David Gemmell - Legend

"If they don't attack, we should have a party of our own," he said. "Gods, a man can die but once in a lifetime! Surely it's worth celebrating?" Hogun grinned and shook his head but Bowman, who had approached unnoticed, clapped Rek on the shoulder.

"Now that is my kind of language," he said. "But why not do it properly, go the whole way?"

"The whole way?" asked Rek.

"We could join the Nadir party," said Bowman. "Then they would have to buy the drinks."

"There's some truth in that, Earl of Bronze," said Serbitar. "Shall we join them?"

"Have you gone mad?" said Rek, looking from one to the other.

"As you said, Rek, we only die once," suggested Bowman. "We have nothing to lose. Anyway, we should be protected by the Nadir laws of hospitality."

"This is insanity!" said Rek. "You're not serious?"

"Yes, I am," said Bowman. "I think I would like to pay my last respects to Druss. And it will make a grand exit for Nadir poets to sing about in later years. Drenai poets are almost bound to pick it up too. I like the idea — it has a certain poetic beauty to it. Dining in the dragon's lair."

"Damn it, I'm with you then," said Rek. "Though I think my mind must be unhinged. When should we leave?"

Ulric's ebony throne had been set outside his tent, and the Nadir warlord sat upon it dressed in eastern robes of gold thread upon silk. Upon his head was the goatskin-fringed crown of the Wolfshead tribe, and his black hair was braided after the fashion of the Ventrian kings. Around him, in a vast circle many thousands strong, sat his captains; beyond them were many other circles of men. At the centre of each circle Nadir women danced in a frenzy of motion, in tune to the rippling rhythms of a hundred drums. In the circle of captains, the women danced around a funeral pyre ten feet high on which lay Druss the Legend, arms crossed and axe upon his chest.

Outside the circles countless fires blazed and the smell of burning meat filled the air. Everywhere camp women carried yokes bearing buckets of Lyrrd, an alcohol brewed from goat's milk. Ulric himself drank Lentrian Red in honour of Druss. He didn't like the drink; it was too thin and watery for a man reared on the more potent of liquors brewed on the northern steppes. But he drank it anyway. It would be bad manners to do less, for the spirit of Druss had been invited among them: a spare goblet was filled to the brim beside Ulric's own, and a second throne had been set to the right of the Nadir warlord.

Ulric stared moodily over the rim of his goblet, focusing his gaze on the body atop the pyre.

"It was a good time to die, old man," he said softly. "You will be remembered in our songs, and men will talk of you around our camp-fires for generations to come."

The moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the stars gleamed like distant candles. Ulric sat back and gazed into eternity. Why this black mood? What was the weight his soul carried? Rarely before had he felt this way, and certainly never on the eve of such a victory.

Why?

His gaze returned to the body of the axeman.

"You have done this to me, Deathwalker," he said. "For your heroics have made me the dark shadow."

In all legends, Ulric knew, there were bright heroes and dark, dark evil. It was the very fabric of each tale.

"I am not evil," he said. "I am a warrior born, with a people to protect and a nation to build." He swallowed another mouthful of Lentrian and refilled his goblet.

"My Lord, is something wrong?" asked his carle-captain, Ogasi, the thickset steppe rider who had slain Virae.

"He accuses me," said Ulric, pointing to the body.

"Shall we light the pyre?"

Ulric shook his head. "Not until midnight. The Gates must be open when he arrives."

"You do him great honour, Lord. Why then does he accuse you?"

"With his death. Nogusha carried a poisoned blade — I had the story from his tent servant."

"That was not at your command, Lord. I was there."

"Does it matter? Am I no longer responsible for those who serve me? I have tainted my legend in order to end his. A dark, dark deed, Ulric Wolfshead."

"He would have died tomorrow anyway," said Ogasi. "He lost only a day."

"Ask yourself, Ogasi, what that day meant. Men like Deathwalker come perhaps once in twenty lifetimes. They are rare. So what is that day worth to ordinary men? A year? Ten years? A lifetime? Did you see him die?"

"I did, Lord."

"And will you forget it?"

"No, Lord."

"Why not? You have seen brave men die before."

"He was special," said Ogasi. "Even when he fell at the last, I thought he would rise. Even now some of the men cast fearful glances at his pyre, expecting to see him stand again."

"How could he have stood against us?" asked Ulric. "His face was blue with gangrene. His heart should have stopped long since. And the pain…"

Ogasi shrugged. "While men compete in war, there will be warriors. While there are warriors, there will be princes among warriors. Among the princes will be kings, and among the kings an emperor. You said it yourself, my Lord. Such as he come once in twenty lifetimes. You would expect him to die in his bed?"

"No. I had thought to let his name die. Soon I will control the mightiest empire known to men. History will be as I write it.

"I could erase him from the memory of men, or worse still sully his name until his legend reeks. But I shall not. I will have a book written about his life and men shall know how he thwarted me."

"I would expect nothing less from Ulric," said Ogasi, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Ah, but then you know me, my friend. There are others among the Drenai who will be expecting me to dine on Druss's mighty heart. Eater of Babies, the Plague That Walks, the Barbarian of Gulgothir."

"Names you yourself invented, my Lord, I think."

"True. But then a leader must know all the weapons of war. And there are many which owe nothing to the lance and sword, the bow and the sling. The Word steals men's souls, while the sword kills only their bodies. Men see me and know fear — it is a potent device."

"Some weapons turn on their users, my Lord. I have…" The man suddenly stuttered to silence.

"Speak, Ogasi! What ails you?"

"The Drenai, my Lord! They are in the camp!" said Ogasi, his eyes wide in disbelief. Ulric spun in his chair. Everywhere the circles were breaking as men stood to watch the Earl of Bronze striding towards the Lord of the Nadir.

Behind him in ranks came sixteen men in silver armour, and behind them a Legion Gan walking beside a blonde warrior bearing a long-bow.

The drums petered to silence and all eyes swung from the Drenai group to the seated warlord. Ulric's eyes narrowed as he saw that the men were armed. Panic welled in his breast but he forced it down, his mind racing. Would they just walk up and slay him? He heard the hiss of Ogasi's blade leaving its scabbard and raised a hand.

"No, my friend. Let them approach."

"It is madness, Lord," whispered Ogasi, as the Drenai drew nearer.

"Pour wine for our guests. The time to kill them will come after the feast. Be prepared."

Ulric gazed down from his raised throne into the grey-blue eyes of the Earl of Bronze. The man had forsaken his helm but otherwise was fully armoured, the great sword of Egel hanging at his side. His companions stood back, awaiting events. There was little sign of tension, though the Legion general Ulric knew as Hogun had his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt and was watching Ogasi keenly.

"Why are you here?" asked Ulric. "You are not welcome in my camp."

The Earl looked slowly about him and then returned the gaze of the Nadir warlord.

"It is strange," he said, "how a battle can change a man's perspectives. Firstly, I am not in your camp, I am standing on Delnoch ground and that is mine by right — it is you who are on my lands. Be that as it may, for tonight you are welcome. As to why I am here? My friends and I have come to bid farewell to Druss the Legend — Deathwalker. Is Nadir hospitality so poor that no refreshment is offered us?"