Legend by David Gemmell

31

Wave after wave of screaming tribesmen scaled ropes and ladders throughout the morning, finding that only cold, terrible death awaited them under the slashing swords and tulwars of the defenders. Men fell screaming to the rocks below the walls or died trampled beneath the feet of battling men on the ramparts. Side by side, Sathuli and Drenai brought death to the Nadir.

Rek cut and slashed two-handed, the sword of Egel cleaving the ranks of the Nadir like a scythe through wheat. Beside him Joachim fought with two short swords, whirling and killing.

Below, Orrin’s men were being pushed slowly back into the wider section of the tunnel, though the Nadir paid dearly for every inch of ground.

Blocking a thrusting lance, Orrin backhanded a slashing cut to a warrior’s face. The man disappeared in the milling mass, and another attacker took his place.

“We can’t hold!” yelled a young officer to Orrin’s right.

Orrin had no time to answer.

Suddenly the leading Nadir warrior screamed in horror, pushing back into his comrades. Others followed his gaze, looking back beyond the Drenai at the tunnel mouth.

A gap opened between the Drenai and the Nadir and widened as the tribesmen turned and fled down into the open grounds between Valteri and Geddon.

“Great gods of Missael!” said the officer. “What’s going on?” Orrin turned and saw what had filled the Nadir with terror.

Behind them in the darkened tunnel stood Druss the Legend, Serbitar, and the Thirty. With them were many departed warriors. Druss’s axe was in his hand, and the joy of battle was in his eyes. Orrin swallowed, then licked his lips. He replaced his sword in its scabbard at the third attempt.

“I think we will leave them to hold the tunnel,” he said. The remaining men bunched behind him as he walked toward Druss.

The ghostly defenders appeared not to notice them, their eyes fixed on the tunnel beyond. Orrin tried to speak to Druss, but the old man just stared ahead. When Orrin reached out a shaking hand and tried to touch the axman, his hand met nothing, only cold, cold air.

“Let us get back to the wall,” he said. He closed his eyes and walked blindly through the ranks of the spirits. By the time he reached the tunnel mouth, he was shivering. The other men with him said nothing.

No one looked back.

He joined Rek on the wall, and the battle continued. Moments later, during a brief lull, Rek shouted: “What’s happening in the tunnel?”

“Druss is there,” replied Orrin. Rek merely nodded and turned again as fresh Nadir warriors breasted the ramparts.

Bowman, bearing a short sword and buckler, fought beside Hogun. Though not as skilled with the blade as with the bow, he was no mean warrior.

Hogun blocked an axe blow, and his sword snapped. The axe head crushed his shoulder, burying itself in his chest. He hammered the broken sword into the belly of the axman and fell with him to the ground.

A lance licked out, spearing the legion general’s back as he struggled to rise. Bowman’s short sword disembowelled the lancer, but more Nadir pressed forward and Hogun’s body was lost in the melee.

By the gate tower Joachim Sathuli fell, his side pierced by a thrown spear. Rek half carried him beyond the ramparts but had to leave him, for the Nadir had almost broken through. Joachim gripped the spear with both hands, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and examined the wound. The point had passed through just above the right hip and broken the skin of his back. The head, he knew, was barbed, and there would be no drawing it out. He gripped the spear more firmly, rolled to his side, then pushed it farther into the wound until the whole of the spear head cleared his back. He passed out for several minutes, but the gentle touch of a hand roused him. A Sathuli warrior named Andisim was beside him.

“Remove the head of the spear,” Joachim hissed. “Quickly!”

Wordlessly the man took his dagger and as gently as possible levered the spear head from the shaft. At last it was done. “Now,” whispered Joachim, “pull the shaft clear.” Standing above him, the man slowly withdrew the spear as Joachim grunted against the agony. Blood gushed out, but Joachim ripped his robe and plugged the wound, allowing Andisim to do the same for the hole in his back.

“Get me to my feet,” he ordered, “and fetch me a tulwar.”

Beyond the walls of Eldibar, within his tent, Ulric watched the sands fall in the huge glass. Beside him was the scroll he had received that morning from the north.

His nephew Jahingir had declared himself khan—overlord of the north. He had slain Ulric’s brother, Tsubodi, and taken Ulric’s mistress, Hasita, as a hostage.

Ulric could not blame him and felt no anger. His family was born to lead, and blood ran true among them.

But he could not dally here and so had set the glass. If the wall had not fallen by the time the sand ran out, he would lead his army north again, win back his kingdom, and return to take Dros Delnoch on another day.

He had received the message about Druss holding the tunnel and had shrugged. Alone once more, he had smiled.

So, not even paradise can keep you from the battle, old man!

Outside his tent stood three men bearing rams’ horns, waiting for his signal. And the sands flowed on.

On the wall of Geddon the Nadir broke through to the right. Rek screamed for Orrin to follow him and cut a path along the ramparts. To the left more Nadir gained the ramparts, and the Drenai fell back, leaping to the grass and reforming. The Nadir swarmed forward.

The day was lost.

Sathuli and Drenai waited, swords ready, as the Nadir massed before them. Bowman and Orrin stood beside Rek, and Joachim Sathuli limped toward them.

“I’m glad we are offering you only one day,” grunted Joachim, clutching the bloody bandage wedged into his side.

The Nadir spread out before them and charged.

Rek leaned on his sword blade, breathing deeply and saving what was left of his strength. There was no longer the energy inside him to promote a baresark rage, or the will.

All his life he had feared this moment, and now that it was upon him, it was as meaningless as dust upon the ocean. Wearily he focused his gaze on the charging warriors.

“I say, old horse,” muttered Bowman, “do you think it’s too late to surrender?”

Rek grinned. “Just a little,” he said. His hands curled around the sword hilt, he twisted his wrist, and the blade hissed into the air.

The front ranks of the Nadir were less than twenty paces from them when the sound of distant rams’ horns echoed up from the valley.

The charge slowed …

And stopped. Less than ten paces apart, both sides stood listening to the insistent wailing.

Ogasi cursed and spit, sheathing his sword. He stared sullenly into the astonished eyes of the Earl of Bronze. Rek removed his helm and plunged his sword into the ground before him as Ogasi stepped forward.

“It is over!” he said. He lifted his arm, waving the Nadir back to the walls. Then he turned. “Know this, you round-eyed bastard. It was I, Ogasi, who slew your wife.”

It took a few seconds for the words to register, then Rek took a deep breath and removed his gauntlets.

“Do you think it matters amid all this,” said Rek, “to know who fired one arrow? You want me to remember you? I shall. You want me to hate you? I cannot. Maybe tomorrow. Or next year. Maybe never.”

For a moment Ogasi stood silent, then he shrugged.

“The arrow was meant for you,” he said, weariness settling on him like a dark cloak. Turning on his heel, he followed the departing warriors. Silently they climbed down the ladders and ropes; none took the path through the gate tunnel.

Rek unbuckled his breastplate and walked slowly to the tunnel mouth. Coming toward him were Druss and the Thirty. Rek lifted a hand in greeting, but a wind blew and the warriors vanished into mist and were gone.

“Good-bye, Druss,” he said softly.

Later that evening Rek bade farewell to the Sathuli and slept for several hours, hoping for another meeting with Virae. He awoke refreshed but disappointed.

Arshin brought him food, and he ate with Bowman and Orrin. They said little. Calvar Syn and his orderlies had found Hogun’s body, and the surgeon was labouring to save the hundreds of wounded men now being carried to the Geddon hospital.

Rek made his way to his room around midnight and removed his armour; then he remembered Serbitar’s gift. He was too tired to care, but sleep would not come, so he rose and dressed, took a torch from a wall bracket, and made his way slowly down into the bowels of the keep. The door to Egel’s room was closed once more, but it opened to him as before.

The lights blazed within as Rek placed his torch against the wall and stepped inside. His breath caught in his throat as he gazed on the crystal block. Within it lay Virae! Upon her body was no mark, no arrow wound; she lay naked and peaceful, seemingly asleep, floating within the transparent crystal. He walked to the block, reached inside, and touched her. She did not stir, and her body was cold. Stooping, he lifted her clear and placed her on a nearby table. Then he removed his cloak, wrapped it around her, and lifted her again. Gathering up the torch, he made his slow way back to his room above the keep hall.

He summoned Arshin, and the old retainer blanched as he saw the still form of the earl’s wife. He looked at Rek, then gazed at the floor.

“I am sorry, my lord. I do not know why the white-haired one placed her body in the magic crystal.”

“What happened?” asked Rek.

“The prince Serbitar and his friend the abbot came to see me on the day she died. The abbot had had a dream, he said. He would not explain it to me, but he said it was vital that my lady’s body be placed within the crystal. He said something about the Source … I didn’t understand it. I still don’t, my lord. Is she alive or dead? And how did you find her? We laid her upon this crystal block, and she gently sank into it. Yet when I touched it, it was solid. I understand nothing anymore.” Tears welled in the old man’s eyes, and Rek moved to him, placing a hand on his bony shoulder.

“It is all hard to explain. Fetch Calvar Syn. I will wait here with Virae.”

A dream of Vintar’s—what could it mean? The albino had said that there were many tomorrows and that no one could ever tell which would come to pass. But he had obviously seen one in which Virae lived and had ordered her body to be preserved. And somehow the wound had been healed inside the crystal. But did that mean she would live?

Virae alive!

His mind reeled. He could neither think nor feel, and his body seemed numb. Her death had all but destroyed him, yet now, with her here once more, he was afraid to hope. If life had taught him anything, it had shown him that every man had a breaking point. He knew he was now facing his. He sat by the bed and lifted her cold hand, his own hand shaking with tension, and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Crossing the room, he fetched another blanket and covered her, then went to work building a fire in the hearth.

It was nearly an hour before he heard Calvar Syn on the stairs outside. The man was cursing Arshin loudly. Wearing a stained blue tunic and a blood-covered leather apron, the surgeon stepped into the room.

“What fool nonsense is this, Earl?” he thundered. “I have men who are dying for want of my skills. What …” He stammered to silence as he saw the girl in the bed. “So, the old man was not lying. Why, Rek? Why have you brought her body back?”

“I don’t know. Truly. Serbitar came to me in a dream and told me he had left a gift for me. This is what I found. I don’t know what’s happening. Is she dead?”

“Of course she’s dead. The arrow pierced her lung.”

“Look at her, will you. There’s no wound.”

The surgeon pulled back the sheet and lifted her wrist. For several moments he stood in silence. “There is a pulse,” he whispered, “but it is faint and very, very slow. I cannot wait with you. There are men dying. But I will return in the morning. Keep her warm; that’s all you can do.”

Rek sat beside the bed, holding her hand. Sometime, though he knew not when, he fell asleep beside her. The dawn broke bright and clear, and the rising sun’s light entered the eastern window, bathing the bed in golden light. At its touch, Virae’s cheeks gained colour and her breathing deepened. A soft moan came from her lips, and Rek was instantly awake.

“Virae? Virae, can you hear me?”

Her eyes opened, then closed again, her lashes fluttering.

“Virae!” Once more her eyes opened, and she smiled.

“Serbitar brought me back,” she said. “So tired … Must sleep.” She turned over, hugged the pillow, and fell asleep just as the door opened and Bowman stepped inside.

“Gods, it’s true, then,” he said.

Rek ushered him from the room into the corridor.

“Yes. Somehow Serbitar saved her. I cannot explain it. I don’t even care how it happened. What is going on outside?”

“They’ve gone! All of them—every damned one of them, old horse. The camp is deserted; Orrin and I have been there. All that’s left is a Wolfshead standard and the body of that burgher Bricklyn. Can you make any sense out of it?”

“No,” said Rek. “That standard means that Ulric will return. The body? I can’t say. I sent him to them. He was a traitor, and obviously they had no more use for him.”

A young officer came running up the spiral stairs.

“My lord! There is a Nadir rider waiting at Eldibar.”

Rek and Bowman walked together to Wall One. Below them on a grey steppe pony sat Ulric, Lord of the Nadir, dressed in fur-rimmed helmet, woollen jerkin, and goatskin boots. He looked up as Rek leaned over the ramparts.

“You fought well, Earl of Bronze,” he shouted. “I came to bid you farewell. There is civil war in my own kingdom, and I must leave you for a while. I wanted you to know that I shall return.”

“I will be here,” said Rek. “And next time your reception will be even warmer. Tell me, why did your men retire when we were beaten?”

“Do you believe in fate?” asked Ulric.

“I do.”

“Then let us call it a trick of fate. Or perhaps it was a cosmic jest, a joke played by the gods. I care not. You are a brave man. Your men are brave men. And you have won. I can live with that, Earl of Bronze. A poor man would I be if I could not. But for now, farewell! I shall see you again in the spring.”

Ulric waved, turned his pony’s head, and galloped off into the north.

“Do you know,” said Bowman, “although it may sound grotesque, I think I like the man.”

“Today I could like anybody,” said Rek, smiling. “The sky is clear, the wind is fresh, and life tastes very fine. What will you do now?”

“I think I will become a monk and devote my entire life to prayer and good works.”

“No,” said Rek. “I mean, what will you do today?”

“Ah! Today I’ll get drunk and go whoring,” said Bowman.

Throughout the long day Rek periodically visited the sleeping Virae. Her colour was good, her breathing deep and even. Late in the evening, as he sat alone in the small hall before a dying fire, she came to him, dressed in a light green woollen tunic. He stood and took her into his arms, kissed her, then sat down in the leather chair and pulled her to his lap.

“The Nadir have really gone?” she asked.

“They have indeed.”

“Rek, did I truly die? It seems like a dream now. Hazy. I seem to remember Serbitar bringing me back and my body lay in a glass block beneath the keep.”

“It was not a dream,” said Rek. “Do you remember coming to me as I fought the giant worm and a huge spider?”

“Vaguely. But it’s fading even as I remember it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I will tell you everything during the next fifty years or so.”

“Only fifty years?” she said. “So you will desert me when I’m old and grey?”

The sound of laughter echoed through the keep.

Epilogue

Ulric never returned to Dros Delnoch. He defeated Jahingir in a pitched battle at Gulgothir Plain and then took his army to invade Ventria. During the campaign he collapsed and died. The tribes fled back to the north, and without his influence Nadir unity was broken. Civil war came once more to the north, and the people of the rich southlands breathed again.

Rek was welcomed as a hero in Drenan but soon tired of the city life and returned with Virae to Delnoch. Their family grew over the years, with three sons and two daughters. The sons were Hogun, Orrin, and Horeb. The daughters were Susay and Besa. Grandfather Horeb brought his family from Drenan to Delnoch, taking over the inn of the traitor Musar.

Orrin returned to Drenan and resigned from the army. His uncle Abalayn retired from public life, and Magnus Woundweaver was elected to lead the council. He chose Orrin as his deputy.

Bowman remained at Delnoch for a year, then travelled to Ventria to fight the Nadir once more. He did not return.

I hope you enjoyed this book.

It was great reading it again.

Remember there are many books that you can read now in The Polaris Library.

There will be many more added in the future.

All the best

~Marcus