LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘I have been a fool, Druss,’ he said, at last.

‘Enough of that talk!’ snapped the old man. ‘Listen to me. You are the Gan. From this day on no man will speak ill of you. What you fear, keep to yourself, and believe in me. Everyone makes mis­takes. Everyone fails at something. The Dros will hold, for I will be damned if I will let it fall. If I had felt you were a coward, Orrin, I would have tied you to a horse and sent you packing. You have never been in a siege, nor led a troop into battle. Well, now you will do both, and do it well, for I will be beside you.

‘Get rid of your doubts. Yesterday is dead. Past mistakes are like smoke in the breeze. What counts is tomorrow, and every tomorrow until Wound-weaver gets here with reinforcements. Make no mistake, Orrin. When we survive and the songs are sung, you will be worth your place in them and no one will sneer. Not a soul. Believe it!

‘Now I have talked enough. Give me your seal on parchment and I will start today with my duties.’

‘Will you want me with you today?’

‘Best not,’ said Druss. ‘I have a few heads to crack.’

Minutes later, Druss marched towards the officers’ mess flanked by two Legion guards, tall men and well-disciplined. The old man’s eyes blazed with anger and the guards exchanged a glance as they marched. They could hear the sounds of singing coming from the mess, and were set to enjoy the sight of Druss the Legend in action.

He opened the door and stepped into the lavishly furnished interior. A trestle bar had been set up against the far wall, stretching out into the centre of the room. Druss pushed his way past the revellers, ignoring the complaints, then placed one hand beneath the trestle and hurled it into the air, scatter­ing bottles, goblets, and food to shower on the offi­cers. Stunned silence was followed by an angry surge of oaths and curses. One young officer pushed his way to the front of the crowd; dark-haired, sullen-eyed and haughty, he confronted the white-bearded warrior.

‘Who the hell do you think you are, old man?’ he said.

Druss ignored him, his eyes scanning the thirty or so men in the room. A hand grabbed his jerkin.

‘I said who . . .’ Druss backhanded the man across the room to crash into the wall and slither to the floor, half-stunned.

‘I am Druss. Sometimes called Captain of the Axe. In Ventria they call me Druss the Sender. In Vagria I am merely the Axeman. To the Nadir I am Death-walker. In Lentria I am the Silver Slayer.

‘But who are you? You dung eating lumps of offal! Who the hell are you?’ The old man drew Snaga from her sheath at his side. ‘I have a mind to set an example today. I have a mind to cut the fat from this ill-fated fortress. Where is Dun Pinar?’

The young man pushed himself from the back of the crowd, a half-smile on his face, a cool look in his dark eyes. ‘I am here, Druss.’

‘Gan Orrin has appointed me to take charge of the training and preparation of the defences. I want a meeting with all officers on the training ground in an hour. Pinar, you organise it. The rest of you, clear up this mess and get yourselves ready. The holiday is over. Any man who fails me will curse the day he was born.’ Beckoning Pinar to follow him, he walked outside. ‘Find Hogun,’ he said, ‘and bring him to me at once in the main hall of the Keep.’

‘Yes, sir! And sir . . .’

‘Out with it, lad.’

‘Welcome to Dros Delnoch.’

*

The news flashed through the town of Delnoch like a summer storm, from tavern to shop, to market stall. Druss was here! Women passed the message to their men, children chanted his name in the alleys. Tales of his exploits were retold, growing by the minute. A large crowd gathered before the barracks, watching the officers milling at the parade ground. Children were lifted high, perched on men’s shoul­ders to catch a glimpse of the greatest Drenai hero of all time.