David Gemmell - Legend

Tearing open his pack, Rek pulled his tinder-box free and moved to the hearth. Whoever had owned or built the holding had left a fire ready laid, as was the custom in the wild. Rek opened his small tinder-pouch, making a mound of shredded dry leaves beneath the twigs in the grate. Over this he poured a little lantern oil from a leather flask and then struck his flint. His cold fingers were clumsy and the sparks would not take, so he stopped for a moment, forcing himself to take slow deep breaths. Then again he struck the flint and this time a small flame flickered in the tinder and caught. He leaned forward, gently blowing it, then as the twigs flared he turned to sort smaller branches from the store, placing them gently atop the tiny fire. Flames danced higher.

He carried two chairs to the hearth, placed his blankets over them before the blaze and returned to the girl. She lay on the crude cot, scarcely breathing.

"It's the bloody armour," he said. He fumbled with the straps of her jerkin, turning her over to pull it loose. Swiftly he stripped off her clothing and set to work rubbing warmth into her. He glanced at the fire, placed three more logs to feed the blaze and then spread the blankets on the floor before it. Lifting the girl from the cot, he laid her before the hearth, turning her over to rub her back.

"Don't you die on me!" he stormed, pummelling the flesh of her legs. "Don't you damn well dare!" He wiped her hair with a towel and wrapped her in the blankets. The floor was cold, frost seeped up from beneath the hut, so he pulled the cot to the hearth, then strained to lift her on to the bed. Her pulse was slow, but steady.

He gazed down at her face. It was beautiful. Not in any classic sense, he knew, for the brows were too thick and thunderous, the chin too square and the lips too full. Yet there was strength there, and courage and determination. But more than this: in sleep a gentle, childlike quality found expression.

He kissed her gently.

Buttoning his sheepskin jacket, he pulled the table aside and stepped out into the storm. The gelding snorted as he approached. There was straw in the lean-to; taking a handful he rubbed the horse's back.

"Going to be a cold night, boy. But you should be all right in here." He spread the saddle blanket over the gelding's broad back, fed him some oats and returned to the hut.

The girl's colour was better now, and she slept peacefully.

Searching the cupboards, Rek found an old iron pan. Unclipping the canvas and steel canteen from his pack, he took out a pound of dried beef and set about making soup. He was warmer now, and removed his cloak and jacket. Outside the wind beat against the walls as the storm's fury grew, but inside the fire blazed warmth and a soft red light filled the cabin. Rek pulled off his boots and rubbed his toes. He felt good. Alive.

And damned hungry!

He took a leather-covered clay mug from his pack and tried the soup. The girl stirred and he toyed with the idea of waking her, but dismissed it. As she was, she was lovely. Awake, she was a harridan. She rolled over and moaned, a long leg pushing from the blanket. Rek grinned as he remembered her body. Not at all mannish! She was just big — but wonderfully proportioned. He stared at her leg, the smile fading. He pictured himself naked alongside her…

"No, no, Rek," he said aloud. "Forget it."

He covered her with the blanket and returned to his soup. Be prepared, he told himself. When she wakes she will accuse you of taking advantage of her and cut your eyes out.

Taking his cloak, he wrapped it around himself and stretched out beside the fire. The floor was warmer now. Adding some logs to the blaze, he pillowed his head on his arm and watched the dancers in the flames circle and jump, twist and turn…

He slept.

He awoke to the smell of frying bacon. The hut was warm and his arm felt swollen and cramped. He stretched, groaned and sat up. The girl was nowhere in sight. Then the door opened and she stepped inside, brushing snow from her jerkin.

"I've seen to your horse," she said. "Are you fit to eat?"

"Yes. What time is it?"

"Sun's been up for about three hours. The snow's letting up."

He pushed his aching body upright, stretching the tight muscles of his back. "Too much time in Drenan in soft beds," he commented.

"That probably accounts for the paunch," she noted.

"Paunch? I've a curved spine. Anyway, it's relaxed muscle." He looked down. "All right, it's a paunch. A few more days of this and it will go."

"I don't doubt it," she said. "Anyway, we were lucky to find this place."

"Yes, we were." The conversation died as she turned the bacon. Rek was uncomfortable in the silence and they began to speak at the same time.

"This is ridiculous," she said finally.

"Yes," he agreed. "Bacon smells good."

"Look… I want to thank you. There — it's said."

"It was a pleasure. What about starting again, as if we had never met? My name is Rek." He held out a hand.

"Virae," she said, grasping his wrist in the warrior's grip.

"My pleasure," he said. "And what brings you to Graven Forest, Virae?"

"None of your damned business," she snapped.

"I thought we were starting afresh?" he said.

"I'm sorry. Really! Look, it's not easy being friendly — I don't like you very much."

"How can you say that? We've only said about ten words to each other. A bit early for character assessment, isn't it?"

"I know your kind," she said. Taking two platters, she deftly flipped the bacon from the pan and handed him a plate. "Arrogant. Think you're the gods' gift to the world. Footloose."

"And what's wrong with that?" he asked. "Nobody's perfect. I enjoy my life, it's the only one I've got."

"It's people like you who have wrecked this country," she told him. "People who don't care; people who live for today. The greedy and the selfish. We used to be great."

"Rubbish. We used to be warriors, conquering everybody, stamping Drenai rules on the world. A pox on it!"

"There was nothing wrong with that! The people we conquered prospered, didn't they? We built schools, hospitals, roads. We encouraged trade and gave the world Drenai law."

"Then you shouldn't be too upset," he told her, "that the world is changing. Now it will be Nadir law. The only reason the Drenai conquered was that the outlying nations had had their day. They were fat and lazy, full of selfish, greedy people who didn't care. All nations fall that way."

"Oh, so you're a philosopher, are you?" she said. "Well, I consider your opinions to be as worthless as you are."

"Oh, now I'm worthless? What do you know of "worthless", prancing around dressed as a man? You're an imitation warrior. If you're so eager to uphold Drenai values, why don't you get off to Dros Delnoch with the other fools and wave your pretty little sword at the Nadir?"

"I've just come from there — and I'm going back as soon as I have accomplished what I set out to do," she said, icily.

"Then you're an idiot," he said, lamely.

"You were a soldier, weren't you?" she said.

"What's that to you?"

"Why did you leave the army?"

"None of your damned business." He paused. Then, to break the awkward silence, went on, "We should be at Glen Frenae by this afternoon; it's only a small village, but they do sell horses."

They finished their meal without speaking, Rek feeling angry and uncomfortable yet lacking the skill to pierce the gap between them. She cleared the platters and cleaned out the pan, awkward in her mail-shirt.

Virae was furious with herself. She had not meant to quarrel with him. For hours as he slept she had crept about the cabin so as not to disturb him. At first when she woke she had been angry and embarrassed by what he had done, but she knew enough about frostbite and exposure to realise he had saved her life. And he had not taken advantage. If he had done so, she would have killed him without regret or hesitation. She had studied him as he slept. In a strange way he was handsome, she thought, then decided that although he was good-looking after a fashion, it was some indefinable quality which made him attractive — a gentleness, perhaps? A certain sensitivity? It was hard to pinpoint.

Why should he be so attractive? It angered her, she had no time now for romance. Then a bitter thought struck her: she had never had time for romance. Or was it that romance had never had time for her? She was clumsy as a woman, unsure of herself in the company of men — unless in combat or comradeship. His words came again in her mind: "What do you know of "worthless", prancing around dressed as a man?"

Twice he had saved her life. Why had she said she disliked him? Because she was frightened?

She heard him walk from the hut, and then a strange voice.

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

She reached for her sword.

4

The Abbot placed his hands on the head of the young albino kneeling before him and closed his eyes. He spoke, mind to mind, in the manner of the Order.

"Are you prepared?"

"How can I tell?" answered the albino.

"Release your mind to me," said the Abbot. The young man relaxed his control; in his mind the image of the Abbot's kindly face overlapped his thoughts. His thoughts swam, interweaving with the memories of the older man. The Abbot's powerful personality covered his own like a comforting blanket and he slept.

Release was painful and his fears returned as the Abbot woke him. Once again he was Serbitar and his thoughts were his own.

"Am I prepared?" he asked.

"You will be. The messenger comes."

"Is he worthy?"

"Judge for yourself. Follow me to Graven."

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.