David Gemmell - Drenai Saga 01 - Legend

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LEGEND

David A. Gemmell

__Prologue

The Drenai herald waited nervously outside the great doors of the

throne room, flanked by two Nadir guards who stared ahead, slanted eyes

fixed on the bronze eagle emblazoned on the dark wood.

He licked dry lips with a dry tongue and adjusted his purple cape about

his bony shoulders. He had been so confident in the council chamber at

Drenan six hundred miles south when Abalayn asked him to undertake this

delicate mission: a journey to distant Gulgothir to ratify the treaties

made with Ulric, Lord of the Nadir tribes. Bartellus had helped to

draft treaties in the past, and twice had been present at talks in

western Vagria and south in Mashrapur. All men understood the value of

trade and the necessity to avoid such costly undertakings as war. Ulric

would be no exception. True he had sacked the nations of the northern

plain, but then they had bled his people dry over the centuries with

their taxes and raids; they had sown the seeds of their own

destruction.

Not so the Drenai. They had always treated the Nadir with tact and

courtesy. Abalayn himself had twice visited Ulric in his northern tent

city - and been royally received.

But Bartellus had been shocked at the devastation in Gulgothir. That

the vast gates had been sundered was no surprise, but many of the

defenders had been subsequently mutilated. The square within the main

keep boasted a small mound of human hands. Bartellus shivered and

wrenched his mind from the memory.

For three days they had kept him waiting, but they had been courteous -

even kindly.

He adjusted his cape again, aware that his lean, angular frame did

little justice to the herald's garb. Taking a linen cloth from his

belt, he wiped the sweat from his bald head. His wife constantly warned

him that his head shone dazzlingly whenever he grew nervous. It was an

observation he would have pre-ferred left unspoken.

He slid a glance at the guard to his right, suppress-ing a shudder. The

man was shorter than he, wearing a spiked helm fringed with goatskin.

He wore a lacquered wooden breastplate and carried a serrated spear.

The face was flat and cruel, the eyes dark and slanted. If Bartellus

ever needed a man to cut off someone's hand . . .

He glanced to his left - and wished he hadn't, for the other guard was

looking at him. He felt like a rabbit beneath a plunging hawk and

hastily returned his gaze to the bronze eagle on the door.

Mercifully the wait ended and the doors swung open.

Taking a deep breath, Bartellus marched inside.

The room was long, twenty marble pillars support-ing a frescoed

ceiling. Each pillar carried a burning torch which cast gaunt dancing

shadows to the walls beyond, and by each pillar stood a Nadir guard,

bearing a spear. Eyes fixed firmly ahead, Bartellus marched the fifty

paces to the throne on the marble dais.

Upon it sat Ulric, Warlord of the 'North.

He was not tall, but he radiated power, and as Bartellus moved into the

centre of the room he was struck by the sheer dynamism of the man. He

had the high cheekbones and midnight hair of the Nadir, but his slanted

eyes were violet and striking. The face was swarthy, a trident beard

creating a demonic appearance which was belied by the warmth of the

man's smile.

But what impressed Bartellus most was that the Nadir lord was wearing a

white Drenai robe, embroidered with Abalayn's family crest: a golden

horse rearing above a silver crown.

The herald bowed deeply.

'My Lord, I bring you the greetings of Lord Abalayn, elected leader of

the free Drenai people.'

Ulric nodded in return, waving a hand for him to continue.

'My lord Abalayn congratulates you on your mag-nificent victory against

the rebels of Gulgothir, and hopes that with the horrors of war now

behind you, you will be able to consider the new treaties and trade

agreements he discussed with you during his most enjoyable stay last

spring. I have here a letter from Lord Abalayn, and also the treaties

and agree-ments.' Bartellus stepped forward, presenting three scrolls.

Ulric took them, placing them gently on the floor beside the throne.

'Thank you, Bartellus,' he said. Tell me, is there truly fear among the

Drenai that my army will march on Dros Delnoch?'

'You jest, my lord?'

'Not at all,' said Ulric innocently, his voice deep and resonant.

'Traders tell me there is great discus-sion in Drenan.'

'Idle gossip merely,' said Bartellus. 'I helped to draft the agreements

myself, and if I can be of any help with the more complex passages I

would con-sider it a pleasure to assist you.'

'No, I am sure they are in order,' said Ulric. 'But you do realise my

shaman Nosta Khan must examine the omens. A primitive custom, I know,

but I am sure you understand?'

'Of course. Such things are a matter of tradition,' said Bartellus.

Ulric clapped his hands twice and from the shadows to the left came a

wizened old man in a dirty goatskin tunic. Under his skinny right arm

he carried a white chicken and in his left hand was a wide, shallow

wooden bowl. Ulric stood as he approached, holding out his hands and

taking the chicken by the neck and legs.

Slowly Ulric raised it above his head - then, as Bartellus' eyes

widened in horror, he lowered the bird and bit through its neck,

tearing the head from the body. The wings flapped madly and blood

gushed and spattered, drenching the white robe. Ulric held the

quivering carcass over the bowl, watching as the last of its life-blood

stained the wood. Nosta Khan waited until the last drop oozed from the

flesh and then lifted the bowl to his lips. He looked up at Ulric and

shook his head.

The warlord tossed the bird aside and slowly removed the white robe.

Beneath it he wore a black breastplate and a belted sword. From beside

the throne he lifted the war helm of black steel, fringed with silver

fox fur, and placed it on his head. He wiped his bloody mouth on the

Drenai robe and carelessly tossed it towards Bartellus.

The herald looked down at the blood-covered cloth at his feet.

'I am afraid the omens are not pleasant,' said Ulric.

Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter, but enough not to matter, he

thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead

crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke

stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odour of

unwashed bodies, forgotten meals and musty, damp clothing. A lantern

flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the

room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door,

muttering his apologies to the crowded inn.

Conversation which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air now

resumed, a dozen voices from dif-ferent groups merging into a babble of

meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as some-one

laughed - the sound was as cold as the winter wind beating against the

wooden walls. Like some-one walking over your grave, he thought. He

pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need

to be able to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation:

it had been the same for days.

War.

Such a little word. Such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest,

starvation, plague and horror.

More laughter burst upon the room. 'Barbarians!' roared a voice above

the babble. 'Easy meat for Drenai lances.' More laughter.

Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Grafted

with care, even love; multi-faceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted

the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there.

And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into

fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am

not a fool, he told himself. Not yet.

Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a

tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in

with a word and a smile before a snarl and a fist became necessary.

War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that

reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkers - most, in

fact - were well-known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers,

traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate,

trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory

and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The

Nadir - even the name spoke of contempt.

But they'll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they'll learn! Horeb's

eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters

who were clearing tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing

beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her

mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to

marry the baker's apprentice Norvas. Good girls. Gifts of joy. Then his

gaze fell on the tall figure in the blue cloak seated by the window.

'Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,' he muttered, knowing the man would

never hear him. Horeb turned away, cursed, then removed his leather

apron and grasped a half-empty jug of ale and a tankard. As an

afterthought he opened a small cupboard and removed a bottle of port he

had been saving for Nessa's wedding.

'A problem shared is a problem doubled,' he said, squeezing into the

seat opposite Rek.

'A friend in need is a friend to be avoided,' Rek countered, accepting

the proffered bottle and refill-ing his glass. 'I knew a general once,'

he said, staring at the wine, twirling the glass slowly with his long

fingers. 'Never lost a battle. Never won one either.'

'How so?' asked Horeb.

'You know the answer. I've told you before.'

'I have a bad memory. Anyway, I like to listen to you tell stories. How

could he never lose and never win?'

'He surrendered whenever threatened,' said Rek. 'Clever, eh?'

'How come men followed him if he never won?'

'Because he never lost. Neither did they.'

'Would you have followed him?' asked Horeb.

'I don't follow anyone any more. Least of all gen-erals.' Rek turned

his head, listening to the inter-weaving chatter. He closed his eyes,

concentrating. 'Listen to them,' he said, softly. 'Listen to their talk

of glory.'

'They don't know any better, Rek, my friend. They haven't seen it,

tasted it. Crows like a black cloud over a battlefield feasting on dead

men's eyes, foxes jerking at severed tendons, worms . . .'

'Stop it, damn you . . . I don't need reminding. Well, I'm damned if

I'll go. When's Nessa getting married?'

'In three days,' answered Horeb. 'He's a good boy, he'll look after

her. Keeps baking her cakes. She'll be like a tub before long.'

'One way or another,' said Rek, with a wink.

'Indeed yes,' answered Horeb, grinning broadly.

The men sat in their own silence allowing the noise to wash over them,

each drinking and thinking, secure within their circle of two. After a

while Rek leaned forward.

'The first attack will be at Dros Delnoch,' he said. 'Do you know

they've only 10,000 men there?'

'I heard it was less than that. Abalayn's been cut-ting back on the

regulars and concentrating on mil-itia. Still, there're six high walls

and a strong keep. And Delnar's no fool - he was at the battle of

Skein.'

'Really?' said Rek. 'I heard that was one man against ten thousand,

hurling mountains on the foe.'

'The saga of Druss the Legend,' said Horeb, deep-ening his voice. 'The

tale of a giant whose eyes were death, and whose axe was terror. Gather

round, children, and keep from the shadows lest evil lurks as I tell my

tale.'

'You bastard!' said Rek. 'That used to terrify me. You knew him, didn't

you - the Legend, I mean?'

'A long time ago. They say he's dead. If not, he must be over sixty. We

were in three campaigns together, but I only spoke to him twice. I saw

him in action once, though.'

'Was he good?' asked Rek.

'Awesome. It was just before Skeln and the defeat of the Immortals.

Just a skirmish really. Yes, he was very good.'

'You're not terribly strong on detail, Horeb.'

'You want me to sound like the rest of these fools, jabbering about war

and death and slaying?'

'No,' said Rek, draining his wine. 'No, I don't. You know me, don't

you?'

'Enough to like you. Regardless.'

'Regardless of what?'

'Regardless of the fact that you don't like yourself.'

'On the contrary,' said Rek, pouring a fresh glass, 'I like myself well

enough. It's just that I know myself better than most people.'

'You know, Rek, sometimes I think you ask too much of yourself.'

'No. No, I ask very little. I know my weaknesses.'

'It's a funny thing about weakness,' said Horeb. 'Most people will tell

you they know their weak-nesses. When asked, they tell you, "Well, for

one thing I'm over-generous." Come on then, list yours if you must.

That's what innkeepers are for.'

'Well, for one thing I'm over-generous - especially to innkeepers.'

Horeb shook his head, smiled and lapsed into silence.

Too intelligent to be a hero, too frightened to be a coward, he

thought. He watched his friend empty his glass, lift it to his face and

peer at his own frag-mented image. For a moment Horeb thought he would

smash it, such had been the anger on Rek's flushed face.

Then the younger man gently returned the goblet to the wooden table.

'I'm not a fool,' he said, softly. He stiffened as he realised he had

spoken aloud. 'Damn!' he said. 'The drink finally got to me.'

'Let me give you a hand to your room,' offered Horeb.

'Is there a candle lit?' asked Rek, swaying in his seat.

'Of course.'

'You won't let it go out on me, will you? Not keen on the dark. Not

frightened, you understand. Just don't like it.'

'I won't let it go out, Rek. Trust me.'

'I trust you. I rescued you, didn't I? Remember?'

'I remember. Give me your arm. I'll guide you to the stairs. This way.

That's good. One foot in front of the other. Good!'

'I didn't hesitate. Straight in with my sword raised, didn't I?'

'Yes.'

'No, I didn't. I stood for two minutes shaking. And you got cut.'

'But you still came in, Rek. Don't you see? It didn't matter about the

cut - you still rescued me.'

'It matters to me. Is there a candle in my room?'

Behind him was the fortress, grim and grey, outlined in flame and

smoke. The sounds of battle filled his ears and he ran, heart pounding,

his breathing ragged. He glanced behind him. The fortress was close,

closer than it had been. Ahead were the green hills sheltering the

Sentran Plain. They shimmered and retreated before him, taunting him

with their tranquillity. He ran faster. A shadow fell across him. The

gates of the fortress opened. He strained against the force pulling him

back. He cried and begged. But the gates closed and he was back at the

centre of the battle, a bloody sword in his shaking hand.

He awoke, eyes wide, nostrils flared, the beginning of a scream

swelling his lungs. A soft hand stroked his face and gentle words

soothed him. His eyes focused. Dawn was nearing, the pink light of a

virgin day piercing the ice on the inside of the bedroom window. He

rolled over.

'You were troubled in the night,' Besa told him, her hand stroking his

brow. He smiled, pulled the goose-down quilt over his shoulder and drew

her to him under the covers.

'I'm not troubled now,' said Rek. 'How could I be?' The warmth of her

body aroused him and his fingers caressed her back.

'Not today,' she said, kissing him lightly on the forehead and pulling

away. She threw back the quilt, shivered and ran across the room,

gathering her clothes. 'It's cold,' she said. 'Colder than yesterday.'

'It's warm in here,' he offered, raising himself to watch her dress.

She blew him a kiss.

'You're fine to romp with, Rek. But I'll have no children by you. Now,

get out of that bed. We've a party of travellers coming in this morning

and the room is let.'

'You're a beautiful woman, Besa. If I had any sense, I'd marry you.'

'Then it's a good job you have none, for I'd turn you down and your ego

would never stand it. I'm looking for someone more solid.' Her smile

took the sting from her words. Almost.

The door opened and Horeb bustled in bearing a copper tray containing

bread, cheese and a tankard.

'How's the head?' he asked, placing the tray on the wooden table by the

bed.

'Fine,' said Rek. 'Is that orange juice?'

'It is, and it'll cost you dear. Nessa waylaid the Vagrian trader as he

left the ship. She waited an hour and risked frostbite just to get

oranges for you. I don't think you're worth it.'

'True,' smiled Rek. 'Sad but true.'

'Are you really heading south today?' asked Besa, as Rek sipped his

fruit juice. He nodded. 'You're a fool. I thought you'd had enough of

Reinard.'

'I'll avoid him. Are my clothes cleaned?'

'Dori spent hours on them,' said Besa. 'And for what? So that you can

get them filthy in Graven Forest.'

'That's not the point. One should always look one's best when leaving a

city.' He glanced at the tray. 'I can't face the cheese.'

'Doesn't matter,' said Horeb. 'It's still on the bill!'

'In that case I'll force myself to eat it. Any other travellers today?'

'There's a spices caravan heading for Lentria that will go through

Graven. Twenty men, well-armed. They're taking the circular route south

and west. There's a woman travelling alone - but she's already left,'

said Horeb. 'Lastly there's a group of pilgrims. But they don't leave

until tomorrow.'

'A woman?'

'Not quite,' said Besa. 'But almost.'

'Now, girl,' said Horeb, smiling broadly, 'it's not like you to be

catty. A tall girl with a fine horse. And she's armed.'

'I could have travelled with her,' said Rek. 'It might have made the

journey more pleasant.'

'And she could have protected you from Reinard,' said Besa. 'She looked

the part. Now come on, Regnak, get dressed. I've not the time to sit

here and watch you breakfast like a lord. You've caused enough chaos in

this house.'

'I can't get up while you're here,' protested Rek. 'It wouldn't be

decent.'

'You idiot,' she said, gathering up the tray. 'Get him up, father, else

he'll lie there all day.'

'She's right, Rek,' said Horeb, as the door closed behind her. 'It's

time for you to move, and knowing how long it takes you to prepare your

public appear-ance I think I'll leave you to get on with it.'

'One must look one's best. . .'

'. . . when leaving a city. I know. That's what you always say, Rek.

I'll see you downstairs.'

Once alone Rek's manner changed, the laughter lines about his eyes

easing into marks of tension, sorrow almost. The Drenai were finished

as a world power. Ulric and the Nadir tribes had already begun their

march upon Drenan and they would ride into the cities of the plains on

rivers of blood. Should every Drenai warrior kill thirty tribesmen,

still there would be hundreds of thousands left.

The world was changing and Rek was running out of places to hide.

He thought of Horeb and his daughters. For six hundred years the Drenai

race had stamped civilisation on a world ill suited to it. They had

conquered savagely, taught wisely and, in the main, ruled well. But

they had arrived at their sunset and a new empire was waiting, ready to

rise from the blood and ashes of the old. He thought again of Horeb and

laughed. Whatever happens, there is one old man who will survive, he

thought. Even the Nadir need good inns. And the daughters? How would

they fare when the hordes burst the city gates? Bloody images flooded

his mind.

'Damn!' he shouted, rolling from the bed to push open the ice-sealed

window.

The winter wind struck his bed-warmed body, snatching his mind back to

the reality of today and the long ride south. He crossed to the bench

on which his clothes had been laid out and swiftly dressed. The white

woollen undershirt and the blue hose were gifts from gentle Dori; the

tunic with gold embroidered collar a legacy of better days in Vagria;

the reversed sheepskin jerkin and gold ties a present from Horeb and

the thigh-length doeskin boots a surprise gift from a weary traveller

at an outland inn. And he must have been surprised, thought Rek,

remembering the thrill of fear and excitement as he had crept into the

man's room to steal them only a month since. By the wardrobe stood a

full-length bronze mirror, where Rek took a long look at his

reflection. He saw a tall man, with shoulder-length brown hair and a

well-trimmed moustache, cutting a fine figure in his stolen boots. He

looped his baldric over his head and placed his longsword in the black

and silver sheath.

'What a hero,' he told his reflection, a cynical smile on his lips.

'What a gem of a hero.' He drew the sword and parried and thrust at the

air, one eye on his reflection. The wrist was still supple, the grasp

sure. Whatever else you are not, he told himself, you are a swordsman.

From the sill by the window he took the silver circlet talisman - his

good luck charm since he stole it from a brothel in Lentria - and

placed it over his forehead, sweeping his dark hair back over his ears.

'You may not actually be magnificent,' he told his reflection, 'but by

all the gods in Missael you look it!'

The eyes smiled back at him. 'Don't you mock me, Regnak Wanderer,' he

said. Throwing his cloak over his arm, he strolled downstairs to the

long room, casting an eye over the early crowd. Horeb hailed him from

the bar.

'Now that's more like it, Rek my lad,' he said, leaning back in mock

admiration. 'You could have stepped straight from one of Serbar's

poems. Drink?'

'No. I think I will leave it a while yet - like ten years. Last night's

brew is still fermenting in my gullet. Have you packed me some of your

vile food for the journey?'

'Maggoty biscuits, mildewed cheese and a two-year-old back of bacon

that will come when you call it,' answered Horeb. 'And a flask of the

worst. . .'

Conversation ceased as the seer entered the inn, his faded blue habit

flapping against bony legs, his quarterstaff tapping on the wooden

boards. Rek swallowed his disgust at the man's appearance and avoided

glancing at the ruined sockets where once the man's eyes had been.

The old man pushed out a hand of which the third finger was missing.

'Silver for your future,' he said, his voice like a dry wind whispering

through winter branches.

'Why do they do it?' whispered Horeb.

'Their eyes, you mean?' countered Rek.

'Yes. How can a man put out his own eyes?'

'Damned if I know. They say it aids their visions.'

'Sounds about as sensible as cutting off your staff in order to aid

your sex life.'

'It takes all sorts, Horeb, old friend.'

Drawn by the sound of their voices the old man hobbled nearer, hand

outstretched. 'Silver for your future,' he intoned. Rek turned away.

'Go on, Rek,' urged Horeb. 'See if the journey bodes well. Where's the

harm?'

'You pay. I will listen,' said Rek.

Horeb thrust a hand deep into the pocket of his leather apron and

dropped a small silver coin into the old man's palm. 'For my friend

here,' he said. 'I know my future.'

The old man squatted on the wooden floor and reached into a tattered

pouch, producing a fistful of sand which he sprinkled about him. Then

he pro-duced six knuckle-bones, bearing crafted runes.

'They're human bones, aren't they?' whispered Horeb.

'So they say,' answered Rek. The old man began to chant in the Elder

tongue, his quavering voice echoing in the silence. He threw the bones

to the sandy floor, then ran his hands over the runes.

'I have the truth,' he said at last.

'Never mind the truth, old man. Give me a tale full of golden lies and

glorious maidens.'

'I have the truth,' said the seer, as if he had not heard.

'The hell with it!' said Rek. 'Tell me the truth, old man.'

'Do you desire to hear it, Man?'

'Never mind the damned ritual, just speak and begone!'

'Steady, Rek, steady! It's his way,' said Horeb.

'Maybe. But he's going a long way towards spoil-ing my day. They never

give good news anyway. The old bastard's probably going to tell me I

shall catch the plague.'

'He wishes the truth,' said Horeb, following the ritual, 'and will use

it wisely and well.'

'Indeed he does not and will not,' said the seer. 'But destiny must be

heard. You do not wish to hear words of your death, Regnak the

Wanderer, son of Argas, and so I will withhold them. You are a man of

uncertain character and only a sporadic courage. You are a thief and a

dreamer and your destiny will both haunt and hunt you. You will run to

avoid it, yet your steps will carry you towards it. But then this you

know, Longshanks, for you dreamt it yester-eve.'

'Is that it, old man? That meaningless garbage? Is that fair trading

for a silver coin?'

'The earl and the legend will be together at the wall. And men shall

dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?'

The old man turned and was gone.

'What was your dream last night, Rek?' asked Horeb.

'You surely don't believe that idiocy, Horeb?'

'What was your dream?' the innkeeper persisted.

'I didn't dream at all. I slept like a log. Except for that bloody

candle. You left it on all night and it stank. You must be more

careful. It could have started a fire. Every time I stop here, I warn

you about those candles. You never listen.'

Rek watched in silence as the groom saddled the chestnut gelding. He

didn't like the horse - it had a mean eye and its ears lay flat against

its skull. The groom, a young slim boy, was crooning gently to it as

his shaking fingers tightened the girth.

'Why couldn't you get a grey?' asked Rek. Horeb laughed.

'Because it would have taken you one step too many towards farce.

Understatement is the thing, Rek. You already look like a peacock and

as it is, every Lentrian sailor will be chasing you. No, a chestnut's

the thing.' More seriously he added, 'And in Graven you may wish to be

inconspicuous. A tall white horse is not easily missed.'

'I don't think it likes me. See the way it looks at me?'

'Its sire was one of the fastest horses in Drenan; its dam was a war

horse in Woundweaver's lancers. You couldn't get a better pedigree.'

'What is it called?' asked Rek, still unconvinced.

'Lancer,' answered Horeb.

'That has a nice ring to it. Lancer . . . Well, maybe . . . just

maybe.'

'Daffodil's ready, sir,' said the groom, backing away from the

chestnut. The horse swung its head, snapping at the retreating boy who

stumbled and fell on the cobbles.

'Daffodil?' said Rek. 'You bought me a horse called Daffodil?'

'What's in a name, Rek?' answered Horeb inno-cently. 'Call it what you

like - you must admit it's a fine beast.'

'If I didn't have a fine sense for the ridiculous, I would have it

muzzled. Where are the girls?'

'Too busy to be waving goodbye to layabouts who rarely pay their bills.

Now, be off with you.'

Rek advanced gingerly towards the gelding, speaking softly. It turned a

baleful eye on him, but allowed him to swing into the high-backed

saddle. He gathered the reins, adjusted his blue cloak to just the

right angle over the horse's back and swung the beast towards the gate.

'Rek, I almost forgot . . .' called Horeb, pushing back towards the

house. 'Wait a moment!' The burly innkeeper disappeared from sight,

emerging seconds later carrying a short bow of horn and elm and a

quiver of black-shafted arrows. 'Here. A customer left this behind in

part payment some months ago. It looks a sturdy weapon.'

'Wonderful,' said Rek. 'I used to be a fine bowman.'

'Yes,' said Horeb. 'Just remember when you use it that the sharp end is

pointed away from you. Now begone - and take care.'

'Thanks, Horeb. You too. And remember what I said about candles.'

'I will. On your way, boy. Be lucky now.'

Rek rode from the south gate as the watchmen trimmed the lantern wicks.

The dawn shadows were shrinking on the streets of Drenan and young

chil-dren played beneath the portcullis. He had chosen the southern

route for the most obvious of reasons. The Nadir were marching from the

North and the fastest way from a battle was a straight line in the

opposite direction.

Flicking his heels, he urged the gelding forward towards the south. To

his left the rising sun was breasting the blue peaks of the eastern

mountains. The sky was blue, birds sang and the sounds of an awakening

city came from behind him. But the sun was rising, Rek knew, on the

Nadir. For the Drenai it was dusk on the last day.

Topping a rise he gazed down on Graven Forest, white and virginal under

the winter snow. And yet it was a place of evil legends which normally

he would have avoided. The fact that instead he chose to enter showed

he knew two things: first, the legends were built around the activities

of a living man; second, he knew that man.

Reinard.

He and his band of bloodthirsty cut-throats had their headquarters in

Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans

were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army

could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.

Reinard. Sired by a prince of Hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or

so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and

his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence -

he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had,

he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of

Reinard's favourite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of

them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken

prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to

flatter the hell out of him. And if that didn't work, to give

him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan

and ride swiftly from his domain.

Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing

through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices,

slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information.

Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly,

knowing the caravanners' fate was in the lap of the gods.

The chestnut's hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the

pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to

stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing and

his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached

into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.

The horse plodded on. At noon, Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal,

hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he

chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a

handful of oats. He stroked the long neck and the chestnut's head came

up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backwards, falling into a deep

snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.

'I knew you didn't like me,' he said. The horse turned to look at him

and snorted.

As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse's hind-quarters.

Deep switch scars showed by the tail.

Gently, his hand moved over them. 'So,' he said, 'someone took a whip

to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn't break your spirit did they, boy?' He swung

into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the

forest in five days.

Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the

track and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked

the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the

trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began

to cast about for a good camp-ing site, finding one an hour later in a

small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to

keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it and then built a

small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the

heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried

beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoul-ders, leaned against

the oak and watched the flames dance.

A skinny fox poked its snout through a bush, peering at the fire. On

impulse, Rek threw it a strip of beef. The animal flicked its eyes from

the man to the morsel and back again, before darting out to snatch the

meat from the frozen ground. Then it vanished into the night. Rek held

out his hands to the fire and thought of Horeb.

The burly innkeeper had raised him after Rek's father had been killed

in the northern wars against the Sathuli. Honest, loyal, strong and

dependable - Horeb was all of these. And he was kind, a prince among

men.

Rek had managed to repay him one well-remem-bered night when three

Vagrian deserters had attacked him in an alley near the inn.

Luckily Rek had been drinking and when he first heard the sound of

steel on steel he had rushed forward. Within the alley Horeb was

fighting a losing battle, his kitchen knife no match for three

swords-men. Yet the old man had been a warrior and moved well. Rek had

been frozen to the spot, his own sword forgotten. He tried to move

forward, but his legs refused the order. Then a sword had cut through

Horeb's guard, opening a huge wound in his leg.

Rek had screamed and the sound had released his terror.

The bloody skirmish was over in seconds. Rek took out the first

assailant with a throat slash, parried a thrust from the second and

shoulder-charged the third into a wall. From the ground Horeb grabbed

the third man, pulling him down and stabbing out with his kitchen

knife. The second man fled into the night.

'You were wonderful, Rek,' said Horeb. 'Believe me, you fight like a

veteran.'

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LEGENDDavidA.Gemmell__PrologueTheDrenaiheraldwaitednervouslyoutsidethegreatdoorsofthethroneroom,flankedbytwoNadirguardswhostaredahead,slantedeyesfixedonthebronzeeagleemblazonedonthedarkwood.Helickeddrylipswithadrytongueandadjustedhispurplecapeabouthisbonyshoulders.Hehadbeensoconfidentinthecouncilc...

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David Gemmell - Drenai Saga 01 - Legend

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