David Gemmell - Legend

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about fate. Destiny. An old man in tattered blue robes without any eyes. I'm talking about love."

"Love?"

He opened his eyes, reached out and stroked her face. "I can't tell you what it meant to me when you stood beside me this morning. It was the highest point in my life. Nothing else mattered. I could see the sky — it was more blue than ever I've seen it. Everything was in sharp focus. I was more aware of living than I have ever been. Does that make any sense?"

"No," she said gently. "Not really. Do you truly think I'm beautiful?"

"You are the most beautiful woman who ever wore armour," he said, smiling.

"That's no answer. Why am I beautiful?"

"Because I love you," he said, surprised at the ease with which he could say it.

"Does that mean you're coming with me to Dros Delnoch?"

"Tell me about those lovely high walls again," he said.

5

The monastery grounds were split into training areas, some of stone, some of grass, others of sand or treacherous slime-covered slate. The abbey itself stood at the centre of the grounds, a converted keep of grey stone and crenellated battlements. Four walls and a moat surrounded the abbey, the walls a later and less war-like addition of soft, golden sandstone. By the western wall, sheltered by glass and blooming out of season were flowers of thirty different shades. All were roses.

The albino Serbitar knelt before his tree, his mind at one with the plant. He had struggled for thirteen years with the rose and understood it. There was empathy. There was harmony.

There was fragrance that pulsed for Serbitar alone. Greenfly upon the rose shrivelled and died as Serbitar gazed upon them, and the soft silky beauty of the blooms filled his senses like an opiate.

It was a white rose.

Serbitar sat back, eyes closed, mentally following the surge of new life within the tree. He wore full armour of silver mailshirt, sword and scabbard, leather leggings worked with silver rings; by his side was a new silver helm, bearing the figure One in Elder runes. His white hair was braided. His eyes were green — the colour of the rose leaves. His slender face, translucent skin over high cheekbones, had the mystic beauty of the consumptive.

He made his farewells, gently easing the gossamer panic of the plant. It had known him since its first leaf opened.

And now he was to die.

A smiling face grew in his mind and Serbitar sense-recognised Arbedark. We await you, pulsed the inner message.

I am coming, he answered.

Within the great hall a table had been set, a jug of water and a barley cake before each of thirty places. Thirty men in full armour sat silently as Serbitar entered, taking his place at the head of the table and bowing to the Abbot, Vintar, who now sat on his right.

In silence the company ate, each thinking his own thoughts, each analysing his emotions at this culmination of thirteen years' training.

Finally Serbitar spoke, fulfilling the ritual need of the Order.

"Brothers, the search is upon us. We who have sought must obtain that which we seek. A messenger comes from Dros Delnoch to ask us to die. What does the Heart of The Thirty feel on this matter?"

All eyes turned to black-bearded Arbedark. He relaxed his mind, allowing their emotions to wash over him, selecting thoughts, analysing them, forging them into one unifying concept agreed by all.

Then he spoke, his voice deep and resonant.

"The heart of the matter is that the children of the Drenai face extinction. Ulric has massed the Nadir tribes under his banner. The first attack on the Drenai empire will be at Dros Delnoch, which Earl Delnar has orders to hold until the autumn. Abalayn needs time to raise and train an army.

"We approach a frozen moment in the destiny of the continent. The Heart says we should seek our truths at Dros Delnoch."

Serbitar turned to Menahem, a hawk-nosed young man, dark and swarthy, his hair braided in a single pony tail intertwined with silver thread. "And how do the Eyes of The Thirty view this thing?"

"Should we go to the Dros the city will fall," said Menahem. "Should we refuse, the city will still fall. Our presence will merely delay the inevitable. Should the messenger be worthy to ask of us our lives, then we should go."

Serbitar turned to the Abbot. "Vintar, how says the Soul of The Thirty?"

The older man ran a slender hand through his thinning grey hair, then stood and bowed to Serbitar. He seemed out of place in his armour of silver and bronze.

"We will be asked to kill men of another race," he said, his voice gentle, sad even. "We will be asked to kill them, not because they are evil, merely because their leaders wish to do what the Drenai themselves did six centuries ago.

"We stand between the sea and the mountains. The sea will crush us against the mountain and thus we die. The mountain will hold us against the sea, allowing us to be crushed. Still we die.

"We are all weapon masters here. We seek the perfect death, to counterpoint the perfect life. True the Nadir aggression does not pose a new concept in history. But their action will cause untold horror to the Drenai people. We can say that to defend those people we are upholding the values of our Order. That our defence will fail is no reason to avoid the battle. For it is the motive that is pure, and not the outcome.

"Sadly, the Soul says we must ride for Dros Delnoch."

"So," said Serbitar. "We are agreed. I, too, feel strongly on this matter. We came to this Temple as outcasts from the world. Shunned and feared, we came together to create the ultimate contradiction. Our bodies would become living weapons, to polarise our minds to extremes of pacifism. Warrior-priests we are, as the Elders never were. There will be no joy in our hearts as we slay the enemy, for we love all life.

"As we die our souls will leap forward, transcending the world's chains. All petty jealousies, intrigues and hatreds will be left behind us as we journey to the Source.

"The Voice says we ride."

A three-quarter moon hung in the cloudless night sky, casting pale shadows from the trees around Rek's camp-fire. A luckless rabbit, gutted and encased in clay, lay on the coals as Virae came back from the stream, wiping her naked upper body with one of Rek's spare shirts.

"If only you knew how much that cost me!" he said as she sat on a rock by the fire, her body glowing gold as the flames danced.

"It never served a better purpose," she said. "How much longer before that rabbit is ready?"

"Not long. You will catch your death of cold, sitting half-naked in this weather. My blood's chilling to ice just watching you."

"Strange!" she said. "Just this morning you were telling me how your blood ran hot just to look at me."

"That was in a warm cabin with a bed handy. I've never been much for making love in the snow. Here, I've warmed a blanket."

"When I was a child," she said, taking the blanket and wrapping it round her shoulders, "we used to have to run three miles across the downs in midwinter wearing only a tunic and sandals. That was bracing. And extremely cold."

"If you're so tough, how was it that you turned blue before we found the cabin?" he asked, a broad smile robbing the question of malice.

"The armour," she said. "Too much steel, not enough wool beneath it. Mind you, if I had been riding in front I wouldn't have got so bored and fallen asleep. How long did you say that rabbit would be? I'm starving."

"Soon. I think…"

"Have you ever cooked a rabbit this way before?" she asked.

"Not exactly. But it is the right way — I've seen it done. All the fur comes away as you crack the clay. It's easy."

Virae was not convinced. "I stalked that skinny beast for ages," she said, recalling with pleasure the single arrow from forty paces which had downed it. "Not a bad bow, if a little on the light side. It's an old cavalry bow, isn't it? We have several at Delnoch. The modern ones are all silver steel now — better range and a stronger poundage. I'm starving."

"Patience aids the appetite," he told her.

"You'd better not ruin that rabbit. I don't like killing the things at the best of times. But at least there's a purpose if one can eat it."

"I'm not sure how the rabbit would respond to that line of reasoning," said Rek.

"Can they reason?" asked Virae.

"I don't know, I didn't mean it literally."

"Then why say it? You are a strange man."

"It was just an abstract thought. Do you never have an abstract thought? Do you never wonder how a flower knows when it's time to grow? Or how the salmon find its way back to the spawning grounds?"

"No," she said. "Is the rabbit cooked?"

"Well, what do you think about, when you're not planning how to kill people?"

"Eating," she said. "What about that rabbit?"

Rek tipped the ball of clay from the coals with a stick, watching it sizzle on the snow.

"Well, what do you do now?" she asked. He ignored her and picked up a fist-sized rock, then cracked it hard against the clay which split to disgorge a half-cooked, half-skinned rabbit.

"Looks good," she said. "What now?"

He poked the steaming meat with a stick.

"Can you face eating that?" he said.

"Of course. Can I borrow your knife? Which bit do you want?"

"I've got some oatcake left in my pack. I think I'll make do with that. Will you put some clothes on!"

They were camped in a shallow depression under a rock face — not deep enough to be a cave but large enough to reflect heat from the fire and cut out the worst of the wind. Rek chewed his oatcake and watched the girl devour the rabbit. It was not an edifying sight. She hurled the remnants of the carcass into the trees. "Badgers should enjoy it," she said. "That's not a bad way to cook rabbit."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said.

"You're not much of a woodsman, are you?" she told him.

"I manage."

"You couldn't even gut the thing. You looked green when the entrails popped out."

Rek hurled the rest of his oatcake in the direction of the hapless rabbit. "The badgers will probably appreciate dessert," he said. Virae giggled happily.

"You're wonderful, Rek. You're unlike any man I ever met."

"I don't think I'm going to like what's coming next," he said. "Why don't we just go to sleep?"

"No. Listen to me. I'm serious. All my life I have dreamt of finding the right man: tall, kind, strong, understanding. Loving. I never thought he existed. Most of the men I've known have been soldiers — gruff, straight as spears and as romantic as a bull in heat. And I've met poets, soft of speech and gentle. When I was with soldiers I longed for poets, and when with poets I longed for soldiers. I had begun to believe the man I wanted could not exist. Do you understand me?"

"All your life you've been looking for a man who couldn't cook rabbits? Of course I understand you."

"Do you really?" she asked, softly.

"Yes. But explain it to me anyway."

"You're what I've always wanted," she said, blushing. "You're my Coward — Hero — my love."

"I knew there would be something I wouldn't like," he said.

As she placed some logs on the blaze he held out his hand. "Sit beside me," he said. "You'll be warmer."

"You can share my blanket," she told him, moving round the fire and into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. "You don't mind if I call you my Coward-Hero?"

"You can call me what you like," he said, "so long as you're always there to call me."

"Always?"

The wind tilted the flames and he shivered.

"Always isn't such a long time for us, is it? We only have as much time as Dros Delnoch holds. Anyway — you might get tired of me and send me away.'"

"Never!" she said.

"'Never' and 'always.' I had not thought about those words much until now. Why didn't I meet you ten years ago? The words might have meant something then."

"I doubt it, I would only have been nine years old."

"I didn't mean it literally. Poetically."

"My father has written to Druss," she said. "That letter and this mission are all that keep him alive."

"Druss? But even if he's alive he will be ancient by now; it will be obscene. Skeln was fifteen years ago and he was old then — they will have to carry him into the Dros."

"Perhaps. But my father sets great store by the man. He was awed by him. He feels he's invincible. Immortal. He once described him to me as the greatest warrior of the age. He said Skeln Pass was Druss's victory and that he and the others just made up the numbers. He used to tell that story to me when I was young. We would sit by a fire like this and toast bread on the flames. Then he'd tell me about Skeln. Marvellous days." She lapsed into silence, staring into the coals.

"Tell me the story," he said, drawing her closer to him, his right hand pushing back-the hair that had fallen across her face.

"You must know it. Everyone knows about Skeln."

"True. But I've never heard the story from someone who was there. I've only seen the plays and listened to the saga-poets."

"Tell me what you heard and I will fill in the detail."

"All right. There were a few hundred Drenai warriors holding Skeln Pass while the main Drenai army massed elsewhere. It was the Ventrian king, Gorben, they were worried about. They knew he was on the march but not where he would strike. He struck at Skeln. They were outnumbered fifty to one, and they held on until reinforcements arrived. That's all."

"Not quite," said Virae. "Gorben had an inner army of 10,000 men called the Immortals. They had never been beaten, but Druss beat them."

"Oh, come," said Rek. "One man cannot beat an army. That's saga-poet stuff."

"No, listen to me. My father said that on the last day, when the Immortals were finally sent in, the Drenai line had begun to fold. My father has been a warrior all his life. He understands battles and the shift and flow between courage and panic. The Drenai were ready to crack. But then, just as the line was beginning to give, Druss bellowed a battle cry and advanced, cutting and slashing with his axe. The Ventrians fell back before him. And then suddenly those nearest to him turned to run. The panic spread like brush-fire and the entire Ventrian line crumbled. Druss had turned the tide. My father says he was like a giant that day. Inhuman. Like a god of war."

"That was then," said Rek. "I can't see a toothless old man being of much use. No man can resist age."

"I agree. But can you see what a boost to morale it will be just to have Druss there? Men will flock to the banner. To fight a battle alongside Druss the Legend — there's an immortality in it."

"Have you ever met the old man?" asked Rek.

"No. My father would never tell me, but there was something between them. Druss would never come to Dros Delnoch. It was something to do with my mother, I think."

"She didn't like him?"

"No. Something to do with a friend of Druss's. Sieben, I think he was called."