‘The saga of Druss the Legend,’ said Horeb, deepening his voice. ‘The tale of a giant whose eyes were death, and whose axe was terror. Gather round, children, and keep from the shadows lest evil lurks as I tell my tale.’
‘You bastard!’ said Rek. ‘That used to terrify me. You knew him, didn’t you – the Legend, I mean?’
‘A long time ago. They say he’s dead. If not, he must be over sixty. We were in three campaigns together, but I only spoke to him twice. I saw him in action once, though.’
‘Was he good?’ asked Rek.
‘Awesome. It was just before Skeln and the defeat of the Immortals. Just a skirmish really. Yes, he was very good.’
‘You’re not terribly strong on detail, Horeb.’
‘You want me to sound like the rest of these fools, jabbering about war and death and slaying?’
‘No,’ said Rek, draining his wine. ‘No, I don’t. You know me, don’t you?’
‘Enough to like you. Regardless.’
‘Regardless of what?’
‘Regardless of the fact that you don’t like yourself.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Rek, pouring a fresh glass, ‘I like myself well enough. It’s just that I know myself better than most people.’
‘You know, Rek, sometimes I think you ask too much of yourself.’
‘No. No, I ask very little. I know my weaknesses.’
‘It’s a funny thing about weakness,’ said Horeb. ‘Most people will tell you they know their weaknesses. When asked, they tell you, “Well, for one thing I’m over-generous.” Come on then, list yours if you must. That’s what innkeepers are for.’
‘Well, for one thing I’m over-generous – especially to innkeepers.’
Horeb shook his head, smiled and lapsed into silence.
Too intelligent to be a hero, too frightened to be a coward, he thought. He watched his friend empty his glass, lift it to his face and peer at his own fragmented image. For a moment Horeb thought he would smash it, such had been the anger on Rek’s flushed face.
Then the younger man gently returned the goblet to the wooden table.
‘I’m not a fool,’ he said, softly. He stiffened as he realised he had spoken aloud. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘The drink finally got to me.’
‘Let me give you a hand to your room,’ offered Horeb.
‘Is there a candle lit?’ asked Rek, swaying in his seat.
‘Of course.’
‘You won’t let it go out on me, will you? Not keen on the dark. Not frightened, you understand. Just don’t like it.’
‘I won’t let it go out, Rek. Trust me.’
‘I trust you. I rescued you, didn’t I? Remember?’
‘I remember. Give me your arm. I’ll guide you to the stairs. This way. That’s good. One foot in front of the other. Good!’
‘I didn’t hesitate. Straight in with my sword raised, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, I didn’t. I stood for two minutes shaking. And you got cut.’
‘But you still came in, Rek. Don’t you see? It didn’t matter about the cut – you still rescued me.’
‘It matters to me. Is there a candle in my room?’
*
Behind him was the fortress, grim and grey, outlined in flame and smoke. The sounds of battle filled his ears and he ran, heart pounding, his breathing ragged. He glanced behind him. The fortress was close, closer than it had been. Ahead were the green hills sheltering the Sentran Plain. They shimmered and retreated before him, taunting him with their tranquillity. He ran faster. A shadow fell across him. The gates of the fortress opened. He strained against the force pulling him back. He cried and begged. But the gates closed and he was back at the centre of the battle, a bloody sword in his shaking hand.
*
He awoke, eyes wide, nostrils flared, the beginning of a scream swelling his lungs. A soft hand stroked his face and gentle words soothed him. His eyes focused. Dawn was nearing, the pink light of a virgin day piercing the ice on the inside of the bedroom window. He rolled over.
‘You were troubled in the night,’ Besa told him, her hand stroking his brow. He smiled, pulled the goose-down quilt over his shoulder and drew her to him under the covers.