David Gemmell - Legend

Gilad had heard it before — almost every day for the two weeks since first they had been issued with armour. Bregan shouldn't be at Delnoch, he knew; he was tough enough, but in a way he lacked the heart. He was a farmer, a man who loved growing things. To destroy was alien to him.

"By the way," said Bregan suddenly, his face echoing his excitement, "you'll never guess who's just arrived!"

"Who?"

"Druss the Legend. Can you believe it?"

"Are you sure, Bregan? I thought he was dead."

"No. He arrived an hour ago. The whole mess hall is buzzing with the news. They say he's bringing five thousand archers and a legion of axemen."

"Don't count on it, my friend," said Gilad. "I've not been here long, but I would like a copper coin for every story I've heard about reinforcements, peace plans, treaties and leave."

"Well, even if he brings no one it's still good news, isn't it? I mean, he is a hero, isn't he?"

"He certainly is. Gods, he must be about seventy though. That's a bit old, isn't it?"

"But he's a hero." Bregan stressed the word, his eyes gleaming. "I've heard stories about him all my life. He was a farmer's son. And he's never lost, Gil. Not ever. And he will be with us. Us! The next song about Druss the Legend will have us in it. Oh, I know we won't be named — but we'll know, won't we? I'll be able to tell little Legan that I fought beside Druss the Legend. It makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"Of course it does," said Gilad, dipping his black bread into the cheese and scanning the horizon. Still no movement. "Does your helmet fit?" he asked.

"No, it's too small. Why?"

"Try mine."

"We've been through that, Gil. Bar Kistrid says it's against the rules to swap."

"A pox on Bar Kistrid and his stupid rules. Try it on."

"They all have numbers stamped inside."

"Who cares? Try it on, for Missael's sake."

Bregan carefully looked around, reached across and tried on Gilad's helm.

"Well?" asked Gilad.

"It's better. Still a little tight, but much better."

"Give me yours." Gilad placed Bregan's helm over his own head; it was close to perfect. "Wonderful!" he said. "This will do."

"But the rules…"

"There is no rule that says a helm must not fit," said Gilad. "How's the swordplay coming along?"

"Not bad," said Bregan. "It's when it's in the scabbard that I feel stupid. It keeps flapping between my legs and tripping me." Gilad burst into laughter, a fine lilting sound that echoed high into the mountains.

"Ah, Breg, what are we doing here?"

"Fighting for our country. It's nothing to laugh at, Gil."

"I'm not laughing at you," he lied. "I'm laughing at the whole stupid business. We face the biggest threat in our history and they give me a helmet too big, and you a helmet too small, and tell us we can't exchange them. It's too much. Really. Two farmers on a high wall tripping over their swords." He giggled, then laughed aloud again.

"They probably won't notice we've swapped," said Bregan.

"No. All I need now is to find a man with a large chest wearing my breastplate." Gilad leaned forward, the laughter hurting his side.

"It is good news about Druss, isn't it?" said Bregan, mystified by Gilad's sudden good humour.

"What? Oh yes." Gilad took a deep breath, then smiled at his friend. Yes, it was good news, if it could so lift a man like Bregan, he thought. A hero indeed. Not a hero, Bregan, you fool. Just a warrior. You are the hero. You have left the family and the farm you love to come here and die in order to protect them. And who will sing your song — or mine? If they remember Dros Delnoch at all in years to come, it will be because a white-maned old man died here. He could hear the psalmists and saga-poets chanting their rhymes. And the teachers telling young children — Nadir children and Drenai — the tale of Druss: "And at the end of a long, glorious life, Druss the Legend came at last to Dros Delnoch, where he fought mightily, and fell."

"They say in the mess hall," said Bregan, "that after a month this bread is riddled with worms."

"Do you believe everything they tell you?" snapped Gilad, suddenly angry. "If I was sure I'd be alive in a month, I would be glad to eat wormy bread."

"Not me," said Bregan. "It can poison you, so they say."

Gilad bit back his anger.

"You know," said Bregan thoughtfully, "I don't know why so many people seem to think we're doomed. Look at the height of this wall. And there are six of them. And at the end of it there's still the Dros itself. Don't you think?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong, Gil? You're acting so strangely. Laughing one minute, angry the next. It's not like you, you've always been so… cool, I suppose."

"Don't mind me, Breg. I'm just frightened."

"So am I. I wonder if Sybad got a letter. It's not the same, I know — as seeing them, I mean. But it lifts me to hear they're well. I'll bet Legan isn't sleeping too well, without me there."

"Don't think about that," said Gilad, sensing the emotional shift in his friend and knowing his tears were not far away. Such a soft man. Not weak. Never weak. But soft, gentle and caring. Not like himself. He hadn't come to Delnoch to defend the Drenai and his family — he came because he was bored. Bored with his life as a fanner, cold to his wife and uncaring about the land. Up at first light to tend the animals and prepare the fields, tilling and planting until late afternoon. Repairing fences, or leather hinge-straps or leaking buckets until long after dusk. Then slipping into a rush-mattressed bed beside a fat, carping woman, whose complaints would drone on long after sleep had carried him on the all too short journey to a new sunrise.

He had believed nothing could be worse, but he could not have been more wrong.

He thought of Bregan's words about Dros Delnoch's strength. His mind's eye pictured hundreds of thousands of barbarian warriors swarming like ants over a thin line of defenders. It's funny, he thought, how different people view the same event. Bregan can't see how they can take Delnoch.

I can't see how they can fail.

All in all, he thought, smiling, I think I would rather be Bregan.

"I'll bet it's cooler at Dros Purdol," said Bregan. "The sea air blowing in and all that. This pass seems to make even the spring sun burn."

"It blocks the east wind," said Gilad, "and the grey marble reflects the heat down on to us. I expect it's pleasant in winter, though."

"Well, I shall not be here to see that," said Bregan. "I only signed on for the summer and I'm hoping to be back in time for the harvest supper. That's what I told Lotis."

Gilad laughed, his tension flowing from him. "Never mind Druss," he said. "I'm glad you're with me, Breg, I really am."

Bregan's brown eyes searched Gilad's face for any sign of sarcasm. Satisfied, he smiled. "Thanks for saying that. We never had much to do with one another at the village and I always felt you thought I was dull."

"I was wrong. Here, take my hand on it. We will stick together, you and I, see off the Nadir and journey back to the Supper with tall tales."

Bregan gripped his hand, grinning, then: "Not like that," he said suddenly. "It has to be the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist."

Both men chuckled.

"Never mind about saga-poets," said Gilad. "We will compose our own song. Bregan of the Broadsword and Gilad, the demon of Dros Delnoch. How's that?"

"I think you ought to find another name for yourself. My Legan has always been afraid of demons."

The sound of Gilad's laughter reached the eagle high above the pass. It banked sharply and flew to the south.

Druss paced impatiently in the great hall of the keep, gazing absently at the marble statues of past heroes flanking the high walls. No one had questioned him as he entered the Dros, and everywhere soldiers were sitting in the spring sunshine, some dicing their meagre wages, others asleep in the shade. The city folk moved about their business as usual and a dull, apathetic air hung over the fortress. The old man's eyes had blazed with a cold fury. Officers chatted among the enlisted men — it was almost more than the old warrior could bear. Angry beyond endurance, he had marched to the Keep and hailed a young officer in a red cloak who stood in the shade of the portcullis gate.