LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

His own fear was of dotage and senility. The thought of it set him to trembling. Did he really hear a voice at Skoda, or was it merely his own terror booming inside him?

Druss the Legend. Mightiest man of his era. A killing machine, a warrior. And why?

Because I never had the courage to be a farmer, Druss told himself.

Then he laughed, dismissing all sombre thoughts and self doubt. It was a talent he had.

Today had a good feel about it. He felt lucky. If he kept to known trails he would certainly meet outlaws. One old man alone was a package not to be missed. They would be a sorely inefficient lot if he were to pass through the forest unnoticed – and unattended.

The woods were becoming thicker now, as he reached the outskirts of Skultik. Huge, gnarled oaks, graceful willows and slender elm interlinked their branches for as far as the eye could see – and greatly beyond, Druss knew.

The noon sun made shafts of shimmering light through the branches and the breeze carried the sounds of miniature waterfalls from hidden streams. It was a place of enchantment and beauty.

To his left a squirrel ceased its hunt for food and gazed warily at the old man as he marched past. A fox crouched in the undergrowth and a snake slith­ered beneath a fallen trunk as he approached. Overhead birds sang, a chorus full of the sounds of life.

Throughout the long afternoon Druss marched on, occasionally bursting into song, full-bodied and lusty versions of battle hymns from a score of nations.

Towards dusk he became aware that he was being watched.

How he was aware he could never explain. A tightening of the skin on his neck, a growing awareness that his back made a broad target. Whatever it was, he had learned to trust his senses in the matter. He loosened Snaga in her sheath.

Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, slender and wand-like against a background of oak.

At the centre of the clearing, on a fallen trunk, sat a young man, dressed in homespun garments of green tunic and brown leather leggings. Upon his legs lay a longsword, and by his side was a longbow and a quiver of goose-feathered arrows.

‘Good day, old man,’ he said, as Druss appeared. Lithe and strong, thought Druss, noting with a war­rior’s eye the cat-like grace of the man as he stood, sword in hand.

‘Good day, laddie,’ said Druss, spotting a move­ment to his left in the undergrowth. Another whisper of branch on cloth came from his right.

‘And what brings you to our charming forest?’ asked the young man. Druss casually walked to a nearby beech and sat, leaning his back against the bark.

‘A desire for solitude,’ he said.

‘Ah yes. Solitude! And now you have company. Perhaps this is not a lucky time for you.’

‘One time is as lucky as another,’ said Druss, returning the other’s smile. ‘Why don’t you ask your friends to join us? It must be damp skulking in the bushes.’

‘How rude of me, to be sure. Eldred, Ring, come forward and meet our guest.’ Sheepishly two other young men pushed their way through the greenery to stand beside the first. Both were dressed in identical clothing of green tunic and leather leggings. ‘Now we are all here,’ said the first.

‘All except the bearded one with the longbow,’ said Druss.

The young man laughed. ‘Come out, Jorak. Old father here misses nothing, it seems.’ The fourth man came into the open. He was large – a head taller than Druss and built like an ox, his massive hands dwarfing the longbow.

‘Now, dear sir, we are all here. Be so kind as to divest yourself of all your valuables, for we are in a hurry. There is a stag roasting at camp, and sweet new potatoes, garnished with mint. I don’t want to be late.’ He smiled, almost apologetically.

Druss bunched his powerful legs beneath him, rising to his feet, his blue eyes glinting with battle joy.

‘If you want my purse, you will have to earn it,’ he said.