LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘No. I should like to, but I do have other work to do.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘Pinar is very good at paperwork, and I am damned tired of having complaining deputations knocking at my door every five minutes. Yes, I’ll be here.’

‘May I make a suggestion?’ said Gilad.

‘Of course.’

‘Get yourself some ordinary armour. You will stand out less.’

‘I’m supposed to stand out,’ said Orrin, smiling. ‘I am the Gan.’

High above them, Druss and Hogun shared a bottle of Lentrian Red.

‘It took nerve for him to come out today after the jeering yesterday,’ said Druss.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Hogun. ‘No, dammit, I’ll agree with you and praise the man. But it goes against the grain. You gave him the backbone.’

‘You can’t give a man something that isn’t there,’ said Druss. ‘he just never looked for it.’ Druss grinned and took a long swig from the bottle, passing it to Hogun half-drained.

‘I like the little man,’ said Druss. ‘He’s game!’

*

Orrin lay back on his narrow bunk, his back cushioned by soft pillows, his hand curled around a clay cup. He tried to tell himself there was no glory in coming second from last. Happily he failed. He had never been athletic, even as a child. But he came from a family of warriors and Drenai leaders and his father had insisted he take part in all soldierly pursuits. He had always handled a sword well, which, in his father’s eyes, made up for the other, mightier, shortcomings. Like not being able to stand physical pain. Or not being able to understand, even after patient explanation, the great mistake made by Nazredas at the battle of Plettii. He wondered if his father would have been pleased at his hurling himself to the floor in order to beat a Cul in a foot race. He smiled: he would think him mad.

The sound of knuckles rapping at his door brought him back to the present.

‘Come!’

It was Druss, minus his black and silver jerkin. Strange how he looked like an old man, thought Orrin, without his legendary garb. The warrior’s beard was combed and he wore a flowing white shirt-tunic with billowing sleeves gathered in at the wrists. About his middle was a thick black belt with silver buckle. He was carrying a large bottle of Lentrian Red.

‘I thought, if you were awake, I might join you for a drink,’ said Druss, pulling up a chair and reversing it, as Orrin had seen Hogun do on many occasions.

‘Why do you do that?’ asked Orrin.

‘What?’ said Druss.

Turn the chair round.’

‘Old habits die hard – even among friends. It’s a warrior’s habit. With your legs astride the chair, it is easier to rise. Also it puts a thick layer of wood between your belly and the man you are talking to or sitting with.’

‘I see,’ said Orrin. ‘I had always meant to ask Hogun, but I never got round to it. What makes men adopt habits like that?’

‘The sight of a friend with a knife in his belly!’ said Druss.

‘I can see that it would. Will you teach me your tricks, Druss, before the Nadir arrive?’

‘No. You will have to learn them the hard way. Little things I will help you with at the right time -they may make a difference.’

‘Little things? You intrigue me, Druss. Tell me something now.’ Orrin accepted a cup of Lentrian and settled back. Druss drank from the bottle.

‘All right,’ said the axeman, half the bottle drained, ‘answer me this, why are the men issued with oranges every morning?’

‘It keeps them fit and helps prevent dysentery. It’s refreshing and cheap. Is that it?’ asked Orrin puzzled.

‘Some of it,’ said Druss. ‘The Earl of Bronze intro­duced oranges to the army, partly for the reasons you mention, but mainly because if you rub the juice into the palm of your hand your sword will not slip as the hand sweats. Also, if you rub it on your brow, sweat will not drop into your eyes.’

‘I never knew that. I expect I should have done, but I didn’t. How simple! Give me another.’