David Gemmell - Legend

"He doesn't have that effect on me," said Caessa.

On the tower battlements, Bregan and Gilad watched the Nadir preparations. Along the wall Dun Pinar supervised the setting of notched poles to repel siege ladders, while Bar Britan oversaw the plugging of scores of pottery jugs containing oil. Once filled and plugged, the jugs were placed in wicker baskets at various points along the walls. The mood was grim. Few words were exchanged as men checked their weapons, sharpened already sharp swords, oiled armour or checked each shaft in their quivers.

Hogun and Bowman left the mess hall together, leaving Orrin and Caessa deep in conversation. They sat on the grass some twenty paces from the axeman, Bowman lying on his side and resting on his elbow. "I once read some fragments from the Book of Elders," said the archer. "One line in particular strikes me now. "Come the moment, come the man." Never did a moment call for a man more desperately than this. And Druss has arrived. Providence, do you think?"

"Great gods, Bowman! You're not turning superstitious, are you?" asked Hogun, grinning.

"I should say not. I merely wonder whether there is such a thing as fate that such a man should be supplied at such a time."

Hogun plucked a stem of couch grass and placed it between his teeth. "All right, let us examine the argument. Can we hold for three months until Woundweaver gathers and trains his army?"

"No. Not with these few."

"Then it matters not whether Druss's arrival was coincidence or otherwise. We may hold for a few more days because of his training, but that is not enough."

"Morale is high, old horse, so best not repeat those sentiments."

"Do you think me a fool? I will stand and die with Druss when the time comes, as will the other men. I share my thoughts with you because you will understand them. You are a realist — and moreover, you remain only until the third wall falls. With you I can be frank, surely?"

"Druss held Skeln Pass when all others said it would fall," said Bowman.

"For eleven days — not three months. And he was fifteen years younger then. I don't belittle what he did; he is worthy of his legends. Knights of Dros Delnoch! Have you ever seen such knights? Farmers, peasants and raw recruits. Only the Legion have seen real action, and they are trained for hit-and-run charges from horseback. We could fold on the first attack."

"But we won't, will we!" said Bowman, laughing. "We are Druss's knights and the ingredients of a new legend." His laughter sang out, rich and full of good humour. "Knights of Dros Delnoch! You and me, Hogun. They will sing about us in days to come. Good old Bowman, he came to the aid of an ailing fortress for love of liberty, freedom and chivalry…"

"… and gold. Don't forget the gold," said Hogun.

"A minor point, old horse. Let us not ruin the spirit of the thing."

"Of course not, I do apologise. However, surely you have to die heroically before you can be immortalised in song and saga?"

"A moot point," admitted Bowman. "But I'm sure I will find a way round it."

Above them on Musif, Wall Two, several young Culs were ordered to help fetch buckets for the tower well. Grumbling, they left the battlements to join the line of soldiers waiting by the stores.

Each armed with four wooden buckets, the men filed from the building towards the shallow cave beyond where the Musif well nestled in the cold shadows. Attaching the buckets to a complicated system of pulleys, they lowered them slowly towards the dark water below.

"How long is it since this has been used?" asked one soldier as the first bucket reappeared, covered in cobwebs.

"Probably about ten years," answered the officer, Dun Garta. "The people who had homes here used the centre well. A child died in here once and the well was polluted for over three months. That and the rats kept most people away."

"Did they ever get the body out?" asked the Cul.

"Not as I heard. But don't worry, lad. It's only bones by now and won't affect the taste. Go on, try some."

"Funnily enough I don't feel very thirsty."

Garta laughed and dipped his hands into the bucket, lifting the water to his mouth.

"Spiced with rat droppings and garnished with dead spiders!" he said. "Are you sure you won't have some?"

The men grinned, but none stepped forward.

"All right, the fun's over," said Garta. "The pulleys are working, the buckets are ready and I should say the job's done. So let's lock the gate and get back to work."

Garta awoke in the night, pain ripping at him like an angry rat trapped in his belly. As he rolled from the bed and struggled to rise, his groaning woke the other three men sharing the room. One of them rushed to his side.

"What is it, Garta?" he said, turning the writhing man on to his back. Garta drew up his knees, his face purple. His hand snaked out, grabbing the other's shirt.

"The… water! Water!" He started to choke.

"He wants water!" yelled the man supporting him.

Garta shook his head. Suddenly his back arched as pain seared him.

"Great gods! He's dead," said his companion as Garta slumped in his arms.

Rek, Serbitar, Virae and Vintar sat around a small camp-fire an hour before dawn. The camp had been made late the night before in a secluded hollow on the south side of a wooded hill.

"Time is short," said Vintar. "The horses are exhausted and it is at least a five-hour ride to the fortress. We might get there before the water is issued and we might not. Indeed, it may already be too late. But we do have one other choice."

"Well, what is it?" said Rek.

"It must be your decision, Rek. None other can make it."

"Just tell me Abbot. I am too tired to think."

Vintar exchanged glances with the albino.

"We can — The Thirty can — join forces and seek to pierce the barrier around the fortress."

"Then try it," said Rek. "Where is the problem?"

"It will take all our powers and may not succeed. If it does not, we will not have the strength to ride on. Indeed, even if we do succeed we will need to rest for most of the day."

"Do you think you can pierce the barrier?" said Virae.

"I do not know. We can only try."

"Think what happened when Serbitar tried," said Rek. "You could all be hurled into the… whatever. What then?"

"We die," answered Serbitar, softly.

"And you say it is my choice?"

"Yes," answered Vintar, "for the rule of The Thirty is a simple one. We have pledged our service to the master of Delnoch; you are that master."

Rek was silent for several minutes, his weary brain numbed by the weight of the decision. He found himself thinking of so many other worries in his life which at the time had seemed momentous. There had never been a choice like this. His mind clouded with fatigue and he could not concentrate.

"Do it!" he said. "Break the barrier." Pushing himself to his feet he walked away from the fire, ashamed that such an order should be forced from him at a time when he could not think clearly.

Virae joined him, her arm circling his waist.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"For what I said when you told me about the letter."

"It doesn't matter. Why should you think well of me?"

"Because you are a man and you act like one," she said. "Now it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"To apologise, you dolt! You struck me."

He pulled her to him, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her.

"That wasn't an apology," she said. "And you scratched my face with your stubble."

"If I apologise, will you let me do it again?"

"Strike me, you mean?"

"No, kiss you!"

Back at the hollow The Thirty formed a circle around the fire, removing their swords and plunging them into the ground at their feet.