LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘Has fear turned your bowels to water?’ asked Rek, softly.

The man turned back, smiling. ‘Ah, now you seek to anger me. Very well! We will fight. When you die, your men will lay down their swords?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if I die, we allow you to pass?’

‘Yes.’

‘So be it. I swear this on the soul of Mehmet, Blessed be His Name.’

Joachim drew a slender scimitar and the Sathulis around Rek moved back to form a circle about the two men. Rek drew his blade from the earth and the battle began.

The Sathuli was an accomplished swordsman and Rek was forced back as soon as the fight started. Serbitar, Virae and the others watched calmly as blade met blade time and again. Parry, riposte, thrust and parry, slash and check. Rek defended frantically at first, then slowly began to counter. The battle wore on, with both men sweating freely. It was obvious to all that they were evenly matched in skill, and virtually identical in strength and reach. Rek’s blade sliced the skin above Joachim’s shoulder. The scimitar licked out to open a wound on the back of Rek’s hand. Both men circled warily, breathing deeply.

Joachim attacked; Rek parried, launching a ripo­ste. Joachim jumped back and they circled again, Arbedark, the finest swordsman of The Thirty, was lost in wonder at their technique.

Not that he could not match it, for he could; rather that his skill was honed by mental powers which the two combatants would never comprehend on a conscious level. Yet both were using the same skills subconsciously. It was as much a battle of minds as of blades, yet even here the men were well-matched.

Serbitar pulsed a question to Arbedark. ‘It is too close for me to judge. Who will win?’

‘I know not,’ replied Arbedark. ‘It is fascinating.’

Both men were tiring fast. Rek had established a two-handed grip on his longsword, his right arm no longer able to bear the full weight of the blade. He launched an attack which Joachim parried desper­ately; then his sword caught the scimitar an inch above the hilt – and the curved blade snapped. Rek stepped forward, touching the point of his sword to Joachim’s jugular. The swarthy Sathuli did not move but merely gazed back defiantly, his brown eyes meeting Rek’s gaze.

‘And what is your life worth, Joachim Sathuli?’

‘A broken sword,’ answered Joachim. Rek held out his hand and received the useless hilt.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked the surprised Sathuli leader.

‘It is simple,’ answered Rek. ‘All of us here are as dead men. We ride for Dros Delnoch to face an army the like of which has not been seen before in this world. We shall not survive the summer. You are a warrior, Joachim, and a worthy one. Your life is worth more than a broken blade. We proved nothing by this contest, save that we are men. Before me I have nothing but enemies and war.

‘Since we will meet no more in this life, I would like to believe that I have left at least a few friends behind me. Will you take my hand?’ Rek sheathed his sword and held out his hand.

The tall Sathuli smiled. ‘There is a strangeness in this meeting,’ he said, ‘for as my blade broke I wondered, in that moment when death faced me, what would I have done had your sword snapped. Tell me, why do you ride to your death?’

‘Because I must,’ said Rek simply.

‘So be it, then. You ask me for friendship and I give it, though I have sworn mighty oaths that no Drenai would feel safe on Sathuli land. I give you this friendship because you are a warrior, and because you are to die.’

‘Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?’

‘I would have killed you,’ said the Sathuli.

17

The first of the spring storms burst over the Delnoch mountains as Gilad relieved the watch sentry on Wall One. Thunder rumbled angrily overhead while crooked spears of jagged lightning tore the night sky, momentarily lighting the fortress. Fierce winds whistled along the walls, shrieking sibilantly.