David Gemmell - Legend

"What about the women and children?" asked Backda, a skull-faced lawyer and property owner.

"What about them?" said Druss. "They can leave at any time."

To go where, pray? And with what monies?"

"Ye gods!" thundered Druss, surging to his feet. "What will you be wanting me to do next? Where they go, if they do, how they go — is their concern and yours. I am a soldier and my job is to fight and kill. And believe me, I do that very well. We have been ordered to fight to the last and that we will do. Now, I may not know very much about law and all the little niceties of city politics, but I do know this: Any man who speaks of surrender during the coming siege is a traitor. And I will see him hang."

"Well said, Druss," offered Beric, a tall middle-aged man with shoulder-length grey hair. "I couldn't have put it better myself. Very stirring." He smiled as Druss sank back to his seat. "There is one point, though. You say you have been asked to fight to the end. That order can always be changed; politics being what it is, the question of expediency comes into it. At the moment, it is expedient for Abalayn to ask us to prepare for war. He may feel it gives him greater bargaining power with Ulric. Ultimately, though, he must consider surrender. Facts are facts: the tribes have conquered every nation they have attacked and Ulric is a general above comparison. I suggest we write to Abalayn and urge him to reconsider this war."

Orrin shot Druss a warning glance.

"Very well put, Beric," he said. "Obviously Druss and I, as loyal military men, must vote against; however, feel free to write and I will see the petition is forwarded with the first available rider."

"Thank you, Orrin. That is very civilised of you," said Beric. "Now can we move on to the subject of the demolished homes?"

Ulric sat before the brazier, a sheepskin cloak draped over his naked torso. Before him squatted the skeletal figure of his shaman, Nosta Khan.

"What do you mean?" Ulric asked him.

"As I said, I can no longer travel over the fortress. There is a barrier to my power. Last night as I floated above Deathwalker I felt a force, like a storm wind. It pushed me back beyond the outer wall."

"And you saw nothing?"

"No. But I sensed… felt…"

"Speak!"

"It is difficult. In my mind I could feel the sea and a slender ship. It was a fragment only. Also there was a mystic with white hair. I have puzzled long over this. I believe Deathwalker has called upon a white temple."

"And their power is greater than yours?" said Ulric.

"Merely different," hedged the shaman.

"If they are coming by sea, then they will make for Dros Purdol," said Ulric, staring into the glimmering coals. "Seek them out."

The shaman closed his eyes, freed the chains of his spirit and soared free of his body. Formless he raced high above the plain, over hills and rivers, mountains and streams, skirting the Delnoch range until at last the sea lay below him, shimmering beneath the stars. Far he roved before sighting Wastrel, picking out the tiny glint of her aft lantern,

Swiftly he dropped from the sky to hover by the mast. By the port rail stood a man and a woman. Gently he probed their minds, then drifted down through the wooden deck, beyond the hold and on to the cabins. These he could not enter, however. As lightly as the whisper of a sea breeze, he touched the edge of the invisible barrier. It hardened before him, and he recoiled. He floated to the deck, closing on the mariner at the stern, smiled, then raced back towards the waiting Nadir warlord.

Nosta Khan's body trembled and his eyes opened.

"Well?" asked Ulric.

"I found them."

"Can you destroy them?"

"I believe so. I must gather my acolytes."

On Wastrel Vintar rose from his bed, his eyes troubled, his mind uneasy. He stretched.

"You felt it too," pulsed Serbitar, swinging his long legs clear of the second bed.

"Yes. We must be wary."

"He did not try to breach the shield," said Serbitar. "Was that a sign of weakness or confidence?"

"I don't know," answered the Abbot.

Above them at the stern the second mate rubbed his tired eyes, slipped a looped rope over the wheel and transferred his gaze to the stars. He had always been fascinated by these flickering, far-off candles. Tonight they were brighter than usual, like gems strewn on a velvet cloak. A priest had once told him they were holes in the universe, through which the bright eyes of the gods gazed down on the peoples of the earth. It was a pretty nonsense, but he had enjoyed listening.

Suddenly he shivered. Turning, he lifted his cloak from the aft rail and slung it about his shoulders. He rubbed his hands.

Floating behind him, the spirit of Nosta Khan lifted its hands, focusing power upon the long fingers. Talons grew, glinting like steel, serrated and sharp. Satisfied, he closed in on the mariner, plunging his hands into the man's head.

Searing agony blanketed the brain within as the man staggered and fell, blood pouring from his mouth and ears and seeping from his eyes. Without a sound he died. Nosta Khan loosened his grip. Drawing on the power of his acolytes, he willed the body to rise, whispering words of obscenity in a language long erased from the minds of ordinary men. Darkness swelled around the corpse, shifting like black smoke to be drawn in through the bloody mouth. The body shuddered.

And rose.

Unable to sleep Virae dressed silently, climbed to the deck and wandered to the port rail. The night was cool, the soft breeze soothing. She gazed out over the waves to the distant line of land silhouetted against the bright, moonlit sky.

The view always calmed her, the blending of land and sea. As a child at school in Dros Purdol she had delighted in sailing, especially at night when the land mass appeared to float like a sleeping monster of the deep, dark and mysterious and wonderfully compelling.

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Was the land moving? To her left the mountains seemed to be receding, while on the right the shoreline seemed closer. No, not seemed. Was. She glanced at the stars. The ship had veered north west; yet they were days from Purdol.

Puzzled, she walked aft towards the second mate as he stood with hands on the wheel.

"Where are we heading?" she asked him, mounting the four steps to the stern and leaning on the rail.

His head turned towards her. Blank, blood-red eyes locked on hers as his hands left the wheel and reached for her.

Fear entered her soul like a lance, only to be quelled by rising anger. She was not some Drenai milk-maid to be terrified thus — she was Virae, and she carried the blood of warriors in her veins.

Dropping her shoulder, she threw a right-hand punch to his jaw. His head snapped back but still he came on. Stepping inside the groping arms, she grabbed his hair and smashed a head butt into his face. He took it without a sound, his hands curling round her throat. Twisting desperately before the grip tightened, she threw him with a rolling hip lock and he hit the deck hard on his back. Virae staggered. He rose slowly and came for her again.

Running forward, she leapt into the air and twisted, hammering both feet into his face. He fell once more.

And rose.

Panicked now, Virae searched for a weapon but there was nothing. Smoothly she vaulted the wheel rail to land on the deck. He followed her.

"Move away from him!" screamed Serbitar, racing forward with sword drawn. Virae ran to him.

"Give me that!" she said, tearing the sword from his hand. Confidence surged in her as her hand gripped the ebony hilt. "Now, you son of a slut!" she shouted, striding towards the mariner.

He made no effort to avoid her, and the sword flashed in the moonlight slicing into his exposed neck. Twice more she struck, and the grinning head toppled from the body. But the corpse did not fall.