LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘The point is that he taught us never to shoot until we saw the target.’

‘So you made a mistake. What else is new on the face of the world?’

‘And my brother?’

‘He saw what you had done, misunderstood and ran at you in a rage. You pushed him away and he fell, striking his head on a rock. No one could wish such a burden on themselves. But you have nursed it, and it is now time for you to release it.’

‘I never loved my father or my brother,’ said Bowman. ‘My father killed my mother. He left her alone for months and had many mistresses. When my mother took one lover he had him blinded and her slain . . . horribly.’

‘I know. Don’t dwell on it.’

‘And my brother was made in his image.’

‘This also I know.’

‘And do you know what I felt when they were both lying dead at my feet?’

‘Yes. You were exultant.’

‘And is that not terrible?’

‘I don’t know if you have considered this, Bowman, but think on it. You blame the gods for bringing a curse upon you – but the curse really fell on the two men who deserved it.

‘I don’t know yet whether I fully believe in fate, but certain things do happen in a man’s life which he cannot explain. My being here, for instance. Druss’s conviction that he will die here, for he has made a pact with death. And you . . . But I do believe that you were merely the instrument of . . . who knows? . . . a law of natural justice perhaps.

‘Whatever you believe about yourself, know this: Serbitar searched your heart and he found no malice there. And he knows.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Bowman. Then he grinned sud­denly. ‘Have you noticed that when Serbitar removes that horsehair helm he is shorter than I am?’

*

The room was spartanly furnished: a rug, a pillow and a chair, all bunched beneath the small window by which the albino stood, naked and alone. Moon­light bathed his pale skin and the night breeze ruffled his hair. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes closed. Weariness was upon him like no other weariness he had felt in all his young life. For it was born of the spirit and the truth.

The philosophers often talked of lies sitting under the tongue like salted honey. This, Serbitar knew, was true enough. But more often the hidden truth was worse. Far worse. For it settled in the belly and grew to engulf the spirit.

Below him were the Vagrian quarters which housed Suboden and the three hundred men who had come from Dros Segril. For several days he had fought alongside his personal bodyguard and become again the Prince of Dros Segril, son of Earl Drada. But the experience had been painful, for his own men had made the sign of the Protective Horn as he approached. They rarely spoke to him, and then only to answer a direct question speedily. Suboden, blunt-speaking as always, had asked the albino to return to his comrades.

‘We are here, Prince Serbitar, because it is our duty. This we will accomplish best without you beside us.’

More painful than this, however, was the long discussion he had had with the Abbot of Swords – the man he revered, loved as a father, mentor and friend.

Serbitar closed his eyes and opened his mind, soar­ing free of the body prison and sweeping aside the curtains of time.

Back he travelled, back and further back. Thirteen long, wearisome, joy-filled years flowed past him and he saw again the caravan which had brought him to the Abbot of Swords. Riding at the head of ten warriors was the giant, red-bearded Drada, the young Earl of Segril – battle-hardened, volatile, a pitiless enemy but a true friend. Behind him ten of his most trusted warriors, men who would die for him without a moment’s hesitation, for they loved him above life. At the rear is a cart upon which, on a straw pallet covered with silken sheets, lies the young prince, a canvas screen shielding his ghost-white face from the sun.