LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘Great gods, Bowman! You’re not turning super­stitious, are you?’ asked Hogun, grinning.

‘I should say not. I merely wonder whether there is such a thing as fate that such a man should be supplied at such a time.’

Hogun plucked a stem of couch grass and placed it between his teeth. ‘All right, let us examine the argument. Can we hold for three months until Woundweaver gathers and trains his army?’

‘No. Not with these few.’

‘Then it matters not whether Druss’s arrival was coincidence or otherwise. We may hold for a few more days because of his training, but that is not enough.’

‘Morale is high, old horse, so best not repeat those sentiments.’

‘Do you think me a fool? I will stand and die with Druss when the time comes, as will the other men. I share my thoughts with you because you will under­stand them. You are a realist – and moreover, you remain only until the third wall falls. With you I can be frank, surely?’

‘Druss held Skeln Pass when all others said it would fall,’ said Bowman.

‘For eleven days – not three months. And he was fifteen years younger then. I don’t belittle what he did; he is worthy of his legends. Knights of Dros Delnoch! Have you ever seen such knights? Far­mers, peasants and raw recruits. Only the Legion have seen real action, and they are trained for hit-and-run charges from horseback. We could fold on the first attack.’

‘But we won’t, will we!’ said Bowman, laughing. ‘We are Druss’s knights and the ingredients of a new legend.’ His laughter sang out, rich and full of good humour. ‘Knights of Dros Delnoch! You and me, Hogun. They will sing about us in days to come. Good old Bowman, he came to the aid of an ailing fortress for love of liberty, freedom and chivalry . . .’

‘. . . and gold. Don’t forget the gold,’ said Hogun.

‘A minor point, old horse. Let us not ruin the spirit of the thing.’

‘Of course not, I do apologise. However, surely you have to die heroically before you can be immor­talised in song and saga?’

‘A moot point,’ admitted Bowman. ‘But I’m sure I will find a way round it.’

Above them on Musif, Wall Two, several young Culs were ordered to help fetch buckets for the tower well. Grumbling, they left the battlements to join the line of soldiers waiting by the stores.

Each armed with four wooden buckets, the men filed from the building towards the shallow cave beyond where the Musif well nestled in the cold shadows. Attaching the buckets to a complicated system of pulleys, they lowered them slowly towards the dark water below.

‘How long is it since this has been used?’ asked one soldier as the first bucket reappeared, covered in cobwebs.

‘Probably about ten years,’ answered the officer, Dun Garta. ‘The people who had homes here used the centre well. A child died in here once and the well was polluted for over three months. That and the rats kept most people away.’

‘Did they ever get the body out?’ asked the Cul.

‘Not as I heard. But don’t worry, lad. It’s only bones by now and won’t affect the taste. Go on, try some.’

‘Funnily enough I don’t feel very thirsty.’

Garta laughed and dipped his hands into the bucket, lifting the water to his mouth.

‘Spiced with rat droppings and garnished with dead spiders!’ he said. ‘Are you sure you won’t have some?’

The men grinned, but none stepped forward.

‘All right, the fun’s over,’ said Garta. ‘The pulleys are working, the buckets are ready and I should say the job’s done. So let’s lock the gate and get back to work.’

Garta awoke in the night, pain ripping at him like an angry rat trapped in his belly. As he rolled from the bed and struggled to rise, his groaning woke the other three men sharing the room. One of them rushed to his side.

‘What is it, Garta?’ he said, turning the writhing man on to his back. Garta drew up his knees, his face purple. His hand snaked out, grabbing the other’s shirt.