David Gemmell - Legend

She didn't bother to close the door.

In the Keep Druss raged at Rek, swearing to kill any deserter he recognised.

"It's too late for that," said Rek.

"Damn you, boy!" muttered Druss. "We have fewer than three thousand men. How long do you think we will hold if we allow desertions?"

"How long if we don't?" snapped Rek. "We are finished, anyway! Serbitar says Kania can be held for maybe two days, Sumitos perhaps three, Valteri the same and Geddon less. Ten days in all. Ten miserable days!" The young Earl leaned on the balcony rail above the gates and watched the convoys start south. "Look at them, Druss! Farmers, bakers, tradesmen. What right have we to ask them to die? What will it matter to them if we fail? The Nadir will not kill every baker in Drenan — it will just mean a change of masters."

"You give up too easily," snarled Druss.

"I'm a realist. And don't give me any Skeln Pass lectures. I'm not going anywhere."

"You might as well," said Druss, slumping into a leather chair. "You have already lost hope."

Rek turned from the window, eyes blazing. "What is it with you warriors? It is understandable that you talk in cliches, but unforgivable if you think in them. Lost hope, indeed! I never had any hope. This enterprise was doomed from the start, but we do what we can and what we must. So a young farmer with wife and children decides to go home. Good! He shows a sense which men like you and I will never understand. They will sing songs about us, but he will ensure that there are people to sing them. He plants. We destroy.

"Anyway, he has played his part and fought like a man. It is criminal that he should feel the need to flee in shame."

"Why not give them all the chance to go home?" asked Druss. "Then you and I could stand on the walls and invite the Nadir to come at us one at a time like sportsmen."

Suddenly Rek smiled, tension and anger flowing from him. "I won't argue with you, Druss," he said softly. "You are a man I admire above all others. But in this I think you are wrong. Help yourself to wine — I shall be back soon."

Less than an hour later the Earl's message was being read to all sections.

Bregan brought the news to Gilad as he ate in the shade offered by the field hospital under the towering cliff face of West Kania.

"We can go home," said Bregan, his face flushed. "We can be there by Harvest Supper!"

"I don't understand," said Gilad. "Have we surrendered?"

"No. The Earl says that any who wish to leave can now do so. He says that we can leave with pride, that we have fought like men — and as men, we must be given the right to go home."

"Are we going to surrender?" asked Gilad, puzzled.

"I don't think so," said Bregan.

"Then I shall not go."

"But the Earl says it's all right!"

"I don't care what he says."

"I don't understand this, Gil. Lots of the others are going. And it is true that we've played our part. Haven't we? I mean, we've done our best."

"I suppose so." Gilad rubbed his tired eyes and turned to watch the smoke from the fire gully drift lazily skyward. "They did their best too," he whispered.

"Who did?"

"Those who died. Those who are still going to die."

"But the Earl says it's all right. He says that we can leave with our heads held high. Proud."

"Is that what he says?"

"Yes."

"Well, my head wouldn't be high."

"I don't understand you, I really don't. You have said all along that we can't hold this fortress. Now we have a chance to leave. Why can't you just accept it and come with us?"

"Because I'm a fool. Give my love to everyone back there."

"You know I won't go unless you come too."

"Don't you start being a fool, Breg! You've got everything to live for. Just picture little Legan toddling towards you and all the stories you will be able to tell. Go on. Go!"

"No. I don't know why you're staying, but I shall stay too."

"That you must not do," said Gilad gently. "I want you to go back, I really do. After all, if you don't there will be no one to tell them what a hero I am. Seriously, Breg, I would feel so much better if I knew that you were away from all this. The Earl's right. Men like you have played their part. Magnificently.

"And as for me… well, I just want to stay here. I've learned so much about myself, and about other men. I'm not needed anywhere but here. I'm not necessary. I will never be a fanner, and I have neither the money to be a businessman nor the breeding to be a prince. I'm a misfit. This is where I belong… with all the other misfits. Please, Bregan. Please go!"

There were tears in Bregan's eyes and the two men embraced. Then the curly-haired young farmer rose. "I hope everything works out for you, Gil. I'll tell them all — I promise I will. Good luck!"

"And to you, farmer. Take your axe. They can hang it in the village hall."

Gilad watched him walk back towards the postern gates and the Keep beyond. Bregan turned once, and waved. Then he was gone.

Altogether, six hundred and fifty men chose to leave.

Two thousand and forty remained. Added to these were Bowman, Caessa and fifty archers. The other outlaws, having fulfilled their promise, returned to Skultik.

"Too damned few now," muttered Druss, as the meeting ended.

"I never liked crowds anyway," said Bowman lightly.

Hogun, Orrjn, Rek and Serbitar remained in their seats as Druss and Bowman wandered out into the night.

"Don't despair, old horse," said Bowman, slapping Druss on the back. "Things could be worse, you know."

"Really? How?"

"Well, we could be out of wine."

"We are out of wine."

"We are? That's terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian Red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow."

"That's a good idea," said Druss. "Maybe we could bottle it, and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian Red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes and rats' entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop-bucket."

"You have the advantage of me there, old horse, having never tasted a Nadir slop-bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather."

"I think I'd rather suck a Nadir's armpit," muttered Druss.

"Fine! I'll drink it all myself," snapped Bowman.

"No need to get touchy, boy. I'm with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together."

The artery writhed under Virae's fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.

"Tighter!" ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue, slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless, he knew it was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small pyhrric victory.

The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.

"He's dead?" asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straightening his back. "But the blood is still flowing," she said.

"It will do so for a few moments."

"I really thought he would live," she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked round beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her towards him.

"His chances were one in a thousand, even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen and gangrene was almost certain."

Her eyes were red, her face grey. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.

"I thought he had a beard," she said, confused.

"That was the one before."