LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

The newcomer spoke: ‘Well? What orders are there?’

‘We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here.’

‘One man can make no difference,’ said the newcomer.

‘Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks.’

‘Five? I thought . . .’

‘I know,’ said the first man. ‘But Ulric’s firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days; and it’s a bad omen for Ulric.’

‘Bad omens can’t stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress.’

‘What is Druss planning?’

‘He means to seal the tunnels. That’s all I know so far.’

‘Come back in three days,’ said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then re-read what he had written:

Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher.

‘Perhaps we should kill Druss,’ said the new­comer, rising.

‘If we are told to,’ said the first man. ‘Not before.’

‘I will see you in three days then.’

At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.

He was a Drenai Dun.

*

Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats’ tails which dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knot­ted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four . . . An endless, mind­less agony of effort.

Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat 600 men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armour. First man! And what did he say? ‘A stagger­ing old man followed by staggering old women. Well, don’t just lie there, boy. On to Wall Three!’

Then he had laughed. It was the laugh that did it.

Gilad could have killed him then – slowly. For five miserable endless days, the soldiers of Dros Delnoch had run, climbed, fought, torn down build­ings in the teeth of hysterical curses from the dispossessed owners, and trundled cart upon cart of rubble into the tunnels at Walls One and Two. Working by day and night, they were bone weary. And still that fat old man urged them on.

Archery tourneys, javelin contests, sword-play, dagger work and wrestling in between the heavy work made sure that few of the Culs bothered to frequent the taverns near the Keep.

Damned Legion did though. They glided through the training with grim smiles, and hurled scornful jests at the farmers who sought to keep up with them. Let them try working eighteen hours in the fields, thought Gilad. Bastards!

Grunting with pain he sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and watched others training. He had ten minutes yet before the next shift was required to fill the rubble carts. Stretcher-bearers toiled across the open ground, bearing rocks twice the weight of an injured man. Many had bandaged hands. Alongside them the black-bearded Bar Britan shouted them on.

Bregan tottered towards him and slumped to the grass. His face was cherry red. Silently he handed Gilad an orange half – it was sweet and fresh.

‘Thanks, Breg.’ Gilad’s eyes moved over the other eight men in his group. Most were lying silently, though Midras had begun to retch. The idiot had a girl in the town and had visited her the night before, creeping back into barracks for an hour’s sleep before daybreak.

He was paying for it now. Bregan was bearing up well: a little faster, a little fitter. And he never complained, which was a wonder.

‘Almost time, Gil,’ he said. Gilad glanced towards the tunnel where the work was slowing down. Other members of Group Karnak were moving towards the partly demolished homes.