LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘My thanks, baker. What do I owe you?’

The baker was about to ask for two copper coins, but realised in time that the old man had no pockets visible, and no money sack. He sighed and said what was expected.

‘No money necessary from you, Druss. Naturally.’

‘Decent of you,’ said Druss.

‘You should get back to your quarters,’ said the baker. ‘And get a good night’s sleep.’ He was about to add that Druss was no youngster any more, but thought better of it.

‘Not yet. Got to see one of my officers.’

‘Ah, Mendar,’ said the baker, smiling.

‘How did you know?’

‘I saw him not twenty minutes since with three or four others heading down towards The Unicorn. We don’t see many officers here at this time of night. The Unicorn’s a soldier’s drinking house.’

‘Yes. Well, thanks again. I’ll be on my way.’

Druss stood in the doorway for a few moments after the baker had returned to his oven. If Mendar was with three or four others, they might expect him to join them for a drink, and he racked his brains to think of a reason for refusing. Unable to come up with a convincing excuse, he cursed and started down Baker’s Row.

All was darkness now and silence. The silence jarred him, but his head ached too hard to consider it.

Ahead he could see the anvil sign of the armoury repairer gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped again, blinking as the sign shimmered and distorted and shook his head.

Silence . . . What was it about the damned silence?

He walked on, ill at ease, loosening Snaga in her sheath more as a reflex habit than as a conscious awareness of danger. He turned right . . .

Something swished through the air. Light exploded in his eyes as the club hit him – he went down hard and rolled in the dirt as a dark figure sprang forward. Snaga sang through the air slicing through the man’s thigh, crunching on bone which splintered and broke, tearing a scream from the assassin. Druss lurched to his feet as more shapes came from the shadows. His vision blurred, he could still make out the gleam of steel in the moonlight. Bellowing a war cry, he lunged forward. A sword arced towards him, but he batted it aside and clove his axe through the skull of the swordsman, simul­taneously kicking out at a second man. A sword blade cut through his shirt, nicking his chest. He hurled Snaga and turned to meet the third man.

It was Mendar!

Druss moved sideways with arms outstretched like a wrestler. The young officer, sword in hand, advanced confidently. Druss glanced at the second man; he was lying groaning on the ground, his weak­ening fingers desperately trying to pull the axe from his belly. Druss was angry with himself. He should never have hurled the axe – he blamed it on the headache and sickness. Now Mendar leapt and swung his sword, and Druss jumped backwards as the silver steel swished by him, an inch from his neck.

‘You can’t back away much longer, old man!’ said Mendar, grinning.

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Druss.

‘Playing for time? Sorry? You wouldn’t under­stand.’

Once more he leapt and slashed and once more Druss jumped clear. But now his back was against a building and there was nowhere to run.

Mendar laughed. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so easy to kill you, Druss,’ he said, and lunged. Druss twisted, slammed his hand against the flat of the sword, then leapt forward as the weapon sliced the skin over his ribs, and hammered a fist into Mendar’s face. The tall officer staggered back with blood pour­ing from his mouth. A second blow crashed under his heart, snapping a rib. He went down, losing his grip on his sword, but huge fingers gripped his throat and hauled him upright. He blinked – the grip relaxed just enough for him to squeeze air through his windpipe.

‘Easy, boy? Nothing in life is easy.’

A whisper of sound came from behind him.

Druss grabbed Mendar and swung him round. A double-headed axe clove through the officer’s shoulder, lodging against the breastbone. Druss hurdled the body and shoulder-charged the assassin as he struggled to free his weapon. The man was hurled backwards. As Druss clambered to his feet the killer turned and sprinted out into Baker’s Row.