David Gemmell - Legend

"Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?"

"I would have killed you," said the Sathuli.

The first of the spring storms burst over the Delnoch mountains as Gilad relieved the watch sentry on Wall One. Thunder rumbled angrily overhead while crooked spears of jagged lightning tore the night sky, momentarily lighting the fortress. Fierce winds whistled along the walls, shrieking sibilantly.

Gilad hunched himself under the overhang of the gate tower, tugging the small brazier of hot coals into the lee of the wall. His cape was wet through, and water dripped steadily from his drenched hair on to his shoulders to trickle inside his breastplate, soaking the leather of his mail-shirt. But the wall reflected the heat from the brazier and Gilad had spent worse nights on the Sentran plain, digging out buried sheep in the winter blizzards. He regularly raised himself to peer over the wall to the north, waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the plain. Nothing moved there.

Further down the wall an iron brazier exploded as lightning struck it and showers of hot coals fell close to him. What a place to be wearing armour, he thought. He shuddered and hunched closer to the wall. Slowly the storm moved on, swept over the Sentran Plain by the fierce wind from the north. For a while the rain remained, sheeting against the grey stone battlements and running down the tower walls, hissing and spitting as random drops vaporised on the coals.

Gilad opened his small-pack and removed a strip of dried meat. He tore off a chunk and began to chew. Three more hours — then a warm bunk for three more.

From the darkness behind the battlements came the sound of movement. Gilad spun round, scrabbling for his sword, phantom childhood fears flooding his mind. A large figure loomed into the light from the brazier.

"Stay calm, laddie! It's only me," said Druss, seating himself on the other side of the brazier. He held out his huge hands to the flames. "Fire now, is it?"

His white beard was wet through, his black leather jerkin gleaming as if polished by the storrn. The rain had petered to a fine drizzle, and the wind had ceased its eerie howling. Druss hummed an old battle hymn for a few moments as the heat warmed him. Gilad, tense and expectant, waited for the sarcastic comments to follow. "Cold, are we? Need a little fire to keep away the phantoms, do we?" Why pick my watch, you old bastard? he thought. After a while the silence seemed oppressive and Gilad could bear it no longer.

"A cold night to be out walking, sir," he said, cursing himself for the respectful tone.

"I have seen worse. And I like the cold. It's like pain — it tells you you're alive."

The firelight cast deep shadows on the old warrior's weatherbeaten face and for the first time Gilad saw the fatigue etched there. The man is bone-tired, he thought. Beyond the legendary armour and the eyes of icy fire, he was just another old man. Tough and strong as a bull, maybe, but old. Worn out by time, the enemy that never tired.

"You may not believe it," said Druss, "but this is the worst time for a soldier — the waiting before the battle. I've seen it all before. You ever been in a battle, lad?"

"No, never."

"It's never as bad as you fear it will be — once you realise that dying is nothing special."

"Why do you say that? It's special to me. I have a wife and a farm which I'd like to see again. I've a lot of living to do yet," said Gilad.

"Of course you have. But you could survive this battle and come down with the plague, or be killed by a lion, or develop a cancer. You could be robbed and killed or fall from a horse. Ultimately you will die anyway. Everyone dies. I'm not saying you should give up and just open your arms to welcome it. You must fight it all the way. An old soldier — a good friend of mine — told me early in my life that he who fears to lose will never win. And it's true. You know what a baresark is, boy?"

"A strong warrior," said Gilad.

"Yes he is. But he's more than that: he's a killing machine who cannot be stopped. Do you know why?"

"Because he's insane?"

"Yes, there is that to him. But more. He doesn't defend, because when he's fighting he doesn't care. He just attacks, and lesser men — who do care — die."

"What do you mean by lesser men? A man doesn't have to be a killer to be great."

"That's not what I meant… But I suppose it could have been. If I tried to farm — as your neighbour — men would say that I was not as good as you. They would look down on me as a bad farmer. On these battlements men will be judged by how long they stay alive. Lesser men, or lesser soldiers if you will, either change or fall."

"Why did you come here, Druss?" asked Gilad, meaning to ask why the axeman had chosen to interrupt his watch. But the warrior misunderstood.

"I came to die," he said softly, warming his hands and staring into the coals. "To find some spot on the battlements to make a stand, and then to die. I didn't expect to have to take over the damned defence. A pox on it! I'm a soldier, not a general."

As Druss talked on, Gilad realised the axeman was not talking to him — not to Cul Gilad, the former farmer. He was chatting to just another soldier at just another fire at just another fortress. In microcosm this scene was Druss's life, the wait before the war.

"I always promised her that I would stop and tend the farm, but always someone, somewhere, had a battle to fight. I thought for years that I was representing something — liberty, treedom, I don't know. The truth was always much more simple. I love to fight. She knew, but had the good grace never to point it out. Can you imagine what it's like to be a Legend — THE damned Legend? Can you, boy?"

"No, but it must make you feel proud," said Gilad, uncertain.

"It makes you tired. It saps your strength when it should raise it. Because you can't afford to be tired. You're Druss the Legend and you're invulnerable, invincible. You laugh at pain. You can march for ever. With one blow you can topple mountains. Do I look as if I can topple mountains?"

"Yes," said Gilad.

"Well, I damned well can't. I'm an old man with a weak knee and an arthritic back. My eyes are not so good as they were either.

"When I was young and strong, the bruises always healed quickly. I was tireless then. I could fight all damned day. As I grew older I learned to fake it and snatch rest where I could. To use my experience in battle where before I had just powered my way through. In my fifties I was careful, and anyway by that time the Legend made men tremble. Three times since, I have fought men who could have beaten me, but they beat themselves because they knew who I was and were afraid.

"Do you think I'm a good leader?"

"I don't know. I'm a farmer, not a soldier," said Gilad.

"Don't hedge with me, boy. I asked for an opinion."

"No, you're probably not. But you are a great warrior. I suppose in years gone by you would have been a war chief. I can't tell. You've done wonders with the training; there's a new spirit at the Dros."

"There were always leaders in my day," said Druss. "Strong men with quick minds. I have tried to remember all their lessons. But it's hard, boy. Do you see? It's hard. I've never been afraid of enemies I can face with an axe or my hands, if needs be. But the enemies at this fortress are not the same. Morale, preparation, fire gullies, supplies, liaison, organisation. It saps the soul."

"We'll not fail you, Druss," said Gilad, his heart reaching out to the older man. "We will stand firm beside you. You have given us that, though I hated you for most of the training."

"Hate breeds strength, laddie. Of course you will hold. You're men. Did you hear about Dun Mendar?"