Legend by David Gemmell
She turned to look at him, smiled, pushed the door shut, and came back into the room, stopping within inches of his burly naked frame.
“Would you like to sleep with me, Druss?” she asked sweetly, laying her left arm across his shoulder.
“No,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes. The pupils were small, unnaturally so.
“Most men do,” she whispered, moving closer.
“I am not most men.”
“Are you dried up, then?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Or is it boys you lust after? We have some like that in our band.”
“No, I can’t say I have ever lusted after a man. But I had a real woman once, and since then I have never needed another.”
She stepped away from him. “I have ordered a hot bath for you, and I want you to stay in it until the water cools. It will help the blood flow through those tired muscles.” With that she turned and was gone. For a few moments Druss stared at the door, then he sat down on the bed and scratched his beard.
The girl disturbed him. There was something in her eyes. Druss had never been good with women, not intuitive as some men were. Women were another race to him, alien and forbidding. But this child was something else again; in her eyes was madness, madness and fear. He shrugged and did what he always had done when a problem eluded him: forgot about it.
After the bath he dressed swiftly, combed his hair and beard, then snatched a hasty breakfast in the Eldibar mess hall and joined the fifty volunteers on the battlements as the dawn sunlight pierced the early morning mist. It was a crisp morning, fresh with the promise of rain. Below him the Nadir were gathering, carts piled with boulders making their slow way to the catapults. Around him there was little conversation; on days such as this a man’s thoughts turned inward. Will I die today? What is my wife doing now? Why am I here?
Farther along the battlements Orrin and Hogun walked among the men. Orrin said little, leaving the legion general to make jokes and ask questions. He resented Hogun’s easy style with the enlisted men, but not too deeply; it was probably more regret than resentment.
A young cul—Bregan, was it?—made him feel better as they passed the small group of men near the gate tower.
“Will you be fighting with Karnak today, sir?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. It is a great honor—for all of us.”
“It is nice of you to say so,” said Orrin.
“No, I mean it,” said Bregan. “We were talking about it last night.”
Embarrassed and pleased, Orrin smiled and walked on.
“Now that,” offered Hogun, “is a greater responsibility than checking supply lines.”
“In what way?”
“They respect you. And that man hero-worships you. It is not an easy thing to live up to. They will stand beside you when all have fled. Or they will flee with you when all else stand.”
“I won’t run away, Hogun,” said Orrin.
“I know you won’t; that’s not what I meant. As a man, there are times when you want to lie down, or give in, or walk away. It’s usually left to the individual, but in this case you are no longer one man. You are fifty. You are Karnak. It is a great responsibility.”
“And what of you?” asked Orrin.
“I am the legion,” he answered simply.
“Yes, I suppose you are. Are you frightened today?”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Orrin, smiling. “I wouldn’t like to be the only one.”
As Druss had promised, the day brought fresh horror: stone missiles obliterating sections of battlements, then the terrible battle cries and the surging attack with ladders to the wall, and a snarling horde breasting the granite defense to meet the silver steel of the Drenai. Today it was the turn of three thousand men from Musif, Wall Two, to relieve warriors who had fought long and hard the day before. Swords rang, men screamed and fell, and chaos descended for long hours. Druss strode the walls like a fell giant, blood-spattered and grim, his ax cleaving the Nadir ranks, his oaths and coarse insults causing the Nadir to center on him. Rek fought with Serbitar beside him, as on the previous day, but with them now were Menahem and Antaheim, Virae and Arbedark.
By afternoon the twenty-foot-wide battlements were slippery with blood and cluttered by bodies, yet still the battle raged. Orrin, by the gate towers, fought like a man possessed, side by side with the warriors from Group Karnak. Bregan, his sword broken, had gathered a Nadir ax, two-headed and long-handled, which he wielded with astonishing skill.
“A real farmer’s weapon!” yelled Gilad during a brief lull.
’Tell that to Druss!” shouted Orrin, slapping Bregan on the back.
At dusk the Nadir fell back once more, sent on their way by jeers and catcalls. But the toll had been heavy. Druss, bathed in crimson, stepped across the bodies and limped to where Rek and Serbitar stood cleaning their weapons.
“The wall’s too damned wide to hold for long,” he muttered, leaning forward to clean Snaga on the jerkin of a dead Nadir.
“Too true,” said Rek, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his cloak. “But you are right; we cannot just give it to them yet.”
“At present,” said Serbitar, “we are killing them at a rate of three to one. It is not enough. They will wear us down.”
“We need more men,” said Druss, sitting back on the battlements and scratching his beard.
“I sent a messenger last night to my father at Dros Segril,” said Serbitar. “We should have reinforcements in about ten days.”
“Drada hates the Drenai,” said Druss. “Why should he send men?”
“He must send my personal bodyguard. It is the law of Vagria, and though my father and I have not spoken for twelve years, I am still his firstborn son. It is my right. Three hundred swords will join me here—no more than that, but it will help.”
“What was the quarrel?” asked Rek.
“Quarrel?” queried the albino.
“Between you and your father.”
“There was no quarrel. He saw my talents as ‘gifts of darkness’ and tried to kill me. I would not allow it. Vintar rescued me.” Serbitar removed his helm, untied the knot that bound his white hair, and shook his head. The evening breeze ruffled his hair. Rek exchanged glances with Druss and changed the subject.
“Ulric must realize by now that he has a battle on his hands.”
“He knew that anyway,” answered Druss. “It won’t worry him yet.”
“I don’t see why not; it worries me,” said Rek, rising as Virae joined them with Menahem and Antaheim. The three members of the Thirty left without a word, and Virae sat beside Rek, hugging his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.
“Not an easy day,” said Rek, gently stroking her hair.
“They looked after me,” she whispered. “Just like you told them to, I suppose.”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Good. We have only just met, and I don’t want to lose you yet.”
“You two ought to eat,” said Druss. “I know you don’t feel like it, but take the advice of an old warrior.” The old man stood, glanced back once at the Nadir camp, and walked slowly toward the mess hall. He was tired. Almighty tired.
Ignoring his own advice, he skirted the mess hall and made for his room at the hospital. Inside the long building he paused to listen to the moans from the wards. The stench of death was everywhere. Stretcher-bearers pushed past him bearing bloodied corpses, orderlies hurled buckets of water to the floor, others with mops or buckets of sand prepared the ground for the next day. He spoke to none of them.
Pushing open the door of his room, he stopped. Caessa sat within. “I have food for you,” she said, avoiding his eyes. Silently he took the platter of beef, red beans, and thick black bread and began to eat.
“There is a bath for you in the next room,” she said as he finished. He nodded and stripped off his clothing.
He sat in the hip bath and cleaned the blood from his hair and beard. When cold air touched his wet back, he knew she had entered. She knelt by the bath and poured an aromatic liquid into her hands, then began washing his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her fingers on his scalp. After rinsing his hair with warm fresh water, she rubbed it dry with a clean towel.
Back in his room, Druss found that she had laid out a clean undervest and black woolen trousers and had sponged his leather jerkin and boots. She poured him a goblet of Lentrian wine before leaving. Druss finished the wine and lay back on the bed, resting his head on his hand. Not since Rowena had a woman tended to him in this fashion, and his thoughts were mellow.
Rowena, his child bride, taken by slavers soon after the wedding at the great oak. Druss had followed them, not even stopping to bury his parents. For months he had traveled the land until at last, in the company of Sieben the poet, he had discovered the slavers’ camp. Having found out from them that Rowena had been sold to a merchant who was heading east, he slew the leader in his tent and set out once more. For five years he wandered across the continent, a mercenary, building a reputation as the most fearsome warrior of his time, becoming at last the champion of Ventria’s god-king, Gorben.
Finally he had found his wife in an eastern palace and had wept. For without her he had always been only half a man. She alone made him human, stilling for a while the dark side of his nature, making him whole, showing him the beauty in a field of flowers, where he looked for perfection in a blade of steel.
She used to wash his hair and stroke the tension from his neck and the anger from his heart.
Now she was gone, and the world was empty, a shifting blur of shimmering gray where once there had been colors of dazzling brightness.
Outside a gentle rain began to fall. For a while Druss listened to it pattering on the roof. Then he slept.
Caessa sat in the open air, hugging her knees. Had anyone approached her, he could not have seen where the rain ended and the tears began.
22
For the first time all the members of the Thirty manned Eldibar as the Nadir massed for the charge. Serbitar had warned Rek and Druss that today would be different: no ballistae bombardment, merely an endless series of charges to wear down the defenders. Druss had refused all advice to rest for the day and stood at the center of the wall. Around him were the Thirty in their silver steel armor and white cloaks. With them was Hogun, while Rek and Virae stood with the men of Group Fire forty paces to the left. Orrin remained with Karnak on the right. Five thousand men waited, swords in hands, shields buckled, helms lowered.
The sky was dark and angry, huge clouds bunching to the north. Above the walls a patch of blue waited for the storm. Rek smiled suddenly as the poetry of the moment struck him.
The Nadir began to move forward in a seething furious mass, their pounding feet sounding like thunder.
Druss leapt to stand on the crenellated battlements above them.
“Come on, you whoresons!” he bellowed. “Deathwalker waits!” His voice boomed out over the valley, echoed by the towering granite walls. At that moment lightning split the sky, a jagged spear above the Dros. Thunder followed.
And the bloodletting began.
As Serbitar had predicted, the center of the line suffered the most ferocious attacks, wave upon wave of tribesmen breasting the walls to die under the steel defense of the Thirty. Their skill was consummate. A wooden club knocked Druss from his feet, and a burly Nadir warrior aimed an ax blow for his skull. Serbitar leapt forward to block the blow, while Menahem dispatched the man with a throat slash. Druss, exhausted, stumbled over a fallen body and pitched to the feet of three attackers. Arbedark and Hogun came to the rescue as he scrabbled for his ax.
The Nadir burst through the line on the right, forcing Orrin and Group Karnak away from the battlements and back onto the grass of the killing ground. As Nadir reinforcements swept over the wall unopposed, Druss saw the danger first and bellowed a warning. He cut two men from his path and raced alone to fill the breach. Hogun desperately tried to follow him, but his way was blocked.
Three young culs from Karnak joined the old man as he hammered and cut his way to the walls, but they were soon surrounded. Orrin—his helm lost, his shield splintered—stood his ground with the remnants of his group. He blocked a wide, slashing cut from a bearded tribesman and lanced a return thrust through the man’s belly. Then he saw Druss and knew that save for a miracle he was doomed.
“With me, Karnak!” he yelled, hurling himself into the advancing mass. Behind him Bregan, Gilad, and twenty others surged forward, joined by Bar Britan and a squad of stretcher guards. Serbitar, with fifteen of the Thirty, cleaved a path along the walls.
The last of Druss’s young companions fell with a broken skull, and the old warrior stood alone as the Nadir circle closed about him. He ducked beneath a swinging sword, grabbed the man’s jerkin, and smashed a head butt to his nose. A sword blade cut his upper arm, and another sliced his leather jerkin above the hip. Using the stunned Nadir as a shield, Druss backed to the battlements, but an ax blade thudded into the trapped tribesman and tore him from Druss’s grasp. With nowhere to go, Druss braced his foot against the battlements and dived forward into the mass; his great weight carried them back, and several tumbled to the earth with him. He lost hold of Snaga, grabbed at the neck of the warrior above him and crushed his windpipe, then, hugging the body to him, waited for the inevitable killing thrust. As the body was kicked away, Druss lashed out at the leg beside him, sweeping the man from his feet.
“Whoa, Druss! It’s me—Hogun.”
The old man rolled over and saw Snaga lying several yards away. He stood and snatched up the ax.
“That was close,” said the legion gan.
“Yes,” said Druss. “Thank you! That was good work!”
“I would like to take the credit, but it was Orrin and the men from Karnak. They fought their way to you, though I don’t know how.”
It had begun to rain, and Druss welcomed it, turning his face to the sky with mouth open, eyes closed.
“They’re coming again!” someone yelled. Druss and Hogun walked to the battlements and watched the Nadir charge. It was hard to see them through the rain.
To the left Serbitar was leading the Thirty from the wall, marching silently back toward Musif.
“Where in hell’s name are they going?” muttered Hogun.
“There’s no time to worry about that,” snarled Druss, cursing silently as his shoulder flamed with fresh agonies.
The Nadir horde swept forward. Then thunder rumbled, and a huge explosion erupted at the center of the Nadir ranks. Everything was confusion as the charge faltered.
“What happened?” asked Druss.
“Lightning struck them,” said Hogun, removing his helm and unbuckling his breastplate. “It could happen here next—it’s all this damned metal.”
A distant trumpet sounded, and the Nadir marched back to their tents. At the center of the plain was a vast crater surrounded by blackened bodies. Smoke rose from the hole.
Druss turned and watched the Thirty enter the postern gate at Musif.
“They knew,” he said softly. “What manner of men are they?”
“I don’t know,” answered Hogun. “But they fight like devils, and at the moment that’s all I care about.”
“They knew,” Druss said again, shaking his head.
“So?”
“How much more do they know?”
“Do you tell fortunes?” the man asked Antaheim as they crouched together beneath the makeshift canvas roof with five others from Group Fire. Rain pattered on the canvas and dripped steadily to the stones below. The roof, hastily constructed, was pinned to the battlements behind them and supported by spears at the two front corners. Within, the men huddled together. They had seen Antaheim walking alone in the rain, and one of the men, Cul Rabil, had called him over despite the warnings of his comrades. Now an uncom
“Well, do you?” asked Rabil.
“No,” said Antaheim, removing his helm and untying the battle knot in his long hair. He smiled. “I am not a magician. Merely a man as you—all of you—are. My training is different, that is all.”
“But you can speak without talking,” said another man. “That’s not natural.”
“It is to me.”
“Can you see into the future?” asked a thin warrior, making the sign of the protective horn beneath his cloak.
“There are many futures. I can see some of them, but I do not know which will come to pass.”
“How can there be many futures?” asked Rabil.
“It is not an easy concept to explain, but I will try. Tomorrow an archer will shoot an arrow. If the wind drops, it will hit one man; if the wind rises, it will hit another. Each man’s future therefore depends on the wind. I cannot predict which way the wind will blow, for that, too, depends on many things. I can look into tomorrow and see both men die, whereas only one may actually fall.”
“Then what is the point of it all? Your talent, I mean,” asked Rabil.
“Now, that is an excellent question and one which I have pondered for many years.”
“Will we die tomorrow?” asked another.
“How can I tell?” answered Antaheim. “But all men must die eventually. The gift of life is not permanent.”
“You say ‘gift,’ “ said Rabil. “This implies a giver?”
“Indeed it does.”
“Which, then, of the gods do you follow?”
“We follow the Source of all things. How do you feel after today’s battle?”
“In what way?” asked Rabil, pulling his cloak closer about him.
“What emotions did you feel as the Nadir fell back?”
“It’s hard to describe. Strong.” He shrugged. “Filled with power. Glad to be alive.” The other men nodded at this.
“Exultant?” offered Antaheim.
“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”
Antaheim smiled. “This is Eldibar, Wall One. Do you know the meaning of the word ‘Eldibar’?”