LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

More laughter burst upon the room. ‘Barbarians!’ roared a voice above the babble. ‘Easy meat for Drenai lances.’ More laughter.

Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Grafted with care, even love; multi-faceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there.

And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am not a fool, he told himself. Not yet.

Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in with a word and a smile before a snarl and a fist became necessary. War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkers – most, in fact – were well-known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers, traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate, trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The Nadir – even the name spoke of contempt.

But they’ll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they’ll learn! Horeb’s eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters who were clearing tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to marry the baker’s apprentice Norvas. Good girls. Gifts of joy. Then his gaze fell on the tall figure in the blue cloak seated by the window.

‘Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,’ he muttered, knowing the man would never hear him. Horeb turned away, cursed, then removed his leather apron and grasped a half-empty jug of ale and a tankard. As an afterthought he opened a small cupboard and removed a bottle of port he had been saving for Nessa’s wedding.

‘A problem shared is a problem doubled,’ he said, squeezing into the seat opposite Rek.

‘A friend in need is a friend to be avoided,’ Rek countered, accepting the proffered bottle and refill­ing his glass. ‘I knew a general once,’ he said, staring at the wine, twirling the glass slowly with his long fingers. ‘Never lost a battle. Never won one either.’

‘How so?’ asked Horeb.

‘You know the answer. I’ve told you before.’

‘I have a bad memory. Anyway, I like to listen to you tell stories. How could he never lose and never win?’

‘He surrendered whenever threatened,’ said Rek. ‘Clever, eh?’

‘How come men followed him if he never won?’

‘Because he never lost. Neither did they.’

‘Would you have followed him?’ asked Horeb.

‘I don’t follow anyone any more. Least of all gen­erals.’ Rek turned his head, listening to the inter­weaving chatter. He closed his eyes, concentrating. ‘Listen to them,’ he said, softly. ‘Listen to their talk of glory.’

‘They don’t know any better, Rek, my friend. They haven’t seen it, tasted it. Crows like a black cloud over a battlefield feasting on dead men’s eyes, foxes jerking at severed tendons, worms . . .’

‘Stop it, damn you . . . I don’t need reminding. Well, I’m damned if I’ll go. When’s Nessa getting married?’

‘In three days,’ answered Horeb. ‘He’s a good boy, he’ll look after her. Keeps baking her cakes. She’ll be like a tub before long.’

‘One way or another,’ said Rek, with a wink.

‘Indeed yes,’ answered Horeb, grinning broadly.

The men sat in their own silence allowing the noise to wash over them, each drinking and thinking, secure within their circle of two. After a while Rek leaned forward.

‘The first attack will be at Dros Delnoch,’ he said. ‘Do you know they’ve only 10,000 men there?’

‘I heard it was less than that. Abalayn’s been cut­ting back on the regulars and concentrating on mil­itia. Still, there’re six high walls and a strong keep. And Delnar’s no fool – he was at the battle of Skein.’

‘Really?’ said Rek. ‘I heard that was one man against ten thousand, hurling mountains on the foe.’