LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Gilad hunched himself under the overhang of the gate tower, tugging the small brazier of hot coals into the lee of the wall. His cape was wet through, and water dripped steadily from his drenched hair on to his shoulders to trickle inside his breastplate, soaking the leather of his mail-shirt. But the wall reflected the heat from the brazier and Gilad had spent worse nights on the Sentran plain, digging out buried sheep in the winter blizzards. He regularly raised himself to peer over the wall to the north, waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the plain. Nothing moved there.

Further down the wall an iron brazier exploded as lightning struck it and showers of hot coals fell close to him. What a place to be wearing armour, he thought. He shuddered and hunched closer to the wall. Slowly the storm moved on, swept over the Sentran Plain by the fierce wind from the north. For a while the rain remained, sheeting against the grey stone battlements and running down the tower walls, hissing and spitting as random drops vaporised on the coals.

Gilad opened his small-pack and removed a strip of dried meat. He tore off a chunk and began to chew. Three more hours – then a warm bunk for three more.

From the darkness behind the battlements came the sound of movement. Gilad spun round, scrab­bling for his sword, phantom childhood fears flood­ing his mind. A large figure loomed into the light from the brazier.

‘Stay calm, laddie! It’s only me,’ said Druss, seat­ing himself on the other side of the brazier. He held out his huge hands to the flames. ‘Fire now, is it?’

His white beard was wet through, his black leather jerkin gleaming as if polished by the storrn. The rain had petered to a fine drizzle, and the wind had ceased its eerie howling. Druss hummed an old battle hymn for a few moments as the heat warmed him. Gilad, tense and expectant, waited for the sarcastic comments to follow. ‘Cold, are we? Need a little fire to keep away the phantoms, do we?’ Why pick my watch, you old bastard? he thought. After a while the silence seemed oppressive and Gilad could bear it no longer.

‘A cold night to be out walking, sir,’ he said, cursing himself for the respectful tone.

‘I have seen worse. And I like the cold. It’s like pain – it tells you you’re alive.’

The firelight cast deep shadows on the old war­rior’s weatherbeaten face and for the first time Gilad saw the fatigue etched there. The man is bone-tired, he thought. Beyond the legendary armour and the eyes of icy fire, he was just another old man. Tough and strong as a bull, maybe, but old. Worn out by time, the enemy that never tired.

‘You may not believe it,’ said Druss, ‘but this is the worst time for a soldier – the waiting before the battle. I’ve seen it all before. You ever been in a battle, lad?’

‘No, never.’

‘It’s never as bad as you fear it will be – once you realise that dying is nothing special.’

‘Why do you say that? It’s special to me. I have a wife and a farm which I’d like to see again. I’ve a lot of living to do yet,’ said Gilad.

‘Of course you have. But you could survive this battle and come down with the plague, or be killed by a lion, or develop a cancer. You could be robbed and killed or fall from a horse. Ultimately you will die anyway. Everyone dies. I’m not saying you should give up and just open your arms to welcome it. You must fight it all the way. An old soldier – a good friend of mine – told me early in my life that he who fears to lose will never win. And it’s true. You know what a baresark is, boy?’

‘A strong warrior,’ said Gilad.

‘Yes he is. But he’s more than that: he’s a killing machine who cannot be stopped. Do you know why?’

‘Because he’s insane?’

‘Yes, there is that to him. But more. He doesn’t defend, because when he’s fighting he doesn’t care. He just attacks, and lesser men – who do care – die.’