Gemmell, David - Drenai 01 - Legend

by Legend [lit]

  'I know, they've been circulating for years. But this Ulric is a canny one. He's conquered most of the tribes now and I think he's almost ready.'

  'But Abalayn has just signed a treaty with him,' said Rek. 'Mutual peace in return for trade concessions and finance for his building programme.'

  'That's what I mean, lad. I'll say nothing against Abalayn, he's ruled the Drenai for twenty years. But you don't stop a wolf by feeding it - believe me! Anyway, what I'm saying is that men like yourselves will be needed before long, so don't get rusty.'

  The last thing the Drenai needed now was a man who was afraid of the dark. What they needed was another Karnak the One-eyed - a score of them. An Earl of Bronze. A hundred like Druss the Legend. And even if, by some miracle, this were to happen, would even these stem the tide of half a million tribesmen?

  Who could even picture such a number?

  They would wash over Dros Delnoch like an angry sea, Rek knew.

  If I thought there was a chance, I still wouldn't go. Face it, he thought. Even if victory was certain, still he would avoid the battle.

  Who will care in a hundred years whether the Drenai survived? It would be like Skeln pass, shrouded in legend and glorified beyond truth.

  War!

  Flies settling like a black stain over a man's entrails as he weeps with the pain and holds his body together with crimson fingers, hoping for a miracle. Hunger, cold, fear, disease, gangrene, death!

  War for soldiers.

  The day he left Dros Corteswain he was approach­ed by one of the Culs, who nervously offered him a tight-wrapped bundle.

  'From the troop, sir,' he said.

  He had opened it, embarrassed and empty of words, to see a blue cloak with an eagle clasp in crafted bronze.

  'I don't know how to thank you all.'

  'The men want me to say . . . well, we're sorry you're leaving. That's all, sir.'

  'I'm sorry too, Korvac. Family business, you know?'

  The man had nodded, probably wishing he had family business which would allow him to depart the Dros. But Culs had no commission to resign - only the Dun class could leave a fortress during a war.

  'Well, good luck, sir. See you soon, I hope . . . we all hope.'

  'Yes! Soon.'

  That was two years ago. Gan Javi had died from a stroke and several of Rek's brother officers had been killed in the Sathuli battles. No message reached him of individual Culs.

  The days passed - cold, gloomy, but mercifully without incident until the morning of the fifth day when, on a high trail skirting a grove of elm, he heard the one sound he disliked above all others - the clash of steel on steel. He should have ridden on, he knew he should. But for some reason his curiosity fractionally outweighed his fear. He hobbled the horse, swung the quiver to his back and strung the horn bow. Then carefully he worked his way through the trees and down into the snow-covered glen. Moving stealthily, with catlike care, he came to a clearing. Sounds of battle echoed in the glade.

  A young woman, in armour of silver and bronze, stood with her back to a tree, desperately fending off a combined assault from three outlaws, burly men and bearded, armed with swords and daggers. The woman held a slender blade, a flickering, danc­ing rapier that cut and thrust with devastating speed.

  The three, clumsy swordsmen at best, were hampering each other. But the girl was tiring fast.

  These were Reinard's men, Rek knew, cursing his own curiosity. One of them cried out as the rapier lanced across his forearm.

  'Take that, you dung beetle,' shouted the girl.

  Rek smiled. No beauty, but she could fence.

  He notched an arrow to his bow and waited for the right moment to let fly. The girl ducked under a vicious cut and flashed her blade through the eye of the swordsman. As he screamed and fell the other two fell back, more wary now; they moved apart, ready to attack from both flanks. The girl had been dreading this moment, for there was no defence but flight. Her gaze flickered from man to man. Take the tall one first, forget about the other and hope his first thrust is not mortal. Maybe she could take them both with her.

  The tall one moved to the left while his comrade crossed to the right. At this moment Rek loosed a shaft at the tall outlaw's back, which lanced through his left calf. Swiftly he notched a second arrow, as the bewildered man spun round, saw Rek and hobbled towards him, screaming hatred.

  Rek drew back the string until it touched his cheek, locked his left arm and loosed the shaft.

  This time the aim was slightly better. He had been aiming for the chest - the largest target - but the arrow was high and now the outlaw lay on his back, the black shaft jutting from his forehead and blood bubbling to the snow.

  'You took your time getting involved,' said the girl coolly, stepping across the body of the third outlaw and wiping her slender blade on his shirt.

  Rek tore his eyes from the face of the man he had killed.

  'I just saved your life,' he said, checking an angry retort.

  She was tall and well-built - almost mannish, Rek thought; her hair long and mousy blonde, unkempt. Her eyes were blue and deep-set beneath thick dark brows which indicated an uncertain temper. Her figure was disguised by the silver steel mailshirt and bronze shoulder pads; her legs encased in shapeless green woollen troos laced to the thigh with leather straps.

  'Well, what are you staring at?' she demanded. 'Never seen a woman before?'

  'Well, that answers the first question,' he said.

  'What does that mean?'

  'You're a woman.'

  'Oh, very dry!' She retrieved a sheepskin jerkin from beneath the tree, dusting off the snow and slipping it on. It did nothing to enhance her appear­ance, thought Rek.

  'They attacked me,' she said. 'Killed my horse, the bastards! Where's your horse?'

  'Your gratitude overwhelms me,' said Rek, an edge of anger in his voice. "Those are Reinard's men.'

  'Really? Friend of yours, is he?'

  'Not exactly. But if he knew what I had done he would roast my eyes on a fire and serve them to me as an appetiser.'

  'All right, I appreciate your point. I'm extremely grateful. Now, where's your horse?'

  Rek ignored her, gritting his teeth against his anger. He walked to the dead outlaw and dragged his arrows clear, wiping them on the man's jerkin. Then he methodically searched the pockets of all three. Seven silver coins and several gold rings the richer, he then returned to the girl.

  'My horse has one saddle. I ride it,' he said, icily. 'I've done about all I want to do for you. You're on your own now.'

  'Damned chivalrous of you,' she said.

  'Chivalry isn't my strong point,' he said, turning away.

  'Neither is marksmanship,' she retorted.

  'What?'

  'You were aiming for his back from twenty paces and you hit his leg. It's because you closed one eye - ruined your perspective.'

  "Thanks for the archery instruction. Good luck!'

  'Wait!' she said. He turned. 'I need your horse.'

  'So do I.'

  'I will pay you.'

  'He's not for sale.'

  'All right. Then I will pay you to take me to where I can buy a horse.'

  'How much?' he asked.

  'One golden Raq.'

  'Five,' he said.

  'I could buy three horses for that,' she stormed.

  'It's a seller's market,' he retorted.

  Two - and that's final.'

  'Three.'

  'All right, three. Now, where's your horse?'

  'First the money, my lady.' He held out a hand. Her blue eyes were frosty as she removed the coins from a leather pouch and placed them in his palm. 'My name is Regnak - Rek to my friends,' he said.

  "That's of no interest to me,' she assured him.

  3

  They rode in a silence as frosty as the weather, the tall girl behind Rek in the saddle. He resisted the urge to spur the horse on at speed, despite the fear gnawing at his belly. It would be unfair to say he
was sorry he had rescued her - after all, it had done wonders for his self-esteem. His fear was of meeting Reinard now. This girl would never sit silent while he flattered and lied. And even if, by some stroke of good fortune, she did keep her mouth shut, she would certainly report him for giving information on caravan movements.

  The horse stumbled on a hidden root and the girl pitched sideways. Rek's hand lanced out, catching her arm and hauling her back in the saddle.

  'Put your arms around my waist, will you?' he said.

  'How much will it cost me?'

  'Just do it. It's too cold to argue.'

  Her arms slid round him, her head resting against his back.

  Thick, dark clouds bunched above them and the temperature began to drop.

  'We ought to make an early camp,' he stated. 'The weather's closing in.'

  'I agree,' she said.

  Snow began to fall and the wind picked up. Rek dipped his head against the force of the storm, blink­ing against the cold flakes that blew into his eyes.

  He steered the gelding away from the trail and into the shelter of the trees, gripping the pommel of his saddle as the horse climbed a steep incline.

  An open camp-site would be folly, he knew, in this freak storm. They needed a cave, or at least the lee of a rock face. For over an hour they moved on until at last they entered a clearing, circled by oak and gorse. Within it was a crofter's hut of log walls and earthen roof. Rek glanced at the stone chimney: no smoke.

  He heeled the tired gelding forward. At the side of the hut was a three-sided lean-to, with a wicker roof bent by the weight of the snow upon it. He steered the horse inside.

  'Dismount,' he told the girl, but her hands did not move from his waist. He glanced down. The hands were blue and he rubbed at them furiously. 'Wake up!' he shouted. 'Wake up, damn you!' Pulling her hands free, he slid from the saddle and caught her as she fell. Her lips were blue, her hair thick with ice. Lifting her over one shoulder he removed the packs from the gelding, loosened the girth and carried the girl to the hut. The wooden door was open, snow drifting into the cold interior as he stepped inside.

  The hut was one-roomed: he saw a cot in the corner beneath the only window, a hearth, some simple cupboards and a wood store - enough for two, maybe three nights - stacked against the far wall. There were three crudely made chairs and a bench table roughly cut from an elm trunk. Rek tipped the unconscious girl on to the cot, found a stick broom under the table and swept the snow from the room. He pushed the door shut, but a rotten leather hinge gave way and it tilted open again at the top. Cursing, he pulled the table to the doorway and heaved it against the frame.

  Tearing open his pack, Rek pulled his tinder-box free and moved to the hearth. Whoever had owned or built the holding had left a fire ready laid, as was the custom in the wild. Rek opened his small tinder-pouch, making a mound of shredded dry leaves beneath the twigs in the grate. Over this he poured a little lantern oil from a leather flask and then struck his flint. His cold fingers were clumsy and the sparks would not take, so he stopped for a moment, forcing himself to take slow deep breaths. Then again he struck the flint and this time a small flame flickered in the tinder and caught. He leaned forward, gently blowing it, then as the twigs flared he turned to sort smaller branches from the store, placing them gently atop the tiny fire. Flames danced higher.

  He carried two chairs to the hearth, placed his blankets over them before the blaze and returned to the girl. She lay on the crude cot, scarcely breathing.

  'It's the bloody armour,' he said. He fumbled with the straps of her jerkin, turning her over to pull it loose. Swiftly he stripped off her clothing and set to work rubbing warmth into her. He glanced at the fire, placed three more logs to feed the blaze and then spread the blankets on the floor before it. Lift­ing the girl from the cot, he laid her before the hearth, turning her over to rub her back.

  'Don't you die on me!' he stormed, pummelling the flesh of her legs. 'Don't you damn well dare!' He wiped her hair with a towel and wrapped her in the blankets. The floor was cold, frost seeped up from beneath the hut, so he pulled the cot to the hearth, then strained to lift her on to the bed. Her pulse was slow, but steady.

  He gazed down at her face. It was beautiful. Not in any classic sense, he knew, for the brows were too thick and thunderous, the chin too square and the lips too full. Yet there was strength there, and courage and determination. But more than this: in sleep a gentle, childlike quality found expression.

  He kissed her gently.

  Buttoning his sheepskin jacket, he pulled the table aside and stepped out into the storm. The gelding snorted as he approached. There was straw in the lean-to; taking a handful he rubbed the horse's back.

  'Going to be a cold night, boy. But you should be all right in here.' He spread the saddle blanket over the gelding's broad back, fed him some oats and returned to the hut.

  The girl's colour was better now, and she slept peacefully.

  Searching the cupboards, Rek found an old iron pan. Unclipping the canvas and steel canteen from his pack, he took out a pound of dried beef and set about making soup. He was warmer now, and removed his cloak and jacket. Outside the wind beat against the walls as the storm's fury grew, but inside the fire blazed warmth and a soft red light filled the cabin. Rek pulled off his boots and rubbed his toes. He felt good. Alive.

  And damned hungry!

  He took a leather-covered clay mug from his pack and tried the soup. The girl stirred and he toyed with the idea of waking her, but dismissed it. As she was, she was lovely. Awake, she was a harridan. She rolled over and moaned, a long leg pushing from the blanket. Rek grinned as he remembered her body. Not at all mannish! She was just big - but wonder­fully proportioned. He stared at her leg, the smile fading. He pictured himself naked alongside her . . .

  'No, no, Rek,' he said aloud. 'Forget it.'

  He covered her with the blanket and returned to his soup. Be prepared, he told himself. When she wakes she will accuse you of taking advantage of her and cut your eyes out.

  Taking his cloak, he wrapped it around himself and stretched out beside the fire. The floor was warmer now. Adding some logs to the blaze, he pillowed his head on his arm and watched the dan­cers in the flames circle and jump, twist and turn . . .

  He slept.

  *

  He awoke to the smell of frying bacon. The hut was warm and his arm felt swollen and cramped. He stretched, groaned and sat up. The girl was nowhere in sight. Then the door opened and she stepped inside, brushing snow from her jerkin.

  'I've seen to your horse,' she said. 'Are you fit to eat?'

  'Yes. What time is it?'

  'Sun's been up for about three hours. The snow's letting up.'

  He pushed his aching body upright, stretching the tight muscles of his back. 'Too much time in Drenan in soft beds,' he commented.

  'That probably accounts for the paunch,' she noted.

  'Paunch? I've a curved spine. Anyway, it's relaxed muscle.' He looked down. 'All right, it's a paunch. A few more days of this and it will go.'

  'I don't doubt it,' she said. 'Anyway, we were lucky to find this place.'

  'Yes, we were.' The conversation died as she turned the bacon. Rek was uncomfortable in the silence and they began to speak at the same time.

  'This is ridiculous,' she said finally.

  'Yes,' he agreed. 'Bacon smells good.'

  'Look . . . I want to thank you. There - it's said.'

  'It was a pleasure. What about starting again, as if we had never met? My name is Rek.' He held out a hand.

  'Virae,' she said, grasping his wrist in the warrior's grip.

  'My pleasure,' he said. 'And what brings you to Graven Forest, Virae?'

  'None of your damned business,' she snapped.

  'I thought we were starting afresh?' he said.

  'I'm sorry. Really! Look, it's not easy being friendly - I don't like you very much.'

  'How can you say that? We've only said about ten words to
each other. A bit early for character assessment, isn't it?'

  'I know your kind,' she said. Taking two platters, she deftly flipped the bacon from the pan and handed him a plate. 'Arrogant. Think you're the gods' gift to the world. Footloose.'

  'And what's wrong with that?' he asked. 'Nobody's perfect. I enjoy my life, it's the only one I've got.'

  'It's people like you who have wrecked this coun­try,' she told him. 'People who don't care; people who live for today. The greedy and the selfish. We used to be great.'

  'Rubbish. We used to be warriors, conquering everybody, stamping Drenai rules on the world. A pox on it!'

  'There was nothing wrong with that! The people we conquered prospered, didn't they? We built schools, hospitals, roads. We encouraged trade and gave the world Drenai law.'

  'Then you shouldn't be too upset,' he told her, 'that the world is changing. Now it will be Nadir law. The only reason the Drenai conquered was that the outlying nations had had their day. They were fat and lazy, full of selfish, greedy people who didn't care. All nations fall that way.'

  'Oh, so you're a philosopher, are you?' she said. 'Well, I consider your opinions to be as worthless as you are.'

  'Oh, now I'm worthless? What do you know of "worthless", prancing around dressed as a man? You're an imitation warrior. If you're so eager to uphold Drenai values, why don't you get off to Dros Delnoch with the other fools and wave your pretty little sword at the Nadir?'

  'I've just come from there - and I'm going back as soon as I have accomplished what I set out to do,' she said, icily.

  'Then you're an idiot,' he said, lamely.

  'You were a soldier, weren't you?' she said.

  'What's that to you?'

  'Why did you leave the army?'

  'None of your damned business.' He paused. Then, to break the awkward silence, went on, 'We should be at Glen Frenae by this afternoon; it's only a small village, but they do sell horses.'

  They finished their meal without speaking, Rek feeling angry and uncomfortable yet lacking the skill to pierce the gap between them. She cleared the platters and cleaned out the pan, awkward in her mail-shirt.

  Virae was furious with herself. She had not meant to quarrel with him. For hours as he slept she had crept about the cabin so as not to disturb him. At first when she woke she had been angry and embarrassed by what he had done, but she knew enough about frostbite and exposure to realise he had saved her life. And he had not taken advantage. If he had done so, she would have killed him without regret or hesitation. She had studied him as he slept. In a strange way he was handsome, she thought, then decided that although he was good-looking after a fashion, it was some indefinable quality which made him attractive - a gentleness, perhaps? A certain sensitivity? It was hard to pinpoint.