David Gemmell - Legend

Their spirits soared, entwined, high above the monastery, free as the winter wind. Below them lay the snow-covered fields at the edge of the forest. The Abbot pulsed them onward, over the trees. In a clearing by a crofter's hut stood a group of men, facing a doorway in which stood a tall young man and behind him was a woman, sword in hand.

"Which is the messenger?" asked the albino.

"Observe," answered the Abbot.

Reinard had not had things going his way just recently. An attack on a caravan had been beaten off with heavy losses and then three more of his men had been found dead at dusk — among them his brother Erlik. A prisoner he had taken two days previously had died of fright long before the real entertainment could begin, and the weather had turned for the worse. Bad luck was haunting him and he was at a loss to understand why.

Damn the Speaker, he thought bitterly as he led his men towards the cabin. If he had not been in one of his three-day sleeps the attack on the caravan would have been avoided. Reinard had toyed with the idea of removing his feet as he slept, but good sense and greed had just held sway. Speaker was invaluable. He had come out of his trance as Reinard carried Erlik's body back to the camp.

"Do you see what has happened while you slept?" Reinard had stormed.

"You lost eight men in a bad raid and a woman slew Erlik, and another after they killed her horse," answered Speaker. Reinard stared hard at the old man, peering at the sightless sockets.

"A woman, you say?"

"Yes."

"There was a third man killed. What of him?"

"Slain by an arrow through the forehead."

"Who fired it?"

"The man called Regnak. The Wanderer who comes here on occasions."

Reinard shook his head. A woman brought him a goblet of mulled wine and he sat on a large stone by a blazing fire. "It can't be, he wouldn't dare! Are you sure it was him?"

"It was him," said Speaker. "And now I must rest."

"Wait! Where are they now?"

"I shall find out," said the old man, returning to his hut. Reinard called for food and summoned Grussin. The axeman squatted on the ground before him.

"Did you hear?" he asked.

"Yes. Do you believe it?" answered Grussin.

"It's ridiculous. But when has the old man been wrong? Am I getting old? When a craven like Rek can attack my men, I must be doing something wrong. I will have him roasted slowly over the fire for this."

"We're getting short of food," said Grussin.

"What?"

"Short of food. It's been a long winter and we needed that damn caravan."

"There will be others. First, we will find Rek."

"Is it worth it?" asked Grussin.

"Worth it? He helped some woman to kill my brother. I want that woman staked out and enjoyed by all the men. I want the flesh cut from her body in tiny strips from her feet to her neck. And then the dogs can have her."

"Whatever you say."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," said Reinard, hurling his now empty plate across the fire.

"No? Well, maybe I'm getting old. When we came here, there seemed to be a reason for it all. I'm beginning to forget what it was."

"We came here because Abalayn and his mangy crew had my farm sacked and my family killed. And I haven't forgotten. You're not turning soft, are you?"

Grussin noted the gleam in Reinard's eyes.

"No, of course not. You're the leader and whatever you say is fine by me. We will find Rek — and the woman. Why don't you get some rest?"

"A curse on rest," muttered Reinard. "You sleep if you have to. We leave as soon as the old man gives us directions."

Grussin walked to his hut and hurled himself on his fern-filled bed.

"You are troubled?" His woman, Mella, asked him as she kneeled by his side, offering him wine.

"How would you like to leave?" he asked, placing a huge hand on her shoulder. She leaned forward and kissed him. "Wherever you go, I shall be with you," she said.

"I'm tired of it," he said. "Tired of the killing. It gets more senseless with every day. He must be mad."

"Hush!" she whispered, wary now. She leaned in to his bearded face and whispered in his ear: "Don't voice your fears. We can leave quietly in the spring. Stay calm and do his bidding until then."

He nodded, smiled and kissed her hair. "You're right," he said. "Get some sleep." She curled beside him and he gathered the blanket around her. "I don't deserve you," he said, as her eyes closed.

Where had it gone wrong? When they were young and full of fire Reinard's cruelty had been an occasional thing, a device to create a legend. Or so he had said. They would be a thorn in Abalayn's side until they achieved justice. Now it was ten years. Ten miserable bloody years.

And had the cause ever been just?

Grussin hoped so.

"Well, are you coming?" asked Reinard, from the doorway. "They're at the old cabin."

The march had been a long one and bitterly cold, but Reinard had scarcely felt it. Anger filled him with warmth and the prospect of revenge fed his muscles so that the miles sped by.

His mind filled with pictures of sweet violence and the music of screams. He would take the woman first and cut her with a heated knife. Arousal warmed his loins.

And as for Rek… He knew what Rek's expression would be as he saw them arrive.

Terror! Mind-numbing, bowel-loosening terror!

But he was wrong.

Rek had stalked from the hut, furious and trembling. The scorn on Virae's face was hard to bear. Only anger could blank it out. And even then, barely. He couldn't help what he was, could he? Some men are born to be heroes. Others to be cowards. What right had she to judge him?

"Regnak, my dear! Is it true you have a woman inside?"

Rek's eyes scanned the group. More than twenty men stood in a half-circle behind the tall, broad-shouldered outlaw leader. Beside him stood Grussin the Axeman, huge and powerful, his double-headed axe in his hand.

"Morning, Rein," said Rek. "What brings you here?"

"I heard you had a warm bedmate and I thought, "Good old Rek, he won't mind sharing". And I'd like to invite you to my camp. Where is she?"

"She's not for you, Rein. But I'll make a trade. There's a caravan headed…"

"Never mind the caravan!" shouted Reinard. "Just bring out the woman."

"Spices, jewels, furs. It's a big one," said Rek.

"You can tell us about it as we march. Now I'm losing patience. Bring her out!"

Rek's anger blazed and his sword snaked from its scabbard.

"Come and get her then, you bastards!"

Virae stepped from the doorway to stand beside him, blade in hand, as the outlaws drew their weapons and advanced.

"Wait!" ordered Reinard, lifting his hand. He stepped forward, forcing a smile. "Now listen to me, Rek. This is senseless. We've nothing against you. You've been a friend. Now, what's this woman to you? She killed my brother, so you see it's a matter of personal honour. Put up your sword and you can ride away. But I want her alive." And you too, he thought.

"You want her — you take her!" said Rek. "And me, too. Come on, Rein. You still remember what a sword's for, don't you? Or will you do what you normally do and scuttle back into the trees while other men do your dying for you? Run, you dung-worm!" Rek leapt forward and Reinard backed away at speed and stumbled into Grussin.

"Kill him — but not the woman," he said. "I want that woman."

Grussin walked forward, his axe swinging at his side. Virae advanced to stand beside Rek. The axeman stopped ten paces short of the pair and his eyes met Rek's: there was no give there. He turned his gaze to the woman. Young, spirited — not beautiful — but a handsome lass.

"What are you waiting for, you ox!" screamed Reinard. Take her!"

Grussin turned and walked back to the group. A sense of unreality gripped him. He saw himself again as a young man, saving for his first holding; he had a plough which was his father's and the neighbours were ready to help him build his home near the elm grove. What had he done with the years?