LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

For over an hour Bowman stood on the ramparts, staring out over the valley, listening to the faint songs of the Nadir women drifting out from the far camp below.

‘You are troubled?’ said a voice.

Bowman swung round to face Rek. The young Earl was dressed in the clothes in which he had arrived – thigh-length doeskin boots, a high-collared tunic with gold embroidered collar and a reversed sheepskin jerkin. By his side was his longsword.

‘I am merely tired,’ said Bowman.

‘I too. Is my scar fading?’

Bowman peered closely at the jagged red line from brow to chin. ‘You were lucky not to lose an eye,’ he commented.

‘Useless Nadir steel,’ said Rek. ‘I made a perfect block and his blasted sword snapped and lashed across my face. Good gods man, have you any idea how long I’ve protected my face?’

‘It’s too late to worry about that now,’ said Bowman, grinning.

‘Some people are born ugly,’ said Rek. ‘It’s not their fault, and I for one have never held it against a man that he is ugly. But others – and I count myself among them – are born with handsome fea­tures. That is a gift which should not be lightly taken away.’

‘I take it you made the perpetrator pay for his deed?’

‘Naturally! And you know, I think he was smiling even as I slew him. But then he was an ugly man. I mean really ugly. It’s not right.’

‘Life can be so unfair,’ agreed Bowman. ‘But you must look on the bright side, my lord Earl. You see, unlike me, you were never stupendously handsome. Merely well-featured. The brows were too thick, the mouth a shade too wide. And your hair is now grow­ing a little thinner. Now, had you been blessed with the near miraculous good looks possessed by such as I, you would have truly had something to grieve over.’

‘There is something in what you say,’ said Rek. ‘You have indeed been greatly blessed. It was pro­bably nature’s way of making up to you for being short.’

‘Short? I am almost as tall as you.’

‘Ah, but what a large word almost is. Can a man be almost alive? Almost right? In the question of height, my friend, we do not deal in subtle shades of grey. I am taller, you are shorter. But I would concur there is not a more handsome short man at the fortress.’

‘Women have always found me the perfect height,’ said Bowman. ‘At least when I dance with them I can whisper love words in their ears. With your long shanks their heads would nestle near your armpit.’

‘Get a lot of time for dancing in the forest, do you?’ asked Rek amiably.

‘I didn’t always live in the forest. My family . . .’ Bowman stuttered to silence.

‘I know your family background,’ said Rek. ‘But it’s about time you talked about it – you’ve carried it too long.’

‘How could you know?’

‘Serbitar told me. As you know, he has been inside your mind . . . When you carried his messages to Druss.’

‘I suppose the entire damned fortress knows?’ said Bowman. ‘I will leave at dawn.’

‘Only Serbitar and I know the story – and the truth of it. But leave if you will.’

‘The truth of it is that I killed my father and brother.’ Bowman was white-faced and tense.

‘Twin accidents – you know it well!’ said Rek. ‘Why must you torture yourself?’

‘Why? Because I wonder at accidents in life. I wonder how many are caused by our own secret desires. There was a foot-racer once – the finest I ever saw. He was preparing for the Great Games, to run for the first time against the fastest men from many nations. On the day before the race he fell and twisted his ankle. Was it really an accident – or was he frightened to face the great test?’

‘Only he will ever know,’ said Rek. ‘But therein lies the secret. He knows and so should you. Serbitar tells me that you were hunting with your father and brother. Your father was to the left, your brother to the right, when you followed a deer into the thicket. A bush before you rustled, and you aimed and let the arrow fly. But it was your father, who had come unannounced. How could you know he would do such a thing?’