the wall. Twenty Nadir near the top died with him on the rocks and five others broke limbs. Many were such tales of bravery.

And still the battles raged. Rek now sported a slanting scar from eyebrow to chin, gleaming red as he battled on. Orrin had lost three fingers from his left hand, but after only two days behind the lines had joined his men once more on the wall.

From the capital at Drenan the messages came endlessly:

Hold on.

Give Woundweaver time.

Just one more month.

And the defenders knew they could not hold.

But still they fought on.

*

Twice the Nadir tried night attacks, but on both occasions Serbitar warned the defenders and the assailants paid dearly for their efforts. At night hand­holds were difficult to find and the long climb to the battlements was fraught with peril. Hundreds of tribesmen died without need for the touch of Drenai steel or a black-shafted arrow.

Now the nights were silent and in some ways as bad as the days. For the peace and tranquillity of the moon darkness acted as a weird counterpoint to the crimson agonies of the sunlight. Men had time to think: to dream of wives, children, farms, and even more potently of a future that might have been.

Hogun and Bowman had taken to walking together on the battlements at night, the grim Legion general and the bright witty outlaw. Hogun found that in Bowman’s company he could forget the loss of Elicas; he could even laugh again. For his part, Bowman felt a kinship with the Gan, for he too had a serious side although he kept it well hidden.

But on this particular night Bowman was in a more melancholy mood and his eyes were distant.

‘What ails you, man?’ asked Hogun.

‘Memories,’ answered the archer, leaning over the ramparts to stare at the Nadir camp-fires below.

‘They must be either very bad or very good to touch you so.’

‘These are very bad, my friend. Do you believe in gods?’

‘Sometimes. Usually when my back is against a wall and the enemy surrounds me,’ said Hogun.

‘I believe in the Twin Powers of Growth and Mal­evolence. I believe that on rare occasions each of these powers chooses a man, and in different ways destroys him.’

‘And these powers have touched you, Bowman?’ asked Hogun gently.

‘Perhaps. Think back on recent history – you will find examples.’

‘I do not need to. I know where this tale is lead­ing,’ said Hogun.

‘What do you know?’ asked the archer, turning to face the dark-cloaked officer. Hogun smiled gently, though he noted that Bowman’s fingers were curled around the hilt of his dagger.

‘I know that you are a man whose life has been marred by some secret tragedy: a wife dead, a father slain . . . something. There may even be some dark deed which you perpetrated and cannot forget. But even if that were the case, the very fact you remem­ber it with such pain means that you acted out of character. Put it behind you, man! Who among us can change the past?’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ said Bowman. ‘But I cannot. I am sorry, I am not fit company this eve­ning. You go on. I will stay here a while.’

Hogun wanted to clap his hand on the other’s shoulder and say something witty to break the mood, as Bowman had so often done for him. But he could not. There were times when a grim-faced warrior was needed, even loved, but this was not one of them and he cursed himself and left silently.