Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell

by Various Authors

  “Now, gentlemen, let’s not fight,” said the other warrior.

  “You keep out of this, dandy man, or you’ll be next,” growled Hirad over his shoulder.

  “My concern is that I live,” said the big man. “And if I have to dump you on your arse to make sure that happens that is exactly what I’ll do.”

  “You aren’t quick enough to beat me,” said Hirad.

  He switched his blade between his hands three times then snapped it forwards. The big man batted it aside with his sword, stepped in and slammed the heel of his palm into Hirad’s chest. Hirad fell flat on his back. A heartbeat later, the rock-steady tip of that two-handed blade was at his throat.

  “You were saying?”

  “Fine, you’re quick; but do you have the balls to push your blade home?”

  The big man shook his head. “I have no desire to kill you or harm you in any way. We’re here to do a job and unless I miss my mark, we all want to live to collect our wages.”

  His voice was completely calm. Hirad wanted to down him so badly it hurt but he was not in the best of positions. He dropped his blade to the mud and held up his hands. The big man nodded.

  “Good. So let’s get ourselves ready and try and help each other get through the day. All right?”

  Hirad shrugged. The sword tip moved from his neck and the big man turned his back and began to walk away in the direction of a water butt. Hirad surged to his feet, leaving his blade and meaning to finish what he started with his fists. He felt arms about him from the back, strong arms.

  ‘Whoa there, my friend,’ said a voice by his left ear. ‘Best leave it at that unless you want another lesson.’

  Hirad froze. ‘Let me go or I’ll break both your arms.’

  ‘Good with threats, aren’t we?’ said the elf, sauntering up.

  Hirad spat towards him. The arms hugged tighter, pinning Hirad’s to his sides. He kicked backwards, hearing the man grunt as his shin was barked.

  “He wants to humiliate me. He has no respect for my talent. I will not let that lie. Get off me!”

  Hirad tried to break the warrior’s grip. He kicked back again, flung his head backwards too, hoping to smash the bastard’s nose, but all he found was his shoulder.

  “Enough!” The big man dashed water into Hirad’s face and closed in until their noses were practically touching. The smells of blood and sweat mingled unpleasantly. “You’re doing the job of humiliation all by yourself. Time to calm down and while you’re doing so, let me tell you something: if I had no respect for your talent, I would not have pulled my blade past you earlier.

  “How old are you?”

  Hirad shrugged, his ire subsiding ever so slightly. “Twenty-ish, maybe twenty-one. I’m not one for counting, really.”

  “And how long have you been fighting?”

  “I don’t know… five years probably.”

  The big man moved back a little. “I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

  Hirad puffed himself up as much as he good with the other one still holding him.

  “I’m not. It’s because I’m quicker than them, better than them.”

  “But mainly luckier,” said the big man. “I think you can let him go now… what’s your name?”

  “Sirendor Larn,” said the dandy man.

  Hirad was released. He rolled his shoulders a few times and glanced back. Sirendor looked as if he’d just got dressed. His clothes and light leather armour were almost spotless and if Hirad hadn’t known he’d been fighting all morning, he wouldn’t have believed it.

  “Thank you, Sirendor,” said the big man. “And we’ll have your name too.”

  “Hirad Coldheart. Remember it. Everyone else will.”

  “I have no doubt about that,” said the elf. “Though the reasons might not be those you would wish. I am Ilkar.”

  “Then we are introduced.”

  “All except you, clever mouth,” said Hirad. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s of no consequence,” said the big man.

  “God’s drowning but you’re a prat,” said Hirad.

  “But a fast one. Faster than you. And a couple of years older and still alive and do you want to know why?”

  Hirad didn’t. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “Yes, because you need to hear it or your unforgettable name will soon be followed by R.I.P.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  The big man held a finger to his lips. “Humour me, at least… After five years, you really should have noticed that the ones who tend to live long are those who work with the fighters either side of them and with a nearby mage if they have any sense.”

  “I’ve noticed I’m still alive.”

  The big man blew out his cheeks. “Give me strength to survive the tests before me.”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t need your lecture. I can look after myself.”

  “I know!” the big man’s shout ruffled the braids in Hirad’s hair. “I saw you this morning before I joined the line. I saw you fighting with Blackthorne’s men last year and I saw you during that debacle up by Rache not thirty days ago. What you did there was… impressive. You’re good. You’re really, really good. But every time you go into combat you leave yourself, and those you stand between, exposed by your reckless moves. It will cost you your life. It has already cost others theirs.”

  “That’s their problem,” said Hirad.

  “No you moron it’s yours,” snarled the big man. Hirad was startled in spite of himself. “Dear Gods drowning why are you so stubborn? Born in the north, were you?”

  “And proud of it.”

  “It figures. Right, I’m going to try one more time. Do your best to follow what I’m saying, all right?”

  “I’m not stupid,” snapped Hirad.

  “We’ve not seen a great deal of evidence to support that statement thus far,” said Ilkar.

  “And you can shut your mouth too, sharp ears.”

  “A three thousand year old insult too. Such an intellect,” said Ilkar. “Why are you wasting your time with him?”

  “Why are you standing here if not to see what happens next?” asked Sirendor. “I know I am.”

  Hirad felt his cheeks burning again. He wished his sword was in his hand, not lying on the ground with blood drying on the blade.

  “Listen to me,” said the big man, waiting until Hirad looked back at him. “You’re here because you’re talented. Arlen knows who he’s hiring. Pontois’ militia are tough and loyal and they work together. Tell me, Hirad, what pay do you get if we lose this fight?”

  “Nothing, of course.”

  “Right. And do you get extra shares if fewer of us survive to collect our pay if we win?”

  “No, but it’s a good idea.”

  “It’ll never happen, believe me,” said the big man. “And do you think your chances of survival are better if more of us fight for longer?”

  Hirad cast his eyes skywards. “Obviously.”

  “Good. So you see what I’m getting at.”

  Hirad stared at him while the sounds of warriors and mages beginning to ready themselves for another fight began to gain in volume.

  “Are you trying to say I need you alive to improve my chances of getting paid?” he said eventually.

  The big man cracked a smile. “Absolutely. So I’m suggesting that we work together. I’ve seen you fight, Sirendor, you’ve very fast hands and nimble feet. And you, Ilkar, a high quality mage. Care to work with me… us?”

  The two of them nodded their heads.

  “Hirad?”

  “The better I look alone, the more I get paid next time.”

  The big man sighed. “And the sooner you die. So just this once, do it my way?”

  Hirad looked at his accidental companions. This wasn’t at all how he’d seen this or any other fight. But something about this great pile of muscle was utterly compelling. He shrugged.

  “Good. We’re going to take a flank, the left, I th
ink.”

  “What, to get as far from the action as possible?” asked Hirad.

  “No,” the big man’s voice held a note of exasperation. “Because Pontois hasn’t set his best on us yet. That’ll happen now and they’ll try and break us on the flanks and the left looks weaker to me as it will do to them. We’ll be waiting. I want this over in a couple of hours and you can help that happen.”

  “You don’t want us in line?”

  “No, we’ll do better stepping into the inevitable breach,” he said. “I’ll inform the field commander. See you over there.”

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Hirad.

  “Let’s just get through the day first.”

  Hirad smiled, intrigued. “Some sort of test, is it?”

  “I’ve just had an idea. Old theme, new angle.”

  The big man trotted off. Hirad looked at Sirendor.

  “You’re stronger than you look.”

  “And you’re smellier.”

  Hirad saw the sparkle in his eyes and the warmth in his smile. “At least you’ll know where I am without looking.”

  Sirendor laughed, stooped and picked up Hirad’s sword and handed it over hilt first. “Painted with Pontois blood though I note a couple of bare patches.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Hirad.

  They started walking across the back of the line reforming in response to a gathering of Pontois militia. It didn’t look weighted any differently to Hirad. Still, so long as there were enemies to fight… Ilkar fell into step beside them. Hirad glanced at him, feeling a little abashed.

  “Sorry about the sharp-ears thing,” said Hirad.

  Ilkar raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I mean your ears aren’t even sharp, are they? ‘Leaf-ear’ would have been more accurate.”

  “There really is no answer to that,” said Ilkar.

  “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” asked Sirendor.

  “Dunno really.” Hirad shrugged. “So are you old old or, y’know, young old?”

  “Me?” said Ilkar.

  “Well I can see how old Sirendor is.”

  “Got a lot of friends, have you?” asked Sirendor.

  “Not really,” admitted Hirad.

  “Who’d have thought it?”

  “In answer to your rather clumsy question, no I’m not old. Not for elves and not for humans either.” Hirad stared at him. “I’m thirty seven, all right?”

  “Just about old enough to be my father,” said Hirad.

  “That is a truly appalling thought.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Hirad grinned. “Not really. Thing is, won’t you get bored of being alive?”

  “What? No, of course not. Why, will you?”

  “I won’t live to be as old as you,” said Hirad. “Reckon by the time I’m sixty or so, that’ll be about enough. But you’ll go on to four or five hundred, won’t you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to know you had that long to go.”

  Ilkar stared at him for a moment. “You know that’s actually a really good question. From your point of view, I mean. I guess we just view time in a very different way. From my perspective, you humans hardly get going before you die. I’m amazed you aren’t depressed by the paucity of time you have.”

  “Who says we arent?” said Sirendor.

  Ahead of them, cavalry were assembling. Hirad took a quick glance about him. Behind them, the town of Gyernath went about its usual business untroubled by the conflict outside its borders.

  It was daft, really. They were fighting over a road that was impassable half the year anyway. Arlen owned it, Pontois wanted it whoever controlled it set the tariffs to and from the docks. Big money.

  Hirad knew he shouldn’t care but Arlen’s way had always seemed right and proper whereas Pontois was just a cock. That meant everyone who fought for him was a cock and those who opposed him had something about them, mercenary or not.

  “…anyway,” Sirendor was saying. “Our anonymous friend seems to have a plan.”

  “What is his plan? I mean for after today,” said Hirad.

  “Well, mercenary teams are all the fashion,” said Ilkar. “I hope that’s what he’s thinking.”

  “Oh really? Is that it?” Hirad curled his lip. “And why wouldn’t he tell us his name?”

  “So he can disappear if it doesn’t work out, I suppose,” said Sirendor.

  “Him? Six foot lots, shiny head and built like my father’s prize bull? He’ll be a spirit in the wind.”

  As if summoned by being discussed, the big man trotted over to join them.

  “All friends now, are we?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t want to kill them anymore, if that’s what you mean,” said Hirad.

  “It’ll do. Right, it’s all arranged. Section commanders are passing on Pontois’ likely attack, we’ve another reserve group on the right flank and we’ve strengthened the centre to make sure we hold firm. I need you all to follow my lead. Ilkar, that goes for you too.”

  “Er, all right,” said Ilkar.

  “You’ll have doubts but watch it unfold and if you trust my calls go with them.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. And you two?” He stared at Hirad after Sirendor had nodded. “Think you can curb your inclination for suicidal moves?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “All right, then, how about you agree to step back when I yell at you?”

  “I’ll give it a go.”

  “And duck when I tell you.”

  “That I can do.”

  “Good enough. Hirad, take centre; I’ll take left; Sirendor on the right. Ilkar, a Hard Shield to begin, please. I foresee projectiles.”

  They weren’t kept waiting long. Pontois’ forces were heading in at a run. Across Arlen’s lines, orders were barked and the energy of magical shields snapping into place warmed the air. Horsemen to their left, maybe twenty five of them, gathered in loose formation, their eyes on the approaching enemy cavalry cantering easily over open ground. Wan sunlight flashed against armour.

  Thirty yards distant, the sword lines split, first ranks heading on, second rank stopping.

  “Incoming!” called the big man.

  Arrows surged across the open space. Arlen’s archers returned fire. Shafts flared against shields, seeking weakness, seeking gaps. Volleys continued to fall. Hirad was yet to hear a cry of pain. It would have to be a loud one over the roars of the advancing militia and the taunts of Arlen’s defenders, mind you.

  The arrow barrage ended. The lines clashed. Enemy cavalry moved to the gallop, Arlen’s responding, moving to meet them. Hirad saw the pressure that was hitting their flank. He itched at his sword grip.

  “You’ll get your chance soon enough,” said the big man. “Ilkar, SpellShield.”

  “I hear you.”

  Knots of enemy mages were moving behind the enemy lines. While their brothers and sisters defended the militia, they had specific targets in mind. Hirad watched them come when the press of bodies in front of him allowed it.

  “Arrows on the incoming mages!” called the big man. “Get pressure on them.”

  Blood fountained into the air in front of Hirad. One of Arlen’s men fell back, his throat ripped apart. Another moved to fill the breach, straddling the dying mercenary. Hirad recognised both of them. Arrows fell on and around the advancing mage teams; shields flared.

  “We could take ’em,” said Hirad.

  “That’s why I’m calling it,” said the big man. “Wait on.”

  The opposing horsemen clashed on open ground about twenty yards from the skirmish line. The noise of fighting, already extreme, became deafening, drowning out the shouts of orders and the cries of the wounded and dying. The knots of mages stopped. They cast almost immediately.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered the big man.
“SpellShields. Now!”

  His call was taken up but not quickly enough. FlameOrbs seared across the sky, dropping on to the flanks of the fight. Pontois’ men were well-prepared and stepped back on command, their defending mages already with shields in place. Heat and flame poured from above. Orbs detonated on unprotected men, reducing them to ashes and steam. Vibrations rocked the ground.

  The enemy cavalry broke and wheeled to charge in. Pontois’ elite ran into the holes in the line.

  “Ilkar, hail or ice, your choice. Do it now. Hirad, Sirendor, stand by me.”

  There were enough of Arlen’s men to fill the breach but the shock of the attack was in too many faces and some were walking corpses to Hirad’s eyes. To his left, Arlen’s cavalry were galloping to intercept Pontois’. Some had broken away to scatter the mage groups. The big man moved forwards, tapping his blade on the smouldering ground. The stench of burning was everywhere, smoke irritated their eyes. The trio closed up quickly to the end of the new left flank.

  “Ready,” said Ilkar from behind them.

  “Perfect,” said the big man. “Ilkar, I trust you. Hirad, Sirendor… down.”

  Hirad dropped prone, almost at the feet of the burly warrior in front of him. He heard a cry of warning. Intense cold swept over his body, blown on a howling gale. He could hear flesh and cloth creaking as it froze and the half-called cries strangled in petrified throats. IceWind; most effective.

  “Up and in,” said the big man. “Ilkar, perhaps a ForceCone ready, I’ll leave it to you.”

  “About time.”

  Hirad came to his feet. Ilkar’s spell had been horribly effective. Blackened corpses were scattered across the ground in front of him. The edges of the wind had caught the enemy cavalry and their order was shattered. Three horses were down, two were staggering, mortally wounded by the freezing gale. Hirad could see a wounded man staring at where his right arm once was, screaming over and over. The limb itself lay black and ruined on the ground next to him.

  Hirad kept pace with the big man and Sirendor. The atmosphere of the battle had changed. Two blows had been struck, one by either side, and the momentum was back with the defenders. Hirad raised his blade. The three of them struck forwards in concert. Hirad’s blow was partially blocked but it left his enemy open. Hirad made a return blow and carved deep into the warrior’s neck. Next to him, Sirendor had confused his enemy and buried the point of his sword in the unfortunate’s chest. The big man hadn’t bothered with subtlety, taking his victim’s blade with his on the way to smashing his skull.