LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

Ulric knew that Nosta Khan had marshalled his followers, drawing on their combined power to thwart the white templars, but he had never truly understood the appalling dangers.

‘Well?’ he asked the sentry.

‘Nosta Khan is alive,’ the man told him.

Ulric lifted the flap and stepped into the stench of Nosta Khan’s home. The old man lay on a narrow pallet bed, his face grey with exhaustion, his skin bathed in sweat. Ulric pulled up a stool and sat beside him.

‘My acolytes?’ whispered Nosta Khan.

‘All dead.’

‘They were too strong, Ulric,’ said the old man. ‘I have failed you.’

‘Men have failed me before,’ said Ulric. ‘It mat­ters not.’

‘It matters to me!’ shouted the shaman, wincing as the effort stretched his back.

‘Pride,’ said Ulric. ‘You have lost nothing, you have merely been beaten by a stronger enemy. It will avail them little, for my army will still take the Dros. They cannot hold. Rest yourself – and take no risks, shaman. I order it!’

‘I will obey.’

‘I know that. I do not wish you to die. Will they come for you?’

‘No. The white templars are filled with notions of honour. If I rest, they will leave me be.’

‘Then rest. And when you are strong, we will make them pay for your hurt.’

Nosta Khan grinned. ‘Aye.’

Far to the south Temple soared towards the stars. Vintar could not stop him and fought to stay calm as Temple’s panic washed over him, seeking to dislodge him. With the death of the enemy, Vintar had tried to summon The Thirty from within the new mind of the colossus. In that moment Temple looked inside himself and discovered Vintar.

Vintar had tried to explain his presence and the need for Temple to relinquish his individuality. Temple absorbed the truth and fled from it like a comet, seeking the heavens.

The Abbot again tried to summon Serbitar, seek­ing the niche in which he had placed him in the halls of his subconscious. The spark of life that was the albino blossomed under the Abbot’s probing and Temple shuddered, feeling as if part of himself had been cut free. He slowed in his flight.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he asked Vintar.

‘Because I must.’

‘I will die!’

‘No. You will live in all of us.’

‘Why must you kill me?’

‘I am truly sorry,’ said Vintar gently. With Serbi-tar’s aid he sought Arbedark and Menahem. Temple shrank and Vintar closed his heart with grief to the overwhelming despair. The four warriors summoned the other members of The Thirty, and with heavy hearts returned to the hollows.

Rek hurried across to Vintar as the Abbot opened his eyes and moved.

‘Were you in time?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ muttered Vintar, wearily. ‘Let me rest now.’

*

It was an hour short of dusk when Rek, Virae and The Thirty rode under the great portcullis gate set beneath the Delnoch Keep. Their horses were weary, lather-covered and wet-flanked. Men rushed to greet Virae, soldiers doffing helms and citizens asking for news from Drenan. Rek stayed in the background until they were inside the Keep. A young officer escorted The Thirty to the barracks while Rek and Virae made their way to the topmost rooms. Rek was exhausted.

Stripping off his clothes, he bathed himself with cold water and then shaved, removing the four-day stubble and cursing as the keen razor – a gift from Horeb – nicked his skin. He shook most of the dust from his garments and dressed once more. Virae had gone to her own rooms and he had no idea where these were. Strapping on his sword belt, he made his way back to the main hall, stopping twice to ask servants the way. Once there he sat alone, gazing at the marble statues of ancient heroes. He felt lost: insignificant and overpowered.

As soon as they had arrived, they heard the news that the Nadir horde was before the walls. There was a tangible air of panic among the townsfolk and they had seen refugees leaving by the score, with carts piled high – a long, sorrowful convoy heading south.

Rek was unsure whether tiredness or hunger was predominant in him at that moment. He heaved himself to his feet, swayed slightly, then cursed loudly. Near the door was a full-length oval mirror. As he stood before it, the man who stared back at him appeared tall, broad-shouldered and powerful. His grey-blue eyes were purposeful, his chin strong, his body lean. The blue cape, though travel worn, still hung well and the thigh-length doeskin boots gave him the look of a cavalry officer.