LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘But. . . that means you stood alone against them all,’ said Gilad. ‘Five of them and you survived?’

‘Aye, but they were a motley crew, and ill-trained. Do you know why I told you that. . . about Mendar?’

‘Because you wanted to talk?’

‘No. I’ve never been much of a talker, and I have little need for sharing my fears. No, I wanted you to know that I trust you. I want you to take over Mendar’s role. I’m promoting you to Dun.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Gilad fiercely.

‘Do you think I want this responsibility? Why do you think I’ve spent this time here? I am trying to make you understand that often – more often than not – we are forced into doing what we fear. You will take over as of tomorrow.’

‘Why? Why me?’

‘Because I have watched you and I think you have a talent for leadership. You’ve impressed me in lead­ing your ten. And you helped Orrin in that race. That was pride. Also I need you, and others like you.’

‘I’ve no experience,’ said Gilad, knowing it sounded lame.

‘That will come. Think on this: your friend Bregan is no soldier and some of your men will die at the first attack. Having a good officer will save some of them.’

‘All right. But I can’t afford to dine in the officers’ mess or run up an armourer’s bill. You will have to supply me with the uniform.’

‘Mendar’s gear should fit you, and you will put it to more noble use.’

‘Thank you. You said earlier on that you came here to die. Does that mean you think we cannot win?’

‘No, it doesn’t. Forget what I said.’

‘Damn you, Druss, don’t patronise me! You just talked about trust. Well, I’m an officer now and I asked you a straight question. I won’t repeat the answer. So trust me.’

Druss smiled and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the young sentry.

‘Very well. We have no chance in the long term. Every day brings us closer to a Nadir victory. But we will make them pay dearly. And you can believe that, laddie, for that’s Druss the Legend talking.’

‘Never mind the Legend,’ said Gilad, returning the other’s smile. “That’s the man who took on five assassins in a darkened alley.’

‘Don’t build me up too high because of that, Gilad. All men have talents. Some build, some paint, some write, some fight. For me it is different. I have always had a way with death.’

*

The girl moved along the battlements, ignoring the comments of the soldiers; her auburn hair glinting in the morning sun, her long legs, slender and bronzed, the objects of many of the friendly though intimate comments from the troops. She smiled once, when one of the men she passed murmured to a companion, ‘I think I’m in love.’ She blew him a kiss and winked.

Bowman smiled, gently shaking his head. He knew Caessa was making a meal of her entrance, but with a body like hers who would blame her? As tall as most men, willowy and graceful, her every movement combined to promise pleasure to any man watching. Physically, Bowman thought, she is the perfect woman. The ultimate female.

He watched her string her longbow. Jorak looked at him questioningly but he shook his head. The rest of the archers stood back. This was Caessa’s moment, and after an entrance like that she deserved a little applause.

Straw dummies had been set up one hundred paces from the wall. The heads were painted yellow, the torsos red. It was a standard distance for a fine archer, but shooting down from a battlement added several degrees to the difficulty.

Caessa reached over her shoulder to the doeskin quiver and drew a black feathered shaft. She checked it for line, then notched it to the string.

‘Head,’ she said.

With one flowing movement she drew back the string and as it touched her cheek, she loosed the shaft. It flashed through the morning air and ham­mered into the neck of the nearest dummy. The watching men burst into rapturous applause and Caessa glanced at Bowman. He raised an eyebrow.