Legend by David Gemmell
“I can control it,” he said, holding her tightly to him.
“Where we are going, Rek, you will not have to,” she said.
Serbitar left the monastery balcony and poured a goblet of spring water from a stone jug.
“How did he do it?”
Vintar sat back on a leather chair. “There is a well of courage within him, fueled by many things of which we can only guess. But when Menahem fed him fear, he responded with violence. Because what Menahem could not have understood is that the man fears fear itself. Did you glimpse that memory of his childhood during Menahem’s probe?”
“The tunnels, you mean?”
“Yes. What do you make of a child who fears the dark and yet seeks out dark tunnels to travel through?”
“He tried to end his fears by facing them,” said Serbitar.
“He still does. And that’s why Menahem almost died.”
“He will be useful at Dros Delnoch,” said Serbitar, smiling.
“More than you know,” said Vintar. “More than you know.”
“Yes,” Serbitar told Rek as they sat within the oak-paneled study overlooking the courtyard. “Yes, we can read minds. But I assure you we will not again attempt to read yours or that of your companion.”
“Why did he do that to me?” asked Rek.
“Menahem is the eyes of the Thirty. He had to see that you were worthy to ask of us … the service. You expect us to fight with your forces, to analyze enemy tactics, and to use our skills in defense of a fortress about which we care nothing. The messenger has to be worthy.”
“But I am not the messenger; I am merely a companion.”
“We shall see … How long have you known of your … affliction?”
Rek turned his gaze to the window and the balcony beyond. A wren landed on the railing, sharpened his beak on the stone, and then flew off. Light clouds were forming, fleece islands in the clear blue of the sky.
“It has happened only twice. Both times in the Sathuli wars. Once when we were surrounded after a dawn raid on a village and the second time when I was part of a guard unit for a spice caravan.”
“It is common among warriors,” said Serbitar. “It is a gift of fear.”
“It saved my life both times, but it scares me,” said Rek. “It is as if someone else takes over my mind and body.”
“But that is not so, I assure you. It is you alone. Do not fear what you are, Rek—may I call you Rek?”
“Of course.”
“I did not wish to be overly familiar. It is a nickname, is it not?”
“A shortened form of Regnak. My foster father, Horeb, shortened it when I was a child. It was a kind of joke. I disliked robust games and never wanted to explore or climb high trees. I wasn’t reckless, he said; so he dropped the ‘less’ and called me Rek. As I said, it’s not much of a joke, but the name stuck.”
“Do you think,” asked Serbitar, “that you will be comfortable at Dros Delnoch?”
Rek smiled. “Are you asking me if I have the nerve?”
“Speaking bluntly? Yes, I suppose I am.”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
The ghost of a smile hovered on the pale, fleshless face as the albino considered the question. His slender fingers tapped gently at the desk top.
“The question is a good one. Yes, I have the nerve. My fears are unconnected with death.”
“You have read my mind,” said Rek. “You tell me if I have the nerve. I mean it. I don’t know if I can stand a drawn-out siege; it is said that men fail under such pressure.”
“I cannot tell you,” Serbitar answered, “if you will hold or fail. You are capable of both. I cannot analyze all the permutations of a siege. Ask yourself this: What if Virae fell? Would you stay on?”
“No,” said Rek instantly. “I would saddle a fast horse and be gone. I don’t care about Dros Delnoch. Or the Drenai empire.”
“The Drenai are finished,” said Serbitar. “Their star has fallen.”
“Then you think the Dros will fall?”
“Ultimately it must. But I cannot see that far into the future as yet. The Way of the Mist is strange. Often it will show events still to come, but more often it will show events never to be. It is a perilous path which only the true mystic walks with certainty.”
“The Way of the Mist?” asked Rek.
“I’m sorry, why should you know? It is a road on another plane … a fourth dimension? A journey of the spirit like a dream. Only you direct the dream and see what you desire to see. It is a concept hard to verbalize to a non-speaker.”
“Are you saying your soul can travel outside the body?” asked Rek.
“Oh, yes, that is the easy part. We saw you in Graven Forest outside the cabin. We helped you then by influencing the axman, Grussin.”
“You made him kill Reinard?”
“No. Our powers are not that great. We merely pushed him in a direction he was considering already.”
“I’m not sure I am entirely comfortable knowing you have that sort of power,” said Rek, avoiding the albino’s green eyes.
Serbitar laughed, his eyes sparkling, his pale face mirroring his joy.
“Friend Rek, I am a man of my word. I promised never to use my gift to read your mind, and I shall not. Nor will any of the Thirty. Do you think we would be priests, forsaking the world, if we wished harm to others? I am the son of an earl, but if I wished, I could be a king, an emperor mightier than Ulric. Do not feel threatened. We must be at ease one with the other. More, we must be friends.”
“Why?” asked Rek.
“Because we are about to share a moment which comes only once in a lifetime,” said Serbitar. “We are going to die.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Rek. “I do not see that going to Dros Delnoch is just another way of committing suicide. It’s a battle, that’s all. No more, no less than that. A wall can be defended. A smaller force can hold a larger. History is full of examples: Skeln Pass, for example.”
“True,” said Serbitar. “But they are remembered because they are exceptions. Let us deal in facts. The Dros is defended by a force less than a third of the full complement. Morale is low; fear is rife. Ulric has a force in excess of half a million warriors, all willing—lusting even—to die for him in battle. I am a weapon master and a student of war. Dros Delnoch will fall. Clear your mind of any other conclusion.”
“Then why come with us? What will you gain from it?”
“We die,” said Serbitar, “and then live. But I shall say no more of that at this time. I do not wish to depress you, Rek. If it would serve a purpose, I would fill you with hope. But my whole battle strategy will be built around delaying the inevitable. Only then can I function—and serve your cause.”
“I hope you will keep that opinion to yourself,” said Rek. “Virae believes we can hold. I know enough of warfare and morale to tell you plainly that if your theory were to spread among the men, there would be wholesale desertions; we would lose on the first day.”
“I am not a fool, Rek. I say this to you because it needs to be said. I shall be your adviser at Delnoch, and you will need me to speak the truth. I shall have no real dealings with the soldiers, neither will the Thirty. Men will avoid us, anyway, once they know what we are.”
“Perhaps. Why do you say you will be my adviser? Earl Delnar commands; I shall not even be an officer there.”
“Let us say,” said Serbitar, “that I will be the adviser to your cause. Time will explain all far better than I. Have I depressed you?”
“Not at all. You have told me everything is hopeless, we are all dead men, and the Drenai are finished. Depressed? Not at all!”
Serbitar laughed and clapped his hands. “I like you, Rek,” he said. “I think you will hold firm.”
“I will hold firm, all right,” said Rek, smiling. “Because I will know that at the last wall I will have two horses waiting ready saddled. By the way, do you not have anything stronger than water to drink?”
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“You don’t drink. There are no women. You eat no meat. What do you do for recreation?”
“We study,” said Serbitar. “And we train, and we plant flowers and raise horses. Our time is well occupied, I can assure you.”
“No wonder you want to go away and die somewhere,” said Rek with feeling.
Virae sat with Vintar in a small sparsely furnished study awash with manuscripts and leather-bound tomes. There was a small desk littered with broken quills and scrawled parchment. She held back a smile as the older man fumbled with his breastplate strap. He could not have looked less like a warrior.
“Can I help you?” she asked, standing up and leaning over the desk.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “It weighs heavily.” He balanced the armor against the desk and poured himself some water, offering the jug to Virae, who shook her head. “I’m sorry the room is such a mess, but I have been hurrying to finish my diary. So much to say, so little time.”
“Bring it with you,” she said.
“I think not. Too many other problems to wrestle with once we are under way. You have changed since I saw you last, Virae.”
“Two years is a long time, Abbot,” she said carefully.
“I think it is the young man with you,” he said, smiling. “He has a great influence.”
“Nonsense. I am the same.”
“Your walk is more assured. You are less clumsy than I remember. He has given you something, I think.”
“Never mind that. What about the Dros?” she snapped, blushing.
“I am sorry, my dear. I did not wish to embarrass you.”
“You have not embarrassed me,” she lied. “Now, about Dros Delnoch. How can you help us?”
“As I told your father two years ago, our help will be in organization and planning. We will know the enemy’s plans. We can aid you in thwarting them. Tactically we can organize the defenses, and militarily we can fight like a hundred. But our price is high.”
“My father has deposited ten thousand gold Raq in Ventria,” she said. “With the merchant Asbidare.”
“Good. Then that is settled. We ride in the morning.”
“May I ask you something?” said Virae. He opened his hands and waited. “Why do you need money?”
“For the next temple of the Thirty. Each temple is financed by the death of the last.”
“Oh. What happens if you don’t die? I mean, supposing we win?” His eyes searched her face for a matter of moments.
“Then we return the money,” he said.
“I see,” she said.
“You are unconvinced?”
“It doesn’t matter. What do you think of Rek?”
“In what way?” asked Vintar.
“Let’s not play games, Father Abbot. I know you can read minds. I want to know what you think of Rek.”
“The question is not precise enough—no, let me finish,” he said, watching her anger rise. “Do you mean as a man, as a warrior, or as a prospective husband for the daughter of an earl?”
“All three, if you like. I don’t know. Just tell me.”
“Very well. Do you believe in destiny?”
“Yes,” she said, remembering that she had asked the same question of Rek. “Yes, I do.”
“Then believe this. You were destined to meet. You are the perfect match. You boost his strengths and counter his weaknesses. What he does for you, you know already. As a man he is not unique or even very special. He has no great talents, is not a poet, a writer, or a philosopher. As a warrior—well, he has a sporadic courage that hides great fears. But he is a man in love. And that will increase his strength and his power to combat his fears. As a husband? In days of peace and plenty, I feel he would be wayward. But for now … he loves you and is prepared to die for you. You can ask no more of a man than that.”
“Why did I meet him now, of all times?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t want him to die. I would kill myself, I think.”
“No, my dear. I don’t think you would, though I agree that you would feel like doing so. Why now? Why not? Live or die, a man and a woman need love. There is a need in the race. We need to share. To belong. Perhaps you will die before the year is out. But remember this: To have may be taken from you; to have had, never. Far better to have tasted love before dying than to die alone.”
“I suppose so. But I would have liked children and a settled home. I would like to have taken Rek to Drenan and shown him off a little. I would like some of those bitches at court to see that a man could love me.” She bit her lip, straining to hold back the tears.
“They are inconsequential. Whether they see you or not will not alter the fact that they were wrong. And it is a little early for despair. It is spring, and it will be many weeks before we reach the Dros. All things can happen in that time. Ulric may have a heart attack or fall from his horse and crush his skull. Abalayn may make another treaty. The attack may come at another fortress. Who knows?”
“I know. You are right. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so full of self-pity. Meeting Rek was marvelous for me. You should have seen him standing up to Reinard’s outlaws. You know of Reinard?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s dead. Anyway, Rek stood up to twenty of them because they were going to take me. Twenty! He would have fought them all. Damn, I’m going to cry!”
“Why should you not cry? You are in love with a man who adores you, and the future looks bleak and empty of hope.” He walked to her, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Virae, it is always harder for the young.”
She rested her head on his chest as the tears ran. He put his arms around her and patted her back. “Can Dros Delnoch hold?” she asked him.
“All things can happen. Did you know Druss is on his way there?”
“He agreed? That is good news.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Then Rek’s words came back to her. “He’s not senile, is he?”
Vintar laughed aloud. “Druss! Senile? Certainly not. What a wonderful thought! That is one old man who will never be senile. It would mean giving in to something. I used to believe that if Druss wanted night to last longer, he would just reach up and drag the sun back down over the horizon.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. And his wife, Rowena. A beautiful child. A speaker of rare talent. Gifted even beyond Serbitar.”
“I always thought Rowena was just part of the legend,” said Virae. “Did he really cross the world to find her?”
“Yes,” said Vintar, releasing Virae and returning to his desk. “She was taken prisoner soon after they wed, when the village was attacked by slavers. He hunted her for years. They were a blissfully happy couple. Like you and Rek, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died. Soon after Skeln Pass. A weak heart.”
“Poor Druss,” she said. “But he is still strong, you say?” “ ‘When he stares, valleys tremble,’ ” quoted Vintar. “ ‘Where he walks, beasts are silent; when he speaks, mountains tumble; when he fights, armies crumble.’ ”
“But can he still fight?” she pressed.
“I think he will manage a skirmish or two,” said Vintar, roaring with laughter.
7
Two days and twenty-seven leagues from Skoda and Druss, with a mile-eating soldier’s stride, was nearing the lush valleys at the edge of Skultik forest. He was three days march from Dros Delnoch, and evidence of the coming war met his eyes everywhere. Deserted homes, untended fields, and the people he did meet were wary and mistrustful of strangers. They wore defeat like a cloak, Druss thought. Topping a small rise, he found himself looking down on a village of maybe thirty homes, some crudely built, others showing signs of more careful construction. A
Druss rubbed his thigh, trying to ease the rheumatic pain in his swollen right knee. His right shoulder ached, but this was a dull throbbing he could live with, a reminder of past battles when a Ventrian spear had cut under his shoulder blade. But the knee! This would not bear him many more leagues without rest and an ice pack.
He hawked and spit, wiping a huge hand across his bearded lips. You’re an old man, he told himself. There is no point in pretending otherwise. He limped down the hill toward the inn, wondering once more whether he should purchase a mount. His head told him yes; his heart said no. He was Druss the Legend, and he never rode. Tireless, he could walk all night and fight all day. It would be good for morale when Druss walked into Dros Delnoch. Men would say: “Great gods, the old boy’s walked from Skoda.” And others would answer: “Of course he has. That’s Druss. He never rides.”
But his head told him to buy a horse and leave it at the forest’s edge, a mere ten miles from the Dros. And who would be the wiser?
The inn was crowded, but the innkeeper had rooms to spare. Most of the customers were passing through, heading south or west into neutral Vagria. Druss paid his money, took a canvas sack of ice to his room, and sat on the hard bed, pressing it to his swollen knee. He had not been in the main room for long, but long enough to hear some of the conversations and to recognize many of the men there as soldiers. Deserters.
Always in war, he knew, there were men who would sooner ride than die. But many of the young men downstairs had seemed more demoralized than cowardly.
Were things so bad at Delnoch?
He removed the ice and massaged the fluid away from the joint, his thick fingers pressing and probing, his teeth gritted hard against the pain. Satisfied at last, he opened his small pack and removed a length of sturdy cotton bandage, which he wound tightly about the knee, tucking the end into the fold. Then he rolled down his woolen leggings and pulled his black boot onto his foot, grunting as the injured knee tensed. He stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. His knee felt better—not much, but enough. The sky was cloudless and blue, and a soothing breeze ruffled his beard. High overhead an eagle circled.