LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Druss walked into Dros Delnoch. Men would say: ‘Great Gods, the old boy’s walked from Skoda.’ And others would answer: ‘Of course he has. That’s Druss. He never rides.’

But his head told him to buy a horse and leave it at the forest’s edge, a mere ten miles from the Dros. And who would be the wiser?

The inn was crowded, but the innkeeper had rooms to spare. Most of the customers were passing through, heading south, or west into neutral Vagria. Druss paid his money, took a canvas sack of ice to his room and sat on the hard bed pressing it to his swollen knee. He had not been in the main room for long, but long enough to hear some of the con­versations and to recognise many of the men there as soldiers. Deserters.

Always in war, he knew, there were men who would sooner ride than die. But many of the young men downstairs had seemed more demoralised than cowardly.

Were things so bad at Delnoch?

He removed the ice and massaged the fluid away from the joint, his thick fingers pressing and probing, his teeth gritted hard against the pain. Satisfied at last, he opened his small-pack and removed a length of sturdy cotton bandage which he wound tightly about the knee, tucking the end into the fold. Then he rolled down his woollen leggings and pulled his black boot on to his foot, grunting as the injured knee tensed. He stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. His knee felt better – not much, but enough. The sky was cloudless and blue, and a soothing breeze ruffled his beard. High overhead an eagle circled.

Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.

The script was writ large and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.

My Dearest Comrade,

Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar – you remember the Abbot of Swords? – to request The Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.

I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle, or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.

Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn’s nephew and a martinet. He is despised and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.

I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.

It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favour.

Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.

Your comrade in arms.

Earl Delnar

Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.

‘An old man with a swollen knee and arthritic back. If you’ve pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere.’

A silvered mirror stood next to a wash-basin on an oak chest and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of grey hair. His thoughts were sombre as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.

At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.

‘They say Ulric has a million men,’ said one tall youngster. ‘And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender, and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!’