David Gemmell - Legend

"Hold on to my legs, but do not let yourselves be seen," Druss whispered to the soldiers behind him. In full view of the Nadir massed below, he pulled the body of Nogusha upright in a tight bear-hug, took hold of his neck and groin and, with a mighty effort, raised the huge body above his head. With a heave and a scream he hurled the body out over the walls. But for the men holding him, he would have fallen. They helped him down, their faces anxious.

"Get me to the hospital before I bleed to death," he whispered.

Caessa sat beside the bed, silent but watchful, her eyes never leaving the sleeping Druss. Thirty stitches laced the wound on the axeman's broad back, the line curving alongside the shoulder-blade and over the shoulder itself where the cut was deepest. The old man was asleep, drugged with poppy wine. The blood loss from the wound had been prodigious and he had collapsed on the way to the hospital. Caessa stood by Calvar Syn as the stitches were inserted. She said nothing. Now she merely sat.

She could not understand her fascination for the warrior. Certainly she did not desire him — men had never raised desire in her. Love? Was it love? She had no way of knowing, no terms of reference to gauge her feelings by. Her parents had died horribly when she was seven. Her father, a peaceful placid farmer, had tried to stop raiders from robbing his barn and they had cut him down without a moment's thought. Caessa's mother seized her by the hand and raced for the woods above the cliff. But they were seen and the chase was short. The woman could not carry the child, for she was pregnant. And she would not abandon her. She had fought like a wild-cat, but had been over-powered, abused and slain. All the while the child sat beneath an oak tree, frozen with terror, unable even to scream. A bearded man with foul breath had finally come to her, lifted her brutally by the hair, carried her to the cliff edge and hurled her out over the sea.

She had missed the rocks, though her head was gashed in the fall and her right leg broken. A fisherman saw her plunge and pulled her clear. From that day on she changed.

The laughing child laughed no more, nor danced, nor sang. Sullen she was and vicious she became. Other children would not play with her, and as she grew older she found herself more and more alone. At the age of fifteen she killed her first man, a traveller who had chattered to her by a river's edge, asking directions. She crept into his camp and cut his throat while he slept, sitting beside him to watch him die.

He was the first of many.

The death of men made her cry. In her tears she became alive. For Caessa, to live was the most important single objective of her life. And so men died.

In later years, since her twentieth birthday, Caessa had devised a new method of selecting victims: those who were attracted to her. They would be allowed to sleep with her but later, as they dreamed — perhaps of the pleasures they had enjoyed — she would draw a sharpened blade gently across their throats. She had killed no one since joining Bowman some six months before, for Skultik had become her last refuge.

Yet now she sat beside the bed of an injured man and wished for him to live. Why?

She drew her dagger and pictured its blade drawing across the old man's throat. Usually this death-fantasy made her warm with desire, but now it created a sense of panic. In her mind's eye she saw Druss sitting beside her in a darkened room, a log fire burning in the hearth. His arm was over her shoulder and she was nestling into his chest. She had pictured the scene many times, but now she saw it afresh, for Druss was so large — a giant in her fantasy. And she knew why.

She was seeing him through the eyes of a seven-year-old.

Orrin slipped quietly into the room. He was thinner now, drawn and haggard, yet stronger. An indefinable quality marked his features. Lines of fatigue had aged him, but the change was more subtle — it emanated from the eyes. He had been a soldier, longing to be a warrior; now he was a warrior longing to be anything else. He had seen war and cruelty, death and dismemberment. He had watched the sharp beaks of crows at work on dead men's eyes, and the growth of worms in pus-filled sockets. And he had found himself, and wondered no longer.

"How is he?" he asked Caessa.

"He will recover. But he will not fight for weeks."

"Then he will not fight again, for we have only days. Prepare him to be moved."

"He cannot be moved," she said, turning to look at him for the first time.

"He must be. We are giving up the wall and we draw back tonight. We lost over four hundred men today. Wall Four is only a hundred yards long — we can hold that for days. Get him ready."

She nodded and rose. "You are tired too, general," she said. "You should rest."

"I will soon," he answered, and smiled. The smile sent a shiver down her back. "We will all rest soon, I think."

Bearers transferred Druss to a stretcher, lifting him gently and covering him with white blankets against the night cold. With other wounded men they made a convoy to Wall Four where ropes were lowered and the stretchers silently raised.- No torches were lit, only the light of the stars bathed the scene. Orrin climbed the last rope and hauled himself over the battlements. A helping hand reached out and pulled him upright — it was Gilad.

"You always seem on hand to help me, Gilad. Not that I'm complaining."

Gilad smiled. "With the weight you've lost, general, you would win that race now."

"Ah, the race! It seems like a different age. What happened to your friend. The one with the axe?"

"He went home."

"A wise man. Why did you stay?"

Gilad shrugged. He had grown tired of the question.

"It's a nice night, the best yet," said Orrin. "Strange, I used to lie in bed at night and watch the stars. They always made me sleepy. Now I have no need of sleep. I feel I'm throwing away life. Do you feel that?"

"No, sir. I sleep like a baby."

"Good. Well, I'll say goodnight then."

"Goodnight, sir."

Orrin walked away slowly, then turned. "We didn't do too badly, did we?" he said,

"No, sir," replied Gilad. "I think the Nadir will remember us without affection."

"Yes. Goodnight." He had begun the walk down the short rampart steps when Gilad stepped forward.

"Sir!"

"Yes?"

"I… I wanted to say… Well, just that I have been proud to serve under you. That's all, sir."

"Thank you, Gilad. But I am the one who should be proud. Goodnight."

Togi said nothing as Gilad returned to the wall, but the young officer could feel the Rider's eyes upon him.

"Well, say it," said Gilad. "Get it over with."

"Say what?"

Gilad looked at his friend's blank face and searched his eyes for signs of humour or contempt. Nothing showed. "I thought you would think… I don't know," he said, lamely.

"The man has shown quality and courage and you told him so. There is no harm in that, although it wasn't your place. In peacetime I'd think you were crawling, currying favour with a comment like that. Not here. There is nothing to gain and he knew that. So it was well said."

"Thank you," said Gilad.

"For what?"

"For understanding. You know, I believe he is a great man — greater than Druss perhaps. For he has neither Druss's courage nor Hogun's skill, yet he is still here. Still trying."

"He'll not last long."

"None of us will," said Gilad.

"No, but he won't see the last day. He's too tired — up here he's too tired." Togi tapped his temple.

"I think you're wrong."

"No, you don't. That's why you spoke to him as you did. You sensed it too."

Druss floated on an ocean of pain, burning, searing his body. His jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding against the insistent agony creeping like slow acid through his back. Words were almost impossible, hissed through gritted teeth, and the faces of those around his bed shivered and swam, blurring beyond recognition.