David Gemmell - Legend

"There is water on the knee," she said, as she set down his leg and began to massage the joint. Druss closed his eyes. The sharpness of the pain receded to a dull ache. The minutes passed and he dozed. She woke him with a light slap on the calf and he found his knee was tightly bandaged.

"What other problems do you have?" she asked, coolly.

"None," he said.

"Don't lie to me, old man. Your life depends on it."

"My shoulder burns," he admitted.

"You can walk now. Come with me to the hospital and I will ease the pain." She gestured to Bowman, who leaned forward and helped the axeman to his feet. The knee felt good, better than it had in weeks.

"You have real skill, woman," he said. "Real skill."

"I know. Walk slowly — it will feel a little sore by the time we get there."

In a side room at the hospital, she told him to remove his clothes. Bowman smiled, and leaned back against the door with arms folded across his chest.

"All of them?" asked Druss.

"Yes. Are you shy?"

"Not if you're not," said Druss, slipping from his jerkin and shirt, then sitting on the bed to remove his trousers and boots.

"Now what?" he asked.

Caessa stood before him, examining him critically, running her hands over his broad shoulders and probing his muscles.

"Stand up," she told him, "and turn round." He did so and she scrutinised his back. "Move your right arm above your head — slowly." As the examination continued Bowman watched the old warrior, marvelling at the number of scars he carried. Everywhere: front and back; some long and straight, others jagged; some stitched, others blotchy and overlapped. His legs too, showed evidence of many light wounds. But by far the greatest number were in the front. Bowman smiled. You have always faced your enemies, Druss, he thought.

Caessa told the warrior to lie on the bed, face down, and began to manipulate the muscles of his back, easing out knots, and pummelling crystals under the shoulder-blades.

"Get me some oil," she asked Bowman, without looking round. He fetched liniment from the stores, then left the girl to her work. For over an hour she massaged the old man, until at last her own arms burned with fatigue. Druss had fallen asleep long since, and she covered him with a blanket and silently left the room. In the corridor outside she stood for a moment, listening to the cries of the wounded in the makeshift wards and watching the orderlies assisting the surgeons. The smell of death was strong here and she made her way out into the night.

The stars were bright, like frozen snowflakes on a velvet blanket, the moon a bright silver coin at the centre. She shivered. Ahead of her a tall man in black and silver armour strode towards the mess hall. It was Hogun. He saw her and waved, changed direction and came towards her. She cursed under her breath; she was tired and in no mood for male company.

"How is he?" asked Hogun.

"Tough!" she said.

"I know that, Caessa. The whole world knows it. But how is he?"

"He's old, and he's tired — exhausted. And that's after only one day. Don't pin too many hopes on him. He has a knee which could collapse under him at any time, a bad back which will grow worse and too many crystals in too many joints."

"You paint a pessimistic picture," said the general.

"I tell it as it is. It is a miracle that he's alive tonight. I cannot see how a man of his age, with the physical injuries he's carrying, could fight all day and survive."

"And he went where the fighting was thickest," said Hogun. "As he will do tomorrow."

"If you want him to survive, make sure he rests the day after."

"He will never stand for it," said Hogun.

"Yes, he will. He may get through tomorrow — and that I doubt. But by tomorrow night he will hardly be able to move his arm. I will help him, but he will need to rest one day in three. And an hour before dawn tomorrow, I want a hot tub set up in his room here. I will massage him again before the battle begins."

"You're spending a lot of time over a man you described as 'old and tired,' and whose deeds you mocked only a short-time since?"

"Don't be a fool, Hogun. I am spending this time with him because he is old and tired, and though I do not hold him in the same reverence as you, I can see that the men need him. Hundreds of little boys playing at soldiers to impress an old man who thrives on war."

"I will see that he rests after tomorrow," said Hogun.

"If he survives," Caessa added grimly.

By midnight the final toll for the first day's battle was known. Four hundred and seven men were dead. One hundred and sixty-eight were wounded and half of those would not fight again.

The surgeons were still working and the head count was being double-checked. Many Drenai warriors had fallen from the battlements during the fighting, and only a complete roll call would supply their numbers.

Rek was horrified, though he tried not to show it during the meeting with Hogun and Orrin in the study above the great hall. There were seven present at this meeting: Hogun and Orrin representing the warriors; Bricklyn for the townsfolk; Serbitar, Vintar and Virae. Rek had managed to snatch four hours' sleep and felt fresher for it; the albino had slept not at all and seemed no different.

"These are grievous losses for one day's fighting," said Bricklyn. "At that rate, we could not hold out for more than two weeks." His greying hair was styled after the fashion of the Drenai court, swept back over his ears and tight-curled at the nape of the neck. His face, though fleshy, was handsome and he had a highly-practised charm. The man was a politician, and therefore not to be relied upon, thought Rek.

Serbitar answered Bricklyn. "Statistics mean nothing on the first day," he said. "The wheat is being separated from the chaff."

"What does that mean, Prince of Dros Segril?" asked the burgher, the question more sharp in the absence of his usual smile.

"No disrespect was intended to the dead," replied Serbitar. "It is merely a reality in war that the men with the least skill are those first to fall. Losses are always greater at the outset. The men fought well, but many of the dead lacked skill — that is why they are dead. The losses will diminish, but they will still be high."

"Should we not concern ourselves with what is tolerable?" asked the burgher, turning to Rek. "After all, if we should believe that the Nadir will breach the walls eventually, what is the point of continued resistance? Are lives worth nothing?"

"Are you suggesting surrender?" asked Virae.

"No, my lady," replied Bricklyn smoothly. "That is for the warriors to decide and I will back any decision they make. But I believe we must examine alternatives. Four hundred men died today and they should be honoured for their sacrifice. But what of tomorrow? And the day after. We must be careful that we do not put pride before reality."

"What is he talking about?" Virae asked Rek. "I cannot understand any of it."

"What are these alternatives you speak of?" said Rek. "As I see it, there are only two. We fight and win, or we fight and lose."

"These are the plans uppermost at this time," said Bricklyn. "But we must think of the future. Do we believe we can hold out here? If so, we must fight on by all means. But if not, then we must pursue an honourable peace, as other nations have done."

"What is an honourable peace?" asked Hogun, softly.

"It is where enemies become friends and quarrels are forgotten. It is where we receive the Lord Ulric into the city as an ally to Drenan, having first obtained from him the promise that no harm will come to the inhabitants. Ultimately all wars are so concluded — as evidenced by the presence here of Serbitar, a Vagrian price. Thirty years ago, we were at war with Vagria. Now we are friends. In thirty years' time, we may have meetings like this with Nadir princes. We must establish perspectives here."