LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Lastly he reached for Snaga, which seemed to leap from the wall to his waiting hand.

‘One last time, Soul brother,’ he told it. ‘Before the sun sets.’

6

With Vintar standing beside him, Serbitar watched from a high balcony as the two riders approached the monastery, cantering their horses towards the northern gate. Grass showed in patches on the snow-covered fields as a warm spring wind eased in from the west.

‘Not a time for lovers,’ said Serbitar, aloud.

‘It is always a time for lovers, my son. In war most of all,’ said Vintar. ‘Have you probed the man’s mind?’

‘Yes. He is a strange one. A cynic by experience, a romantic by inclination and now a hero by necessity.’

‘How will Menahem test the messenger?’ asked Vintar.

‘With fear,’ answered the albino.

Rek was feeling good. The air he breathed was crisp and clean and a warm westerly breeze promised an end to the harshest winter in years. The woman he loved was beside him and the sky was blue and clear.

‘What a great day to be alive!’ he said.

‘What’s so special about today?’ asked Virae.

‘It’s beautiful. Can’t you taste it? The sky, the breeze, the melting snow?’

‘Someone is coming to meet us. He looks like a warrior,’ she said.

The rider approached them and dismounted. His face was covered by a black and silver helm crowned with a horsehair plume. Rek and Virae dismounted and approached him.

‘Good morning,’ said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.

‘You are the messenger?’ he asked her.

‘I am. I wish to see Abbot Vintar.’

‘First you must pass me,’ he said, stepping back and drawing a long-sword of silver steel.

‘Wait a moment,’ said Rek. ‘What is this? One does not normally have to fight one’s way into a monastery.’ Once again the man ignored him and Virae drew her rapier. ‘Stop it!’ ordered Rek. ‘This is insane.’

‘Stay out of this, Rek,’ said Virae. ‘I will slice this silver beetle into tiny pieces.’

‘No, you won’t,’ he said, gripping her arm. ‘That rapier is no good against an armoured man. In any case, the whole thing is senseless. You are not here to fight anybody. You simply have a message to deliver, that’s all. There must be a mistake here somewhere. Wait a moment.’

Rek walked towards the warrior, his mind racing, his eyes checking for weak points in the armoured defences. The man wore a moulded breastplate over a mail-shirt of silver steel. Protecting his neck was a silver torque. His legs were covered to the thigh in leather troos, cased with silver rings, and upon his shins were leather greaves. Only the man’s knees, hands and chin were open to attack.

‘Will you tell me what is happening?’ Rek asked him. ‘I think you may have the wrong messenger. We are here to see the Abbot.’

‘Are you ready, woman?’ asked Menahem.

‘Yes,’ said Virae, her rapier cutting a figure-eight in the morning air as she loosened her wrist.

Rek’s blade flashed into his hand. ‘Defend your­self,’ he cried.

‘No, Rek, he’s mine,’ shouted Virae. ‘I don’t need you to fight for me. Step aside!’

‘You can have him next,’ said Rek. He turned his attention back to Menahem. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see if you fight as prettily as you look.’

Menahem turned his dark eyes on the tall figure before him. Instantly Rek’s stomach turned over: this was death! Cold, final, worm in the eye-sockets, death. There was no hope in this contest. Panic welled in Rek’s breast and his limbs began to trem­ble. He was a child again, locked in a darkened room, knowing the demons were hiding in the black shadows. Fear in the shape of bile rose in his throat as nausea shook him. He wanted to run . . . he needed to run.

Instead Rek screamed and launched an attack, his blade whistling towards the black and silver helm. Startled, Menahem hastily parried and a second blow almost got through. The warrior stepped back­wards, desperately trying to regain the initiative, but Rek’s furious assault had caught him off-balance. Menahem parried and moved, trying to circle.