LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘How did he manage to kill Mendar?’ asked Hogun, who already knew from Druss. But he too appreciated Lebus’s skill.

‘That had me puzzled, sir,’ said the tracker. ‘But I think I have it. There was a fifth attacker who stayed back during the struggle. There is some indi­cation that Druss and Mendar had ceased to fight and were standing close. The fifth man must have moved in then. See the heel-mark there, that belongs to Druss. See the deep round imprint? I would say he swung Mendar round to block the fifth man.’

‘Good work, Lebus,’ said Hogun. ‘The men say you could track a bird in flight and I believe them.’

Lebus bowed and moved away.

‘I begin to believe Druss is everything they say he is,’ said Elicas. ‘Astonishing!’

‘True,’ said Hogun, ‘but worrying. To have an army the size of Ulric’s opposing us is one thing; traitors at the Dros is quite another. And as for Mendar . . . it is almost beyond belief.’

‘From a good family, I understand. I have put it around that Mendar aided Druss against Nadir infiltrators. It may work. Not everyone has Lebus’s talent, and anyway the ground will be well trodden over by full daylight.’

‘The Mendar story is a good one,’ said Hogun. ‘But word will get out.’

‘How is the old man?’ asked Elicas.

Ten stitches in his side and four in his head. He was asleep when I left. Calvar Syn says it’s a miracle the skull didn’t crack.’

‘Will he still judge the Open Swords?’ asked the younger man. Hogun merely raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I thought he would. That’s a shame.’

‘Why?’ asked Hogun.

‘Well, if he hadn’t judged it you would have done so. And then I would have missed the pleasure of beating you.’

‘You conceited pup!’ said Hogun laughing. ‘The day has not yet come when you could breach my guard – even with a wooden sword.’

‘There’s a first time for everything. And you’re not getting any younger, Hogun. Why, you must be over thirty. One foot in the grave!’

‘We shall see. A side bet, perhaps?’

‘A flagon of Red?’ said Elicas.

‘Done, my lad! Nothing tastes sweeter than wine another man has paid for.’

‘As I shall no doubt find out this evening,’ retorted Elicas.

14

The marriage was a simple one – performed by the Abbot of Swords, Vintar, and witnessed by the cap­tain and mate of the Wastrel. The sea was calm, the night sky cloudless. Overhead gulls wheeled and dived, a sure sign of approaching land.

Antaheim, one of The Thirty, tall and slender, his dark features showing his Vagrian descent, supplied the ring: an unadorned band of gold.

Now as the dawn neared and the others slept, Rek stood alone at the prow, starlight glinting on his silver head-band, wind streaming his hair like a dark banner.

The die was cast now. He was chained by his own hand to the Delnoch cause. Sea spray stung his eyes and he stepped back, sitting down with his back to the rail and hugging his cloak tight about him. All his life he had sought direction and an escape from fear, an end to trembling hands and an unsteady heart. Now his fears had vanished like candle wax before a flame.

Earl Regnak of Dros Delnoch, Warden of the North.

At first Virae had refused his offer, but ultimately he knew she would be forced to accept. If she had not married him, Abalayn would have sent a hus­band post-haste. It was inconceivable that Delnoch should lack a leader, and equally inconceivable for a woman to take on the duties.

The captain had sprinkled their heads with sea water in the ritual blessing, but Vintar, a lover of truth, had omitted the blessing of fertility and replaced it with the more simple: ‘Be happy, my children, now and until the end of your lives.’

Druss had escaped the attempt on his life, Gan Orrin had found his strength, and The Thirty were only two days from Dros Purdol and the last stage of their journey. The winds had been kind and Wastrel was two, maybe three days ahead of schedule.