David Gemmell - Legend

"He's certainly got style," said Rek, admiring the man instantly.

"I ought to go down before he finishes the food," said Druss. "We lose face as we wait."

"Be careful!" urged Rek.

"There are only a couple of thousand of them," answered Druss with a broad wink.

Hand over hand, he lowered himself to the Eldibar ground below and strolled towards the diner.

"I am a stranger in your camp," he said.

The man looked up. His face was broad and clean-cut, the jaw firm. The eyes were violet and slanted beneath dark brows; they were eyes of power.

"Welcome, stranger, and eat," said the man. Druss sat cross-legged opposite him. Slowly the man unbuckled his lacquered black breastplate and removed it, laying it carefully at his side. Then he removed his black greaves and forearm straps. Druss noted the powerful muscles of the man's arms and the smooth, catlike movements. A warrior born, thought the old man.

"I am Ulric of the Wolfshead."

"I am Druss of the Axe."

"Well met! Eat."

Druss took a handful of dates from the silver platter before him and ate slowly. He followed this with goat's milk cheese and washed it down with a mouthful of red wine. His eyebrows rose.

"Lentrian Red," said Ulric, "Without poison."

Druss grinned. "I'm a hard man to kill. It's a talent."

"You did well. I am glad for you."

"I was grieved to hear of your son. I have no sons, but I know how hard it is for a man to lose a loved one."

"It was a cruel blow," said Ulric. "He was a good boy. But then all life is cruel, is it not? A man must rise above grief."

Druss was silent, helping himself to more dates.

"You are a great man, Druss. I am sorry you are to die here."

"Yes. It would be nice to live for ever. On the other hand, I am beginning to slow down. Some of your men have been getting damn close to marking me — it's an embarrassment."

"There is a prize for the man who kills you. One hundred horses, picked from my own stable."

"How does the man prove to you that he slew me?"

"He brings me your head and two witnesses to the blow."

"Don't allow that information to reach my men. They will do it for fifty horses."

"I think not! You have done well. How is the new Earl settling in?"

"He would have preferred a less noisy welcome, but I think he is enjoying himself. He fights well."

"As do you all. It will not be enough, however."

"We shall see," said Druss. "These dates are very good."

"Do you believe you can stop me? Tell me truly, Deathwalker."

"I would like to have served under you," said Druss. "I have admired you for years. I have served many kings. Some were weak, others wilful. Many were fine men, but you… you have the mark of greatness. I think you will get what you want eventually. But not while I live."

"You will not live long, Druss," said Ulric gently. "We have a shaman who knows these things. He told me that he saw you standing at the gates of Wall Four — Sumitos, I believe it is called — and the grinning skull of Death floated above your shoulders."

Druss laughed aloud. "Death always floats where I stand, Ulric! I am he who walks with death. Does your shaman not know your own legends? I may choose to die at Sumitos. I may choose to die at Musif. But wherever I choose to die, know this: as I walk into the Valley of Shadows I will take with me more than a few Nadir for company on the road."

"They will be proud to walk with you. Go in peace."

Bloody day followed bloody day, an endless succession of hacking, slaying and dying; skirmishes carrying groups of Nadir warriors out on to the killing ground before Musif, and threatening to trap the Drenai army on the walls. But always they were beaten back and the line held. Slowly, as Serbitar had predicted, the strong were separated from the weak. It was easy to tell the difference. By the sixth week only the strong survived. Three thousand Drenai warriors were either dead or had been removed from the battle with horrifying injuries.

Druss strode like a giant along the ramparts day after day, defying all advice to rest, daring his weary body to betray him, drawing on hidden reserves of strength from his warrior's soul. Rek also was building a name, though he cared not. Twice his baresark attacks had dismayed the Nadir and shattered their line. Orrin still fought with the remnants of Karnak, now only eighteen strong. Gilad fought beside him on the right and on his left was Bregan, still using the captured axe. Hogun had gathered fifty of the Legion about him and stood back from the rampart line, ready to fill in any gap that developed.

The days were full of agony and the screams of the dying. And the list in the Hall of the Dead grew longer at every sunrise. Dun Pinar fell, his throat torn apart by a jagged dagger. Bar Britan was found under a mound of Nadir bodies, a broken lance jutting from his chest. Tall Antaheim of The Thirty was struck by a javelin in the back. Elicas of the Legion was trapped by the rampart towers as he hurled himself at the Nadir screaming defiance and fell beneath a score of blades. Jorak, the huge outlaw, had his brains dashed out by a club — and, dying, grabbed two Nadir warriors and threw himself from the battlements, dragging them screaming to their deaths on the rocks below.

Amid the chaos of slashing swords many deeds of individual heroism passed unseen. One young soldier battling back to back with Druss saw an enemy lancer bearing down on the old man. Unthinking he threw himself in the way of the flashing steel point, to die writhing among the other broken bodies on the ramparts. Another soldier, an officer named Portitac, leapt into the breach near the gate tower and stepped on to the ramparts, where he seized the top of a ladder and flung himself forward, pulling the ladder out from the wall. Twenty Nadir near the top died with him on the rocks and five others broke limbs. Many were such tales of bravery.

And still the battles raged. Rek now sported a slanting scar from eyebrow to chin, gleaming red as he battled on. Orrin had lost three fingers from his left hand, but after only two days behind the lines had joined his men once more on the wall.

From the capital at Drenan the messages came endlessly:

Hold on. Give Woundweaver time. Just one more month.

And the defenders knew they could not hold.

But still they fought on.

Twice the Nadir tried night attacks, but on both occasions Serbitar warned the defenders and the assailants paid dearly for their efforts. At night handholds were difficult to find and the long climb to the battlements was fraught with peril. Hundreds of tribesmen died without need for the touch of Drenai steel or a black-shafted arrow.

Now the nights were silent and in some ways as bad as the days. For the peace and tranquillity of the moon darkness acted as a weird counterpoint to the crimson agonies of the sunlight. Men had time to think: to dream of wives, children, farms, and even more potently of a future that might have been.

Hogun and Bowman had taken to walking together on the battlements at night, the grim Legion general and the bright witty outlaw. Hogun found that in Bowman's company he could forget the loss of Elicas; he could even laugh again. For his part, Bowman felt a kinship with the Gan, for he too had a serious side although he kept it well hidden.

But on this particular night Bowman was in a more melancholy mood and his eyes were distant.

"What ails you, man?" asked Hogun.

"Memories," answered the archer, leaning over the ramparts to stare at the Nadir camp-fires below.

"They must be either very bad or very good to touch you so."

"These are very bad, my friend. Do you believe in gods?"

"Sometimes. Usually when my back is against a wall and the enemy surrounds me," said Hogun.