Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell

by Various Authors

  “‘You are too late,’ she said. ‘I seldom grant wishes and never in the winter.’

  “We pleaded with her but she did not care about the hardships we had suffered on our journey. Only when we spoke of our companion’s death, she roused herself to ask what had happened to the hare. We told her how it had run away and she said,

  “‘If it suffered any hurt, whisker, paw or tail, bad luck will follow you. Wait here while I find out what happened.’

  “She came out into the cold and wild creatures came to surround her, deer and ravens, goats and hares. She listened to their grunts and cries, she looked at us and she laughed. She said,

  “‘My sister’s hare lived where she might have died in the cold, because of you. Though you meant her harm, or your man did, a good deed deserves some reward, even when it is done in error. For the sake of the hare, I will hear why you have come, though I doubt I will do more.’”

  The woman smiled for the first time. “I did not think I had the eloquence to move her, so I told her my troubles as simply as I could and I showed her the gift I had brought her. And one or the other, or both together, changed her mind. She said,

  “‘You are not such a poor thing as you look. You chose your gift well: my love is for treasures with stores of craftsmanship and strength in them, not mere bullion or uncut gems. Not many understand that. And you are right. Too many women do not fathom the nature of their husbands until after they are married. I will teach you how to make a man show his true self the first time you meet him. ’”

  The woman looked again into the fire. She said, “The witch gave me a bag of dried leaves from a bush that grows only in her garden and told me how to brew it into a tea. When a man drinks this tea, if he is true in mind and heart, he will remain a man. If not, he will be transformed into the shape that suits him best.”

  The woman looked up but there were no men left in the room to meet her gaze. A badger, a deerhound and a fox turned their heads away in confusion and she laughed as she opened the door to shoo them out.

  The League of Resolve

  Stan Nicholls

  The god killer yanked his blade from a dying man’s chest and let him drop.

  Another fighter rushed in, shrieking a battle cry. He swung to face him. Their swords met with a jarring impact, rocking them both. They swapped blows, ducking and swerving in turn, seeking a breach in each other’s guard.

  He saw the opening first. His blade flashed out, striking deep and true. Belching blood, the man went down.

  There was no let up.

  He cracked the skull of a charging attacker, near severed the arm of a second, plunged his blade into the belly of a third. Next was an officer, judging by the imperial insignia on his bloodstained jerkin. The man was agile, but a fraction too slow to escape the thrust that found his heart.

  For a small, miraculous moment no opponent was in sword-range, and there was a kind of stillness in the mayhem. The god killer became aware of the throb from the wounds he had taken, and knew that the blood covering him hadn’t all been shed by his foes. Breathing hard, pouring sweat, he took in the scene.

  He had started out with sixty-four men. God killers. Now half of them were dead. Retreating to the brow of a hillock, the survivors were fighting desperately as countless enemy swarmed up on all sides.

  The battle proper boiled in the valley to their rear, a seething, hellish scrum. When his platoon had been cut off from the main body he led them to what he deemed the comparative safety of the valley’s mouth. That proved an illusion. The reality was a last stand.

  His fleeting reverie passed. He was conscious of clashing steel and agonised screams from all around.

  His men were coming together as they drew back from the onslaught. Hoarsely, he yelled for them to hold their ground. Clustered, surrounded, they hoped for no more than taking as many of the enemy with them as they could.

  The carnage continued, and grew more frantic. At its height several of his men called out his name and pointed skyward.

  A shadow fell across them.

  Then a flash, heat and flames. The ground itself was afire. Men were burning. The sickly aroma of charred flesh filled the air.

  Pain shot through the god killer, borne by the scorching heat.

  Darkness took him.

  * * *

  The makeshift encampment was large, and lit with a profusion of torches and lanterns. There were upward of a hundred canvas tents of various shapes and sizes, pitched as need required rather than in any kind of ordered fashion. At the perimeter, and throughout the camp, flags flew, bearing a triangle in a circle, green against a white background. They made clear the function of the place, and its neutrality.

  Wagons queued to enter, laden with casualties, military and civilian. Walking wounded were shepherded in columns, hobbling on improvised crutches or stumbling with eyes bandaged, their hands on the shoulders of the man in front. The military wounded wore the uniforms of both sides in the conflict.

  Grey-robed men and women received them, tending the injuries of the lesser hurt, dispatching the worst to particular tents for more rigorous care. The bustle was punctuated by moans, shouting and occasional screams.

  One healer, grey-garbed like the rest, moved through the camp with quiet purpose. He had seen perhaps thirty summers, was lean and sported a mop of ink black hair. Against prevalent custom, he was clean-shaven.

  He observed, advised and issued orders. Where necessary he lent a hand. He helped hold down a man while his leg was amputated, with only rough alcohol to assuage the agony. He stitched gashes and bound wounds. He tried to comfort the dying, closing their eyes when they succumbed.

  “Master Deras! Master Deras!”

  One of his aides ran towards him. He wasn’t much more than half his master’s age.

  “What is it, Ismey?”

  “Yoreth Dunisten!”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s here. Himself! The General’s here!”

  “As if we didn’t have enough to cope with. What does he want?”

  “To see whoever’s in charge.”

  “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t expect him to tell me, master.”

  Deras sighed. He was dog tired, and the way things were going he had no idea when he might find time for rest. “All right, lead on.”

  They weaved through the shambles and came to a tent close by the camp’s entrance. A pair of guards stood outside, their uniforms identifying them as Lycerians. Dismissing Ismey, Deras entered.

  Inside, the General waited alone. He was of advanced years, with whiskers turned white, but his bearing was ramrod straight and his gaze held steel.

  “You’re in charge here?” he barked.

  “I’m one of the overseers, yes.” He nodded at the tent’s flap. “And I’m not keen on armed men in the camp.”

  “There are those who’d see my death as an accolade. You’re treating a number of them right here.”

  “They have as much right to be here as your men. This is a neutral area, recognised by treaty. If you were afraid to come in maybe you should have stayed away.”

  Dunisten bristled. “Were you under my command I’d have you flogged for talking to me like that.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not then. What exactly do you want, General?”

  The man visibly bit back his anger. “I want my men looked after.”

  “The League of Resolve offers healing to all, whether you demand it or not. If you came here to remind us of our purpose you’ve wasted your time.”

  “You don’t understand. Some of our wounded have… special injuries.”

  “You’ll find we’re well versed when it comes to the many ways people try to destroy each other.”

  “But in this case –”

  “Do you have credentials as a healer, General? If not, I suggest you leave the doctoring to us.”

  “Are you sure you’re in charge?”

  “I could drag another of the overseers
from their duties, which probably involves ministering to one of your men, but they’d say the same.”

  “I’m sure they would, given the League’s known sympathies.”

  “To what? Peace? Mending the broken? Giving a dignified death to those we can’t put right? Are those the sympathies you have in mind?”

  The General took a breath. “Look, I appreciate that you’re not overly fond of the military. But I’ve fought a battle today, and its outcome’s still uncertain. I don’t want to round off the evening with more enmity.”

  “Neither do I. And I’ve a lot to do clearing up the human mess you and the empire have made. So unless there’s anything else, I need to get back to work.”

  Dunisten regarded the healer. “What’s your name?”

  “Deras Minshal.”

  The General looked startled. “Minshal?”

  “What of it?”

  “And you’re a Lycerian?”

  “As it happens, I am.”

  “I thought there was a likeness.”

  “To what? Who?”

  “Fate has played a nice little trick on us this night, Deras Minshal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  One of the guards poked his head into the tent. “They’re coming in now, sir.”

  General Dunisten swept past Deras and went outside. Deras followed.

  A fresh set of wagons were arriving, carrying Lycerian wounded. The General signalled the convoy to halt. He and Deras approached the nearest wagon. It held half a dozen motionless figures, but there wasn’t enough light to make out much more. The General snapped an order and someone brought a torch.

  The men in the wagon were badly burnt, to the extent that their flesh had blackened. Most of their clothes had been incinerated and they lay in tatters.

  A couple of them writhed. One was groaning.

  “These men need immediate attention,” Deras said.

  The General nodded and waved on the wagons. “Well, what do you think, Minshal?”

  “We’ve dealt with burns before.”

  “Like these? Of such intensity? And from an area where no fire was used as a weapon?”

  “How injuries are caused isn’t our concern. We’re only interested in repairing the damage.”

  “Those men are from a crack squad, what’s left of it. They’re a valuable asset. But there’s one in particular I want saved. The best of them; their captain.”

  “None get preferential treatment.”

  “You might think differently when you see who I’ve got in mind.”

  “Who? You’ve done nothing but talk in riddles. Make yourself plain.”

  That was ignored. “He was brought in earlier. The ones with burns, where would they be taken?”

  “We have a special unit where –”

  “Take me there.”

  “As I said, I’m busy. I’ll get somebody to guide you.”

  “I want you. Humour me,” he added coldly.

  “I’ll not let armed men wander through the camp.” He gestured at the guards.

  “They stay armed. But in deference to your rules we’ll conceal our weapons.”

  “That doesn’t make you any less armed, General.”

  “The sooner you stop arguing, the sooner you can return to your duties. So shall we get on with it?”

  “This is an infringement of the treaty.”

  “Which at base is unenforceable and you know it.”

  “I’ll be taking it up with the Council.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Deras hesitated for a moment, then said, “Come on.”

  They began to walk, flanked by the General’s watchful bodyguards.

  There was a lot of activity in the large tent the burns victims occupied. The General looked around, obviously having difficult identifying discoloured, battered faces. At last he exclaimed and pointed.

  The cot he indicated held someone who superficially looked like all the others. He was attended by a woman of an age with Deras. Typically for a Casimarian, her skin was pale and her hair straw blonde. Her eyes were summer sky blue.

  “Velda”, Deras greeted.

  She glanced up, smiled thinly. “Deras.”

  “How is he?” the General asked.

  “Not good.” She gently touched her patient’s cheek with a soft, balm-soaked cloth.

  Deras was staring at the injured man. He was barely conscious, and he was delirious, his cracked lips working soundlessly.

  The blackened, ill-used face mesmerised Deras.

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” the General said.

  Deras nodded slowly.

  The man was his brother.

  * * *

  In the days that followed there was no end to the torrent of casualties coming in. A week later the battle petered out. Both sides claimed victory and withdrew to lick their wounds and fight anew. The flow of casualties thinned to a trickle and dried up.

  The war moved on, but many of the wounded were too stricken to leave. As ever, the League remained, releasing its charges when they healed, consigning them to the funeral pyres when they didn’t.

  Deras saw to it that he had as little to do with his brother Goran as possible. He discouraged questions as to why. But Velda kept him posted, and reported a strengthening recovery. In that respect Goran was luckier than a number of his comrades. There would soon come a point when he was fully cognisant and able to speak.

  Deras’ reluctance to engage with his brother puzzled many, and particularly his aide, young Ismey Cleam, whose curiosity needed constant feeding at the best of times.

  Nearly a month after the battle ended the League’s encampment was starting to empty. Only the more serious cases, like Goran Minshal, were still being treated. And Velda Piran was the healer who most consistently cared for him.

  One night, as Velda came off a long, tiring watch, Ismey took a seat by her in the healers’ refectory.

  “How’s your charge?” he asked.

  She put down her cup. “Which one?”

  “Master Deras’ brother.”

  Velda smiled. “Goran’s making a remarkable recovery.”

  “Funny how some pull through and others don’t, even when they’ve got less grievous wounds.”

  “It’s to do with the individual’s will. Some have a real passion to live. Goran has that.”

  Ismey steeled himself to ask about what he really wanted to know. “Why is Master Deras avoiding him? He practically chewed my head off when I asked.”

  “It is a sore point with Deras.”

  “You’d think, with it being his own brother and all, he’d want to spend time with him, catch up, whatever.”

  “Ismey, you’re young.” She grinned. “Don’t look offended; I don’t mean anything by it. But I’m wondering what you know about Lyceria.”

  “I know what people say about the Lycerians. Not that I’ve seen anything wrong with the few I’ve met in the League. And I know they don’t really have a homeland.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  “It was all a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re a citizen of the empire. Didn’t they teach you about what happened?”

  “Not a lot about that period, just that we should hate them. Maybe it would have come up later, if I’d stuck around to finish my schooling. But I wanted to be a healer, and came to the League.”

  “What did your parents think about that?”

  “I’m an orphan.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “Believe me, even the League’s seminary was better than an Eagamar orphanage. And the seminary was all about healing, not history.”

  “It was a bit different for us, probably because Casimar’s a near neighbour of what was Lyceria. My people had a front row seat, you might say.”

  “So what happened?”

  Velda took another sip of water. “Lyceria, under the old king, Eynoss Silverstone, got into a dispute with its neighbour Che
ssolm. I’m not sure anyone can remember why. Anyway, Chessolm was a city state, and Lyceria laid siege to it. That was a dangerous move, because the empire was obliged by treaty to protect Chessolm. The pact existed due to Ranald Amentinus being based there.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Yes, you must have. A holy man whom many, inside the empire and out, considered a messiah. Some thought him an actual deity.”

  “Was he?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? There were stories of miracles and so on. But, as you said, it was a long time ago. The point is a lot of people believed in him.”

  “And the empire honoured the treaty?”

  “Yes, but Eagamar was slow in mustering its forces. Chessolm’s wheat fields went unattended outside its walls, and after several weeks of the Lycerians’ siege starvation was rife. At which point Amentinus died. Whether from hunger, disease or, as some said, a besieger’s arrow, no one knew.”

  “I can imagine how the empire answered that.”

  “You can’t, Ismey. It was more savage than any battle I hope we’ll ever see. The empire’s army drove off the Lycerians with great brutality, killing many in the process. When Amentinus’ death came to light the Lycerians were branded as outlaws, with all other states forbidden to harbour them. Lyceria itself was forfeited to the empire and the citizens remaining within its borders, however old, young or infirm, were slaughtered. What was left of the nation was scattered. Lycerian became a byword for outcast and criminal.

  “To this day they’re commonly called god killers.”

  “And that’s when the war started.”

  “Wars, more accurately. A never-ending, bloody tussle between Eagamar and Lyceria’s descendants.”

  “What does this have to do with Deras and Goran?”

  “The thousands of Lycerians who survived the cull parted not just physically but in terms of ideas. Some accepted their lot and settled in other lands. Some took to the sword in a crusade to win back their home. A few chose the path of harmony and tried to make a difference to the world.”

  “My master and his brother were on different sides.”

  “Exactly. The fighter and the peacemaker, at odds since they were youngsters. Then some quarrel split them, and they haven’t seen each other in years.”