LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Hogun, Orrjn, Rek and Serbitar remained in their seats as Druss and Bowman wandered out into the night.

‘Don’t despair, old horse,’ said Bowman, slapping Druss on the back. ‘Things could be worse, you know.’

‘Really? How?’

‘Well, we could be out of wine.’

‘We are out of wine.’

‘We are? That’s terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian Red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Druss. ‘Maybe we could bottle it, and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian Red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes and rats’ entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop-bucket.’

‘You have the advantage of me there, old horse, having never tasted a Nadir slop-bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather.’

‘I think I’d rather suck a Nadir’s armpit,’ muttered Druss.

‘Fine! I’ll drink it all myself,’ snapped Bowman.

‘No need to get touchy, boy. I’m with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together.’

*

The artery writhed under Virae’s fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.

‘Tighter!’ ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue, slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless, he knew it was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small pyhrric victory.

The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.

‘He’s dead?’ asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straight­ening his back. ‘But the blood is still flowing,’ she said.

‘It will do so for a few moments.’

‘I really thought he would live,’ she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked round beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him.

‘His chances were one in a thousand, even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen and gangrene was almost certain.’

Her eyes were red, her face grey. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.

‘I thought he had a beard,’ she said, confused.

‘That was the one before.’

‘Oh, yes. He died too.’

‘You should rest.’ Putting his arms round her, he led her from the room and out into the ward, past the stacked rows of triple-tiered bunk beds. Orderlies moved quietly among the rows. Everywhere the smell of death and the sweet, nauseous odour of putrefaction was mixed with antiseptic bitterness of Lorassium juice and hot water scented with lemon mint.

Perhaps it was the unwelcome perfume, but she was surprised to find that the well was not dry and tears could still flow.

He led her to a back room, filled a basin with warm water and washed the blood from her hands and face, dabbing her gently as if she were a child.

‘He told me that I love war,’ she said. ‘But it’s not true. Maybe it was then. I don’t know any more.’

‘Only a fool loves war,’ said Calvar, ‘or a man who has never seen it. The trouble is that the survivors forget about the horrors and remember only the battle lust. They pass on that memory, and other men hunger for it. Put on your cloak and get some air. Then you will feel better.’

‘I don’t think I can come back tomorrow, Calvar. I will stay with Rek at the wall.’

‘I understand.’

‘I feel so helpless watching men die in here.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t like feeling helpless, I’m not used to it.’

He watched her from the doorway, her tall figure draped in a white cloak, the night breeze billowing her hair.

‘I feel helpless too,’ he said softly.

The last death had touched him more deeply than it should, but then he had known the man, whereas others were but nameless strangers.