Legend

by David Gemmell

  “I don’t like the phrase, but it fits,” said Druss, pushing open the door to the mess hall. “I mourned Delnar as he lay dying. But once dead, he’s gone. And I’m still here. And there’s a damned long way to go yet.”

  The two men sat at a window table and ordered drinks from a steward. He returned with a large bottle and two goblets; both men sat silently for a while, watching the training.

  Druss was deep in thought. He had lost many friends in his life but none more dear than Sieben and Rowena—the one his sword brother, the other his wife. Thoughts of them both were as tender as open wounds. When I die, he thought, everyone will mourn for Druss the Legend.

  But who will mourn for me?

  13

  “Tell us what you saw,” said Rek as he joined the four leaders of the Thirty in Serbitar’s cabin. He had been woken from a deep sleep by Menahem, who had swiftly explained the problems facing the Dros. Now alert, he listened as the blond warrior-priest outlined the threat.

  “The Captain of the Ax is training the men. He has demolished all buildings from Wall Three and created a killing ground. He has also blocked the gate tunnels back to Wall Four—he has done well.”

  “You mentioned traitors,” said Rek.

  Serbitar lifted a hand. “Patience!” he said. “Go on, Arbedark.”

  “There is an innkeeper called Musar, originally from the Nadir Wolfshead tribe. He has been at Dros Delnoch for eleven years. He and a Drenai officer are planning to kill Druss. I think there may be others. Ulric has been told of the tunnel blocking.”

  “How?” asked Rek. “Surely there is no travel to the north?”

  “He keeps pigeons,” said Arbedark.

  “What can you do?” Rek asked Serbitar, who shrugged and looked to Vintar for support. The abbot spread his hands. “We tried to make contact with Druss, but he is not receptive and the distance is still very great. I do not see how we can help.”

  “What news of my father?” asked Virae. The men looked at one another, ill at ease. Serbitar spoke at last.

  “He is dead. I am deeply sorry.”

  Virae said nothing, her face showing no emotion. Rek put an arm on her shoulder, but she pushed it away and stood. “I’m going on deck,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later, Rek.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  “No. It’s not for sharing.”

  As the door closed behind her, Vintar spoke, his voice gentle and sorrowful. “He was a fine man after his fashion. I contacted him before the end; he was at peace and in the past.”

  “In the past?” said Rek. “What does that mean?”

  “His mind had vanished into happier memories. He died well. I think the Source will have him—I shall pray to that effect. But what of Druss?”

  “I tried to reach the general, Hogun,” said Arbedark, “but the danger was great. I almost lost my bearings. The distance …”

  “Yes,” said Serbitar. “Did you manage to ascertain how the assassination is to be attempted?”

  “No. I could not enter the man’s mind, but before him was a bottle of Lentrian red that he was resealing. It could be poison or an opiate of some kind.”

  “There must be something you can do,” said Rek, “with all your power.”

  “All power—but one—has limits,” said Vintar. “We can only pray. Druss has been a warrior for many years, a survivor. It means he is not only skillful but lucky. Menahem, you must journey to the Dros and watch for us. Perhaps the attempt will be delayed until we are closer.”

  “You mentioned a Drenai officer,” said Rek to Arbedark. “Who? Why?”

  “I know not. As I completed the journey, he was leaving the house of Musar. He acted furtively, and this aroused my suspicions. Musar was in the loft, and upon the table beside him lay a note written in the Nadir tongue. It said, ‘Kill Deathwalker.’ That is the name by which Druss is known to the tribes.”

  “You were lucky to see the officer,” said Rek. “In a fortress city of that size the chances of seeing a single act of treachery must be amazing.”

  “Yes,” said Arbedark. Rek saw the look that passed between the blond priest and the albino.

  “Is there more to it than luck?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Serbitar. “We will talk of it soon. For now we are helpless. Menahem will watch the situation and keep us informed. If they delay the attempt for two more days, we may be in a position to help.”

  Rek looked at Menahem, sitting upright at the table, eyes closed and breathing shallowly.

  “Has he gone?” he asked.

  Serbitar nodded.

  Druss managed to look interested as the speeches wore on. Three times since the banquet had ended the old warrior had heard how grateful were the townsfolk, burghers, merchants, and lawyers that he had come among them. How it showed up the faint hearts ever ready to write off the might of the Drenai empire. How, when the battle was won—speedily—Dros Delnoch would attract sightseers from all over the continent. How new verses would be added to Sieben’s saga of the Legend. The words droned on, the praise growing more fulsome as the wine flowed.

  Some two hundred of Delnoch’s richest and most influential families were present at the great hall, seated around the massive round table normally reserved for state occasions. The banquet was the brainchild of Bricklyn, the master burgher, a short self-obsessed businessman who had bent Druss’s ear throughout the meal and was now taking the liberty of bending it again in the longest speech so far.

  Druss kept his smile firmly fixed, nodding here and there where he felt it appropriate. He had attended many such functions in his life, though they normally followed rather than preceded a battle.

  As had been expected, Druss had opened the speeches with a short talk on his life, concluding it with a stirring promise that the Dros would hold if only the soldiers would show the same courage as those families sitting around the table. As had also been expected, he received a tumultuous ovation.

  As was his wont on these occasions, Druss drank sparingly, merely sipping the fine Lentrian red placed before him by the stout innkeeper Musar, the banquet’s master of ceremonies.

  With a start, Druss realized that Bricklyn had finished his speech, and he applauded vigorously. The short gray-haired man sat down at his left, beaming and bowing as the applause continued.

  “A fine speech,” said Druss. “Very fine.”

  “Thank you. Yours, I think, was better,” said Bricklyn, pouring himself a glass of Vagrian white from a stone jug.

  “Nonsense. You are a born speaker.”

  “It’s strange you should say that. I remember when I gave a speech in Drenan for the wedding of Count Maritin—you know the count, of course? Anyway, he said …” And so it went on, with Druss smiling and nodding and Bricklyn finding more and more stories to outline his qualities.

  Toward midnight, as prearranged, Delnar’s elderly servant, Arshin, approached Druss and announced—loudly enough for Bricklyn to overhear—that Druss was needed on Wall Three to supervise a new detachment of archers and their placement. It was not before time. Throughout the evening Druss had drunk no more than a single goblet, yet his head swam and his legs shook as he pushed himself upright. He made his apologies to the stout burgher, bowed to the assembly, and marched from the room. In the corridor outside he stopped and leaned against a pillar.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked Arshin.

  “The wine was bad,” muttered Druss. “It’s hit my stomach worse than a Ventrian breakfast.”

  “You’d better get to bed, sir. I will take a message to Dun Mendar to attend you in your room.”

  “Mendar? Why the hell should he attend me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t mention it in the hall as you had told me what to say when I approached you, but Dun Mendar asked if you could spare him a moment. He has a serious problem, he said.”

  Druss rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His belly felt weak, disconnected, and fragile. He toye
d with the idea of sending Arshin to explain to the young Karnak officer but then realized word would get around that Druss was sick. Or worse, that he could not hold his wine.

  “Maybe the air will do me good. Where is he?”

  “He said he would meet you at the inn by Unicorn Alley. Turn right outside the keep until you reach the first market square, then turn left by the miller’s. Walk on through Baker’s Row until you reach the armory repair shop, then turn right. That’s Unicorn Alley, and the inn is at the far end.”

  Druss asked the man to repeat the directions, then pushed himself from the wall and staggered out into the night. The stars were bright, the sky cloudless. He sucked in the crisp air and felt his stomach turn.

  “Damn this,” he said angrily, and found a secluded spot by the keep, away from the sentries, where he made himself vomit. Cold sweat covered his brow and his head ached as he pushed himself upright, but at least his stomach seemed more settled. He headed toward the first square, located the miller’s store, and turned left. Already the smell of baking bread was coming from the ovens in Baker’s Row.

  The smell made him retch again. Angry now at his condition, he hammered on the first door he came to. A short, fat baker in a white cotton apron opened the door and peered nervously at him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I am Druss. Do you have a loaf ready?”

  “It’s only just past midnight. I have some bread from yesterday, but if you wait for a while I will have fresh. What’s the matter? You look green.”

  “Just get me a loaf—and hurry!” Druss clamped a hand to the door frame, pulling himself upright. What the hell was wrong with that wine? Or maybe it was the food. He hated rich food. Too many years on dried beef and raw vegetables. His body could not take it, but it had never reacted like this before.

  The man trotted back down the short hallway bearing a hefty chunk of black bread and a small phial.

  “Drink this,” he said. “I have an ulcer, and Calvar Syn says it settles the stomach faster than anything else.” Gratefully Druss downed the contents of the phial. It tasted like charcoal. Then he tore a great bite from the bread, sliding gratefully to the floor with his back against the door. His stomach rebeled, but he gritted his teeth and finished the loaf; within a few minutes he was feeling better. His head ached like the devil and his vision was a little blurred, but his legs felt fine and he had strength enough to bluff his way through a short chat with Mendar.

  “My thanks, baker. What do I owe you?”

  The baker was about to ask for two copper coins but realized in time that the old man had no pockets visible and no money sack. He sighed and said what was expected.

  “No money necessary from you, Druss. Naturally.”

  “Decent of you,” said Druss.

  “You should get back to your quarters,” said the baker. “And get a good night’s sleep.” He was about to add that Druss was no youngster any more but thought better of it.

  “Not yet. Got to see one of my officers.”

  “Ah, Mendar,” said the baker, smiling.

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw him not twenty minutes since with three or four others heading down toward the Unicorn. We don’t see many officers here at this time of night. The Unicorn’s a soldier’s drinking house.”

  “Yes. Well, thanks again. I’ll be on my way.”

  Druss stood in the doorway for a few moments after the baker had returned to his oven. If Mendar was with three or four others, they might expect him to join them for a drink, and he racked his brains to think of a reason for refusing. Unable to come up with a convincing excuse, he cursed and started down Baker’s Row.

  All was darkness now and silence. The silence jarred him, but his head ached too hard to consider it.

  Ahead he could see the anvil sign of the armory repairer gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped again, blinking as the sign shimmered and distorted, and shook his head.

  Silence … What was it about the damned silence?

  He walked on, ill at ease, loosening Snaga in her sheath more as a reflex habit than as a conscious awareness of danger. He turned right …

  Something swished through the air. Light exploded in his eyes as the club hit him; he went down hard and rolled in the dirt as a dark figure sprang forward. Snaga sang through the air, slicing through the man’s thigh, crunching on bone that splintered and broke, tearing a scream from the assassin. Druss lurched to his feet as more shapes came from the shadows. His vision blurred, he could still make out the gleam of steel in the moonlight. Bellowing a war cry, he lunged forward. A sword arced toward him, but he batted it aside and drove his ax through the skull of the swordsman, simultaneously kicking out at a second man. A sword blade cut through his shirt, nicking his chest. He hurled Snaga and turned to meet the third man.

  It was Mendar!

  Druss moved sideways with arms outstretched like a wrestler. The young officer, sword in hand, advanced confidently. Druss glanced at the second man; he was lying groaning on the ground, his weakening fingers desperately trying to pull the ax from his belly. Druss was angry with himself. He should never have hurled the ax—he blamed it on the headache and sickness. Now Mendar leapt and swung his sword, and Druss jumped backward as the silver steel swished by him, an inch from his neck.

  “You can’t back away much longer, old man!” said Mendar, grinning.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Druss.

  “Playing for time? Sorry? You wouldn’t understand.”

  Once more he leapt and slashed, and once more Druss jumped clear. But now his back was against a building, and there was nowhere to run.

  Mendar laughed. “I didn’t realize it would be so easy to kill you, Druss,” he said, and lunged. Druss twisted, slammed his hand against the flat of the sword, then leapt forward as the weapon sliced the skin over his ribs and hammered a fist into Mendar’s face. The tall officer staggered back with blood pouring from his mouth. A second blow crashed under his heart, snapping a rib. He went down, losing his grip on his sword, but huge fingers gripped his throat and hauled him upright. He blinked. The grip relaxed just enough for him to squeeze air through his windpipe.

  “Easy, boy? Nothing in life is easy.”

  A whisper of sound came from behind him.

  Druss grabbed Mendar and swung him around. A double-headed ax cleaved the officer’s shoulder, lodging against the breastbone. Druss hurdled the body and shoulder-charged the assassin as he struggled to free his weapon. The man was hurled backward. As Druss clambered to his feet, the killer turned and sprinted out into Baker’s Row.

  Druss cursed and returned to the dying officer. Blood poured from the ghastly wound, soaking into the hard-packed earth.

  “Help me,” said Mendar. “Please!”

  “Think yourself lucky, you whoreson. I would have killed you much more slowly. Who was he?”

  But Mendar was dead. Druss retrieved Snaga from the other dead assassin, then searched for the man whose leg he had wounded. Following a trail of blood into a narrow alley, he found the man lying back against a wall, a dagger rammed to the hilt in his heart, his fingers still curled about the handle.

  Druss rubbed his eyes, and his hand came away sticky. He ran his fingers over his temple. A lump the size of an egg, tender and broken, made him curse once more.

  Was nothing simple in the world anymore?

  In his day a battle was a battle, army against army.

  Pull yourself together, he told himself. There have always been traitors and assassins.

  It was just that he had never been a target before.

  Suddenly he laughed as he remembered the silence. The inn was empty. As he turned into Unicorn Alley, he should have realized the danger. Why would five men be waiting for him after midnight in a deserted alley?

  You old fool, he told himself. You must be getting senile.

  Musar sat alone in his loft, listening to the pigeons as they ruffled their feathers to greet the new
dawn. He was calm now, tranquil almost, and his large hands no longer trembled. He walked to the window, leaning far out over the sill to gaze north. His one all-consuming ambition had been to see Ulric ride into Dros Delnoch and on to the rich southlands, to see the rise, at long last, of the Nadir empire.

  Now his Drenai wife and his eight-year-old son lay below, their sleep deepening toward death as he savored his last dawn.

  It had been hard watching them sip their poisoned drinks, listening to his wife’s amiable chatter about her plans for tomorrow. When his son had asked him if he could go riding with Brentar’s boy, he had said that he could.

  He should have followed his first instincts and poisoned the old warrior, but Dun Mendar had convinced him otherwise. Suspicion would then have fallen instantly on the master of ceremonies. This way was surer, Mendar had promised: drug him and kill him in a dark alleyway. So simple!

  How could one so old move so swiftly?

  Musar had felt he could bluff it out. He knew Druss would never recognize him as the fifth assassin, for his face had been half-covered by a dark scarf. But the risks were too great, maintained his Nadir lord, Surip. The last message had congratulated him on his work over these last twelve years and had concluded “Peace on you, brother, and your family.”

  Musar filled a deep bucket with warm water from a large copper kettle.

  Then he took a dagger from a shelf at the rear of the loft and sharpened it on a small whetstone. The risks were too great? Indeed they were. Musar knew the Nadir had another man at Delnoch, more highly placed than he. On no account would he be compromised.

  He plunged his left arm into the bucket, then, holding the dagger firmly with his right, he severed the arteries of the wrist. The water changed color.

  He had been a fool to marry, he thought, tears shining in his eyes.

  But she had been so lovely …

  Hogun and Elicas watched as men from the legion cleared away the bodies of the assassins. Spectators looked on from nearby windows, calling down questions, but the legion ignored them.