David Gemmell - Legend

The two men sat at a window table and ordered drinks from a steward. He returned with a large bottle and two goblets; both men sat silently for a while watching the training.

Druss was deep in thought. He had lost many friends in his life, but none more dear than Sieben and Rowena — the one his sword brother, the other his wife. Thoughts of them both were as tender as open wounds. When I die, he thought, everyone will mourn for Druss the Legend.

But who will mourn for me?

"Tell us what you saw," said Rek, as he joined the four leaders of The Thirty in Serbitar's cabin. He had been woken from a deep sleep by Menahem, who had swiftly explained the problems facing the Dros. Now alert, he listened as the blond warrior priest outlined the threat.

"The Captain of the Axe is training the men. He has demolished all buildings from Wall Three and created killing ground. He has also blocked the gate tunnels back to Wall Four — he has done well."

"You mentioned traitors," said Rek.

Serbitar lifted a hand. "Patience!" he said. "Go on, Arbedark."

"There is an innkeeper called Musar, originally from the Nadir Wolfshead tribe. He has been at Dros Delnoch for eleven years. He and a Drenai officer are planning to kill Druss. I think there may be others. Ulric has been told of the tunnel blocking."

"How?" asked Rek. "Surely there is no travel to the north?"

"He keeps pigeons," said Arbedark.

"What can you do?" Rek asked Serbitar, who shrugged and looked to Vintar for support. The Abbot spread his hands. "We tried to make contact with Druss, but he is not receptive and the distance is still very great. I do not see how we can help."

"What news of my father?" asked Virae. The men looked at one another; ill at ease, Serbitar spoke at last.

"He is dead. I am deeply sorry."

Virae said nothing, her face showing no emotion. Rek put an arm on her shoulder, but she pushed it away and stood. "I'm going on deck," she said softly. "I'll see you later, Rek."

"Shall I come with you?"

"No. It's not for sharing."

As the door closed behind her Vintar spoke, his voice gentle and sorrowful. "He was a fine man after his fashion. I contacted him before the end; he was at peace and in the past."

"In the past?" said Rek. "What does that mean?"

"His mind had vanished into happier memories. He died well. I think the Source will have him — I shall pray to that effect. But what of Druss?"

"I tried to reach the general, Hogun," said Arbedark, "but the danger was great. I almost lost my bearings. The distance…"

"Yes," said Serbitar. "Did you manage to ascertain how the assassination is to be attempted?"

"No. I could not enter the man's mind, but before him was a bottle of Lentrian Red that he was re-sealing. It could be poison, or an opiate of some kind."

"There must be something you can do," said Rek, "with all your power."

"All power — but one — has limits," said Vintar. "We can only pray. Druss has been a warrior for many years — a survivor. It means he is not only skilful but lucky. Menahem, you must journey to the Dros and watch for us. Perhaps the attempt will be delayed until we are closer."

"You mentioned a Drenai officer," said Rek to Arbedark. "Who? Why?"

"I know not. As I completed the journey, he was leaving the house of Musar. He acted furtively and this aroused my suspicions. Musar was in the loft and upon the table beside him lay a note written in the Nadir tongue. It said, "Kill Deathwalker." That is the name by which Druss is known to the tribes."

"You were lucky to see the officer," said Rek. "In a fortress city of that size, the chances of seeing a single act of treachery must be amazing."

"Yes," said Arbedark. Rek saw the look that passed between the blond priest and the albino.

"Is there more to it than luck?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Serbitar. "We will talk of it soon. For now we are helpless. Menahem will watch the situation and keep us informed. If they delay the attempt for two more days we may be in a position to help."

Rek looked at Menahem, sitting upright at the table, eyes closed and breathing shallow.

"Has he gone?" he asked.

Serbitar nodded.

Druss managed to look interested as the speeches wore on. Three times since the banquet ended the old warrior had heard how grateful were the townsfolk, burghers, merchants and lawyers that he had come among them. How it showed up the fainthearts ever ready to write off the might of the Drenai empire. How, when the battle was won — speedily — Dros Delnoch would attract sightseers from all over the continent. How new verses would be added to Serbar's saga of The Legend. The words droned on, the praise growing more fulsome as the wine flowed.

Some two hundred of Delnoch's richest and most influential families were present at the Great Hall, seated around the massive round table normally reserved for state occasions. The banquet was the brainchild of Bricklyn, the Master Burgher, a short self-obsessed businessman who had bent Druss's ear throughout the meal and was now taking the liberty of bending it again in the longest speech so far.

Druss kept his smile firmly fixed, nodding here and there where he felt it appropriate. He had attended many such functions in his life, though they normally followed rather than preceded a battle.

As had been expected, Druss had opened the speeches with a short talk on his life, concluding it with a stirring promise that the Dros would hold if only the soldiers would show the same courage as those families sitting round the table. As had also been expected, he received a tumultuous ovation.

As was his wont on these occasions Druss drank sparingly, merely sipping the fine Lentrian Red placed before him by the stout innkeeper Musar, the banquet's master of ceremonies.

With a start Druss realised that Bricklyn had finished his speech, and he applauded vigorously. The short grey-haired man sat down at his left, beaming and bowing as the applause continued.

"A fine speech," said Druss. "Very fine."

"Thank you. Yours, I think, was better," said Bricklyn, pouring himself a glass of Vagrian White from a stone jug.

"Nonsense. You are a born speaker."

"It's strange you should say that. I remember when I gave a speech in Drenan for the wedding of Count Maritin… you know the count, of course?… Anyway, he said…" And so it went on, with Druss smiling and nodding, Bricklyn finding more and more stories to outline his qualities.

Towards midnight as prearranged, Delnar's elderly servant, Arshin, approached Druss and announced — loudly enough for Bricklyn to overhear — that Druss was needed on Wall Three to supervise a new detachment of archers and their placement. It was not before time. Throughout the evening Druss had drunk no more than a single goblet, yet his head swam and his legs shook as he pushed himself upright. He made his apologies to the stout burgher, bowed to the assembly and marched from the room. In the corridor outside he stopped and leaned against a pillar.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked Arshin.

"The wine was bad," muttered Druss. "It's hit my stomach worse than a Ventrian breakfast."

"You'd better get to bed, sir. I will take a message to Dun Mendar to attend you in your room."

"Mendar? Why the hell should he attend me?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't mention it in the Hall as you had told me what to say when I approached you, but Dun Mendar asked if you could spare him a moment. He has a serious problem, he said."

Druss rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His belly felt weak, disconnected and fragile. He toyed with the idea of sending Arshin to explain to the young Karnak officer, but then realised word would get round that Druss was sick. Or worse, that he couldn't hold his wine.