LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

But what impressed Bartellus most was that the Nadir lord was wearing a white Drenai robe, embroidered with Abalayn’s family crest: a golden horse rearing above a silver crown.

The herald bowed deeply.

‘My Lord, I bring you the greetings of Lord Abalayn, elected leader of the free Drenai people.’

Ulric nodded in return, waving a hand for him to continue.

‘My lord Abalayn congratulates you on your mag­nificent victory against the rebels of Gulgothir, and hopes that with the horrors of war now behind you, you will be able to consider the new treaties and trade agreements he discussed with you during his most enjoyable stay last spring. I have here a letter from Lord Abalayn, and also the treaties and agree­ments.’ Bartellus stepped forward, presenting three scrolls. Ulric took them, placing them gently on the floor beside the throne.

‘Thank you, Bartellus,’ he said. Tell me, is there truly fear among the Drenai that my army will march on Dros Delnoch?’

‘You jest, my lord?’

‘Not at all,’ said Ulric innocently, his voice deep and resonant. ‘Traders tell me there is great discus­sion in Drenan.’

‘Idle gossip merely,’ said Bartellus. ‘I helped to draft the agreements myself, and if I can be of any help with the more complex passages I would con­sider it a pleasure to assist you.’

‘No, I am sure they are in order,’ said Ulric. ‘But you do realise my shaman Nosta Khan must examine the omens. A primitive custom, I know, but I am sure you understand?’

‘Of course. Such things are a matter of tradition,’ said Bartellus.

Ulric clapped his hands twice and from the shadows to the left came a wizened old man in a dirty goatskin tunic. Under his skinny right arm he carried a white chicken and in his left hand was a wide, shallow wooden bowl. Ulric stood as he approached, holding out his hands and taking the chicken by the neck and legs.

Slowly Ulric raised it above his head – then, as Bartellus’ eyes widened in horror, he lowered the bird and bit through its neck, tearing the head from the body. The wings flapped madly and blood gushed and spattered, drenching the white robe. Ulric held the quivering carcass over the bowl, watching as the last of its life-blood stained the wood. Nosta Khan waited until the last drop oozed from the flesh and then lifted the bowl to his lips. He looked up at Ulric and shook his head.

The warlord tossed the bird aside and slowly removed the white robe. Beneath it he wore a black breastplate and a belted sword. From beside the throne he lifted the war helm of black steel, fringed with silver fox fur, and placed it on his head. He wiped his bloody mouth on the Drenai robe and carelessly tossed it towards Bartellus.

The herald looked down at the blood-covered cloth at his feet.

‘I am afraid the omens are not pleasant,’ said Ulric.

1

Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter, but enough not to matter, he thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odour of unwashed bodies, forgotten meals and musty, damp clothing. A lantern flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door, muttering his apologies to the crowded inn.

Conversation which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air now resumed, a dozen voices from dif­ferent groups merging into a babble of meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as some­one laughed – the sound was as cold as the winter wind beating against the wooden walls. Like some­one walking over your grave, he thought. He pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need to be able to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation: it had been the same for days.

War.

Such a little word. Such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest, starvation, plague and horror.