David Gemmell - Legend

"She didn't like him?"

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

"What happened to him?"

"He was killed at Skeln. He was Druss's oldest friend. That's all I know about it." Rek knew she was lying but let it rest. It was all ancient history anyway.

Like Druss the Legend…

The old man crumpled the letter and let it fall.

It was not age which depressed Druss. He enjoyed the wisdom of his sixty years, the knowledge accrued and the respect it earned. But the physical ravages of time were another thing altogether. His shoulders were still mighty above a barrel chest, but the muscles had taken on a stretched look — wiry lines which criss-crossed his upper back. His waist, too, had thickened perceptibly over the last winter. And almost overnight, he realised, his black beard streaked with grey had become a grey beard streaked with black. But the piercing eyes which gazed at their reflection in the silver mirror had not dimmed. Their stare had dismayed armies; caused heroic opponents to take a backward step, blushing and shamed; caught the imagination of a people who had needed heroes.

He was Druss the Legend. Invincible Druss, Captain of the Axe. The legends of his life were told to children everywhere — and most of them were legends, Druss reflected. Druss the Hero, immortal, god-like.

His past victories could have ensured him a palace of riches, concubines by the score. Fifteen years before Abalayn himself had showered him with jewels following his exploits at the Skeln Pass.

By the following morning, however, Druss had gone back to the Skoda mountains, high into the lonely country bordering the clouds. Among the pine and the snow leopards the grizzled old warrior had returned to his lair, to taste again of solitude. His wife of thirty years lay buried there. He had a mind to die there — though there would be no one to bury him, he knew.

During the past fifteen years Druss had not been inactive. He had wandered various lands, leading battle companies for minor princelings. Last winter he had retired to his high mountain retreat, there to think and die. He had long known he would die in his sixtieth year — even before the seer's prediction all those decades ago. He had been able to picture himself at sixty — but never beyond. Whenever he tried to consider the prospects of being sixty-one, he would experience only darkness.

His gnarled hands curled round a wooden goblet and raised it to his grey bearded lips. The wine was strong, brewed himself five years before; it had aged well — better than he. But it was gone and he remained… for a little while.

The heat within his sparse furnished cabin was growing oppressive as the new spring sun warmed the wooden roof. Slowly he removed the sheepskin jacket he had worn all winter and the under-vest of horsehair. His massive body, criss-crossed with scars, belied his age. He studied the scars, remembering clearly the men whose blades had caused them: men who would never grow old as he had; men who had died in their prime beneath his singing axe. His blue eyes flicked to the wall by the small wooden door. There she hung, Snaga, which in the old tongue meant the Sender. Slim haft of black steel, interwoven with eldritch runes in silver thread, and a double-edged blade so shaped that it sang as it slew.

Even now he could hear its sweet song. One last time, Soul brother, it called to him. One last bloody day before the sun sets. His mind returned to Delnar's letter. It was written to the memory and not the man.

Druss raised himself from the wooden chair, cursing as his joints creaked. "The sun has set," whispered the old warrior, addressing the axe. "Now only death waits and he's a patient bastard." He walked from the cabin, gazing out over the distant mountains. His massive frame and grey-black hair mirrored in miniature the mountains he surveyed. Proud, strong, ageless and snow-topped, they defied the spring sun as it strove to deny them their winter peaks of virgin snow.

Druss soaked in their savage splendour, sucking in the cool breeze and tasting life, as if for the last time.

"Where are you, Death?" he called. "Where do you hide on this fine day?" The echoes boomed around the valleys… DEATH, DEATH, Death, Death… DAY, DAY, Day, Day…

"I am Druss! And I defy you!"

A shadow fell across Druss's eyes, the sun died in the heavens and the mountains receded into mist. Pain clamped Druss's mighty chest, soul deep, and he almost fell.

"Proud mortal!" hissed a sibilant voice through the veils of agony. "I never sought you. You have hunted me through these long, lonely years. Stay on this mountain and I guarantee you two score more years. Your muscles will atrophy, your brain will sink into dotage. You will bloat, old man, and I will only come when you beg it… Or will the huntsman have one more hunt?"

"Seek me if you will, old warrior. I stand on the walls of Dros Delnoch."

The pain lifted from the old man's heart. He staggered once, drew soothing mountain air into his burning lungs and gazed about him. Birds still sang in the pine, no clouds obscured the sun and the mountains stood, tall and proud, as they always had done.

Druss returned to the cabin and went to a chest of oak, padlocked at the onset of winter. The key lay deep in the valley below. He placed his giant hands about the lock and began to exert pressure. Muscles writhed on his arms; veins bulged on his neck and shoulders; and the metal groaned, changed shape and — split! Druss threw the padlock aside and opened the chest. Within lay a jerkin of black leather, the shoulders covered in a skin of shining steel, and a black leather skull-cap only relieved by a silver axe flanked by silver skulls. Long black leather gauntlets came into view, silver-skinned to the knuckles. Swiftly he dressed, coming finally to the long leather boots — a present from Abalayn himself so many years before.

Lastly he reached for Snaga, which seemed to leap from the wall to his waiting hand.

"One last time, Soul brother," he told it. "Before the sun sets."

6

With Vintar standing beside him, Serbitar watched from a high balcony as the two riders approached the monastery, cantering their horses towards the northern gate. Grass showed in patches on the snow-covered fields as a warm spring wind eased in from the west.

"Not a time for lovers," said Serbitar, aloud.

"It is always a time for lovers, my son. In war most of all," said Vintar. "Have you probed the man's mind?"

"Yes. He is a strange one. A cynic by experience, a romantic by inclination and now a hero by necessity."

"How will Menahem test the messenger?" asked Vintar.

"With fear," answered the albino.

Rek was feeling good. The air he breathed was crisp and clean and a warm westerly breeze promised an end to the harshest winter in years. The woman he loved was beside him and the sky was blue and clear.

"What a great day to be alive!" he said.

"What's so special about today?" asked Virae.

"It's beautiful. Can't you taste it? The sky, the breeze, the melting snow?"

"Someone is coming to meet us. He looks like a warrior," she said.

The rider approached them and dismounted. His face was covered by a black and silver helm crowned with a horsehair plume. Rek and Virae dismounted and approached him.

"Good morning," said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.

"You are the messenger?" he asked her.

"I am. I wish to see Abbot Vintar."

"First you must pass me," he said, stepping back and drawing a long-sword of silver steel.

"Wait a moment," said Rek. "What is this? One does not normally have to fight one's way into a monastery." Once again the man ignored him and Virae drew her rapier. "Stop it!" ordered Rek. "This is insane."

"Stay out of this, Rek," said Virae. "I will slice this silver beetle into tiny pieces."

"No, you won't," he said, gripping her arm. "That rapier is no good against an armoured man. In any case, the whole thing is senseless. You are not here to fight anybody. You simply have a message to deliver, that's all. There must be a mistake here somewhere. Wait a moment."

Rek walked towards the warrior, his mind racing, his eyes checking for weak points in the armoured defences. The man wore a moulded breastplate over a mail-shirt of silver steel. Protecting his neck was a silver torque. His legs were covered to the thigh in leather troos, cased with silver rings, and upon his shins were leather greaves. Only the man's knees, hands and chin were open to attack.

"Will you tell me what is happening?" Rek asked him. "I think you may have the wrong messenger. We are here to see the Abbot."

"Are you ready, woman?" asked Menahem.

"Yes," said Virae, her rapier cutting a figure-eight in the morning air as she loosened her wrist.

Rek's blade flashed into his hand. "Defend yourself," he cried.

"No, Rek, he's mine," shouted Virae. "I don't need you to fight for me. Step aside!"

"You can have him next," said Rek. He turned his attention back to Menahem. "Come on, then. Let's see if you fight as prettily as you look."

Menahem turned his dark eyes on the tall figure before him. Instantly Rek's stomach turned over: this was death! Cold, final, worm in the eye-sockets, death. There was no hope in this contest. Panic welled in Rek's breast and his limbs began to tremble. He was a child again, locked in a darkened room, knowing the demons were hiding in the black shadows. Fear in the shape of bile rose in his throat as nausea shook him. He wanted to run… he needed to run.

Instead Rek screamed and launched an attack, his blade whistling towards the black and silver helm. Startled, Menahem hastily parried and a second blow almost got through. The warrior stepped backwards, desperately trying to regain the initiative, but Rek's furious assault had caught him off-balance. Menahem parried and moved, trying to circle.

Virae watched in stunned silence as Rek's blistering assault continued. The two men's swords glittered in the morning sunlight, a dazzling web of white light, a stunning display of skill. Virae felt a surge of pride. She wanted to cheer Rek on but resisted the urge, knowing the slightest distraction could sway the contest.

"Help me," pulsed Menahem to Serbitar, "or I may have to kill him." He parried a blow, catching it only inches from his throat. "If I can," he added.

"How can we stop it?" Serbitar asked Vintar. "The man is a baresark. I cannot get through to him. He will kill Menahem before much longer."

"The girl!" said Vintar. "Join with me."

Virae shivered as she watched Rek growing in strength. Baresark! Her father had told her of such men, but never would she have placed Rek in their company. They were mad killers who lost all sense of reason and fear in combat, becoming the most deadly of opponents. All swordsmen gravitate between defence and attack, for despite a desire to win there is an equal desire not to lose. But the baresark loses all fear; his is all-out attack, and invariably he takes his opponent with him even if he falls. A thought struck her powerfully and suddenly she knew that the warrior was not trying to kill Rek — the contest was but a test.

"Put up your swords," she screamed. "Stop it!"

The two men battled on.

"Rek, listen to me!" she shouted. "It's only a test. He's not trying to kill you."

Her voice came to Rek as from a great distance, piercing the red mist before his eyes. Stepping back, he felt rather than saw the relief in the other man; then he took a deep breath and relaxed, his legs shaky, his hands trembling.

"You entered my mind," he accused the warrior, fixing the man's dark eyes in a cold gaze. "I don't know how. But if you ever do it again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," Menahem told him softly, his voice muffled within his helm. Rek sheathed his blade at the second attempt and turned to Virae who was looking at him strangely.

"It wasn't really me," he said. "Don't look at me like that, Virae."

"Oh Rek, I'm sorry," she said, tears in her eyes. "I'm truly sorry."

A new kind of fear hit him as she turned her face away. "Don't leave me," he said. "It rarely happens and I would never turn on you. Never! Believe me." She turned to face him, throwing her arms about his neck.

"Leave you? What are you talking about? It doesn't matter to me, you fool. I was just sorry for you. Oh, Rek — you're such an idiot. I'm not some tavern girl who squeals at the sight of a rat. I'm a woman who has grown up alongside men. Soldiers. Fighting men. Warriors. You think I would leave you because you are baresark?"

"I can control it," he said, holding her tightly to him.

"Where we are going, Rek, you will not have to," she said.

Serbitar left the monastery balcony and poured a goblet of spring water from a stone jug.

"How did he do it?"

Vintar sat back on a leather chair. "There is a well of courage within him, fuelled by many things of which we can only guess. But when Menahem fed him fear, he responded with violence. Because what Menahem could not have understood is that the man fears fear itself. Did you glimpse that memory of his childhood during Menahem's probe?"

"The tunnels, you mean?"

"Yes. What do you make of a child who fears the dark and yet seeks out dark tunnels to travel through?"

"He tried to end his fears by facing them," said Serbitar.

"He still does. And that's why Menahem almost died."

"He will be useful at Dros Delnoch," said Serbitar, smiling.

"More than you know," said Vintar. "More than you know."

"Yes," Serbitar told Rek as they sat within the oak-panelled study overlooking the courtyard. "Yes, we can read minds. But I assure you we will not again attempt to read yours — or that of your companion."

"Why did he do that to me?" asked Rek.

"Menahem is the Eyes of The Thirty. He had to see that you were worthy to ask of us… the service. You expect us to fight with your forces, to analyse enemy tactics and to use our skills in defence of a fortress about which we care nothing. The messenger has to be worthy."

"But I am not the messenger, I am merely a companion."

"We shall see… How long have you known of your… affliction?"

Rek turned his gaze to the window and the balcony beyond. A wren landed on the railing, sharpened his beak on the stone and then flew off. Light clouds were forming, fleece islands in the clear blue of the sky.

"It has happened only twice. Both times in the Sathuli wars. Once when we were surrounded after a dawn raid on a village, and the second time when I was part of a guard unit for a spices caravan."

"It is common among warriors," said Serbitar. "It is a gift of fear."

"It saved my life both times, but it scares me," said Rek. "It is as if someone else takes over my mind and body."

"But that is not so, I assure you. It is you alone. Do not fear what you are, Rek — may I call you Rek?"

"Of course."