LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

*

Dros Delnoch’s first line of defence was the wall Elbidar, spreading snakelike for almost a quarter of a mile across the Delnoch Pass. Forty-eight feet high when viewed from the north, a mere five feet from the south, like a giant step carved from the heart of a mountain in seamed granite.

Cul Gilad sat on the battlements, gazing sombrely past the few trees towards the northern plains. His eyes scanned the shimmering distant horizon, searching for the tell-tale dust clouds that would herald the invasion. There was nothing to see. His dark eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an eagle high in the morning sky. Gilad smiled.

‘Fly, you great golden bird. Live!’ he shouted. Gilad pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. His legs were long and slim, his movements fluid, graceful. The new army shoes were half a size too large and packed with paper. His helm, a wondrous thing of bronze and silver, slipped over one eye. Cursing, he hurled it to the floor. One day he would write a battle hymn about army efficiency, he thought. His belly rumbled and he cast his eyes about for his friend Bregan, gone to fetch their mid-morning food: black bread and cheese – bound to be. Endless wagons of supplies arriving daily at Delnoch, yet the mid-morning meal was always black bread and cheese. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out Bregan’s tubby form ambling from the mess hall bearing two platters and a jug. Gilad smiled. Good-natured Bregan. A farmer, a husband, a father. All these things he did well in his own soft, kindly, easygoing way. But a soldier?

‘Black bread and creamed cheese,’ said Bregan, smiling. ‘We’ve only had it three times and I’m al­ready tired of it.’

‘Are the carts still coming in?’ asked Gilad.

‘By the score. Still, I expect they know best what a warrior needs,’ said Bregan. ‘I wonder how Lotis and the boys are bearing up.’

‘News should be in later. Sybad always gets letters.’

‘Yes. I’ve only been here two weeks and yet I miss the family terribly,’ said Bregan. ‘I only joined up on the spur of the moment, Gil. That officer’s speech just got to me, I suppose.’

Gilad had heard it before – almost every day for the two weeks since first they had been issued with armour. Bregan shouldn’t be at Delnoch, he knew; he was tough enough, but in a way he lacked the heart. He was a farmer, a man who loved growing things. To destroy was alien to him.

‘By the way,’ said Bregan suddenly, his face echo­ing his excitement, ‘you’ll never guess who’s just arrived!’

‘Who?’

‘Druss the Legend. Can you believe it?’

‘Are you sure, Bregan? I thought he was dead.’

‘No. He arrived an hour ago. The whole mess hall is buzzing with the news. They say he’s bringing five thousand archers and a legion of axemen.’

‘Don’t count on it, my friend,’ said Gilad. ‘I’ve not been here long, but I would like a copper coin for every story I’ve heard about reinforcements, peace plans, treaties and leave.’

‘Well, even if he brings no one it’s still good news, isn’t it? I mean, he is a hero, isn’t he?’

‘He certainly is. Gods, he must be about seventy though. That’s a bit old, isn’t it?’

‘But he’s a hero.’ Bregan stressed the word, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was a farmer’s son. And he’s never lost, Gil. Not ever. And he will be with us. Us! The next song about Druss the Legend will have us in it. Oh, I know we won’t be named – but we’ll know, won’t we? I’ll be able to tell little Legan that I fought beside Druss the Legend. It makes a difference, doesn’t it?’

‘Of course it does,’ said Gilad, dipping his black bread into the cheese and scanning the horizon. Still no movement. ‘Does your helmet fit?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s too small. Why?’

Try mine.’

‘We’ve been through that, Gil. Bar Kistrid says it’s against the rules to swap.’

‘A pox on Bar Kistrid and his stupid rules. Try it on.’