LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

He had believed nothing could be worse, but he could not have been more wrong.

He thought of Bregan’s words about Dros Delnoch’s strength. His mind’s eye pictured hun­dreds of thousands of barbarian warriors swarming like ants over a thin line of defenders. It’s funny, he thought, how different people view the same event. Bregan can’t see how they can take Delnoch.

I can’t see how they can fail.

All in all, he thought, smiling, I think I would rather be Bregan.

‘I’ll bet it’s cooler at Dros Purdol,’ said Bregan. ‘The sea air blowing in and all that. This pass seems to make even the spring sun burn.’

‘It blocks the east wind,’ said Gilad, ‘and the grey marble reflects the heat down on to us. I expect it’s pleasant in winter, though.’

‘Well, I shall not be here to see that,’ said Bregan. ‘I only signed on for the summer and I’m hoping to be back in time for the harvest supper. That’s what I told Lotis.’

Gilad laughed, his tension flowing from him. ‘Never mind Druss,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re with me, Breg, I really am.’

Bregan’s brown eyes searched Gilad’s face for any sign of sarcasm. Satisfied, he smiled. ‘Thanks for saying that. We never had much to do with one another at the village and I always felt you thought I was dull.’

‘I was wrong. Here, take my hand on it. We will stick together, you and I, see off the Nadir and journey back to the Supper with tall tales.’

Bregan gripped his hand, grinning, then: ‘Not like that,’ he said suddenly. ‘It has to be the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.’

Both men chuckled.

‘Never mind about saga-poets,’ said Gilad. ‘We will compose our own song. Bregan of the Broad­sword and Gilad, the demon of Dros Delnoch. How’s that?’

‘I think you ought to find another name for your­self. My Legan has always been afraid of demons.’

The sound of Gilad’s laughter reached the eagle high above the pass. It banked sharply and flew to the south.

10

Druss paced impatiently in the great hall of the keep, gazing absently at the marble statues of past heroes flanking the high walls. No one had questioned him as he entered the Dros, and everywhere soldiers were sitting in the spring sunshine, some dicing their meagre wages, others asleep in the shade. The city folk moved about their business as usual and a dull, apathetic air hung over the fortress. The old man’s eyes had blazed with a cold fury. Officers chatted among the enlisted men – it was almost more than the old warrior could bear. Angry beyond endur­ance, he had marched to the Keep and hailed a young officer in a red cloak who stood in the shade of the portcullis gate.

‘You! Where will I find the Earl?’

‘How should I know?’ answered the man, walking past the black-garbed axeman. A mighty hand curled round the folds of the red cloak and tugged, con­temptuously. The officer checked in his stride, lost his footing and crashed back into the old man, who grabbed him by the belt and hoisted him from the floor. His breastplate clanged as his back hit the gateway.

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, you son of a slut!’ hissed Druss. The young man swallowed hard.

‘I think he’s in the great hall,’ he said. ‘Sir!’ he added hurriedly. The officers had never seen battle nor any degree of violence, yet he knew instinctively the threat contained in the ice-cold eyes. He’s insane, he thought as the old man slowly lowered him to the ground.

‘Lead me to him and announce me. The name is Druss. Do you think you can remember it?’

The young man nodded so vigorously that his horse-hair crested helm slipped over his eyes.

Minutes later Druss paced in the great hall, his anger barely held in check. Was this how empires fell?

‘Druss, old friend, how you delight my eyes!’ If Druss had been surprised by the state of the fortress, he was doubly shocked by the appearance of Earl Delnar, Lord Warden of the North. Supported by the young officer, the man would not pass for the shadow he had cast at Skeln Pass a scant fifteen years before. His skin stretched like parchment over a skull-like countenance, yellow and dry, his eyes burning brightly – feverishly – in dark sockets. The young officer brought him close to the old warrior and the Earl extended a hand like a claw. Gods of Missael, thought Druss. He is five years younger than I!