Legends

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Did Deras tell you all this?”

  “Er, no.” She seemed a little uncomfortable. “Goran.”

  “He has his reason back, then?”

  “Near completely. Certainly enough for him to talk to his brother.”

  “Does he want to? Or does he feel the same as Deras?”

  “He’s wary, I’d say. But not as hostile.”

  “Do you think they’ll talk?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. But if they do, there’s something else Deras will have trouble accommodating.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What Goran believes nearly killed him.”

  * * *

  A further week passed. Goran grew stronger, and Velda more persistent in trying to persuade Deras to see him.

  Velda and Deras were checking supplies in one of the storehouses when things came to a head.

  “I don’t see what harm it could do,” she said. “He’s your own flesh and blood. You should –”

  “Let it rest, Velda.” He rammed a bundle of dressings into a shelf with unwarranted force. “I don’t want to see him, and that’s an end to it.”

  “At least tell me why.”

  “We fell out.”

  “So badly that you can’t swallow your pride?”

  “Can he? Goran was the one who made the break.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  “You two seem to have become… close. Everybody’s noticed.”

  “What if we have, and more than close? What business is it of yours?”

  “How could you, Velda? He stands for the opposite of everything we believe in.”

  “He’s doing what he feels he needs to do.”

  “And the result’s the broken bodies brought here for mending. My brother’s a killer, Velda.”

  “Goran just wants to put right the injustice done to your people. Don’t you?”

  “Through compassion, yes. Not with the sword.”

  “So you differ on methods. Should that keep you apart?”

  “His way is butchery. How can we reconcile?”

  “He sees himself as fighting for a righteous cause.”

  “He obviously has quite a sway over you.”

  “I’ve a mind of my own, Deras.”

  “Yet it took him no time to get you to dump your principles.”

  “It’s called being open-minded. And I haven’t abandoned my values.”

  “Really? I know my brother and how persuasive he can be.”

  “All right, enough!” she flared. “You’re using me to argue with Goran by proxy, Deras. If you’ve got a grievance with him the grown up thing to do is damn well tell him yourself. Or haven’t you the guts?”

  Deras had been fussing with the supplies throughout their conversation, as though the distraction might shield him from what she was saying. Now he slammed down the crate he was holding.

  Without another word he turned and stamped towards the door. She hurried after him, hoping that the catalyst of anger was doing what reason couldn’t.

  The encampment was much less crowded than previously, and the tent housing Goran was almost empty save a small number of slumbering figures. Goran himself was sitting up.

  As they approached, Deras saw his brother’s face for the first time since he was brought in. The impression was that someone had daubed him with scarlet paint, then slapped on several bluish-black blotches, resembling large, ripe bruises. There wasn’t much flesh of a natural colour in evidence. His exposed arms looked to be in a similar condition.

  Deras was used to injuries and disfigurement, but the sight of his sibling in such a state affected him more than he expected, no matter their estrangement. Given pause, his anger faded.

  “Hello, Deras,” Goran said.

  Deras gave a small nod. “Goran.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Velda announced. A private, tender look passed between her and Goran, and she left.

  Almost casually, Goran indicated his face with a scarred hand. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Deras seated himself. “Some of it will heal, given time.”

  “Some, yes. But most I’ll have to get used to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “We hardly parted on the friendliest of terms. I thought it best to stay away.”

  “Even after this happened to me?”

  Deras paused before replying. “I’m not saying it was a noble decision.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t blame you. I wasn’t sure about seeing you either.”

  “The past has a hold on you, too.”

  “I thought you were wrong. I still do. I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind since, seeing as you’re here?”

  Deras shook his head.

  “Same old Deras. Still trying to change the world.”

  “Isn’t that what you”re doing?”

  “You’d always rather talk than fight, and dream of a peaceful future.”

  “That future we can agree on. It’s the getting there that divides us.”

  “We’ll only have it when our people stand in the smouldering ruins of Wyndell, and that bastard emperor, Phylimorn, cowers at our feet.”

  “For all your wars, Lycerians have hardly breached Eagamar’s borders, let alone reached its capital. Freedom from strife is what’s needed.”

  “We have a better chance of realising our goal with swords than your pious words.”

  “Same old Goran. Headstrong and too partial to the blade.”

  “Perhaps we’re both fools then.”

  Silence descended.

  Deras broke it. “We were never able to change each other’s minds, Goran. Neither of us is likely to do it now. Can’t we put this rift aside?”

  “We can try.”

  “Then let me speak frankly. I’m concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “Velda. You two seem to have formed a bond.”

  “You could say that.”

  “It’s not unusual for a patient to develop certain feelings for their healer, and –”

  “I thought we were ignoring the rift, not making a new one. Whatever I feel for Velda is more than gratitude. And it’s nothing to do with you.”

  “She’s in my charge, and a friend. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “What’re you going to do if she is? Challenge me to a duel?” He saw his brother’s expression. “I’m joking, Deras. I’ve no intention of ever hurting her. That would be a poor reward for nursing me through this, apart from anything else.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  Deras thought it wise to alter course. “What did it? What was it that harmed you so?”

  “What comes by air and spits fire?”

  “Oh, Goran, please.”

  “That’s another way we see things differently.”

  “If you mean I believe in reason and you put faith in tales for the gullible, yes we do.”

  “We were nowhere near fire. Something came from above and vomited flame on us. What else could it have been?”

  “Even if there was such a thing, where did it come from, and why attack you and your men?”

  “Eagamar controlled it. The empire has magic, the way we used to.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “So what’s your explanation?”

  “Sarangela fire. Delivered by trebuchet, most likely.”

  Goran laughed frigidly. “That’s a myth if ever there was one.”

  “Why should it be? You use flame in battle, don’t you?”

  “Nothing like Sarangela fire, that they say burns ten times fiercer than oil and fastens itself hard on everything in sight, men included.”

  “I find it easier to believe that the empire’s brains thought of a way to increase the oil’s potency, and make the fire more tenacious, than that they use spells to command mythical creatures.”

  “I’ve nev
er seen Sarangela fire used in all the battles I’ve fought. Have you ever healed anyone afflicted by it?”

  “Not until you and your men.”

  “You’ve no proof. If this stuff was viscous why wasn’t any found on us?”

  “The heat burnt it off.”

  “You’ll never see the truth, will you?”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  They talked on, trying to avoid the reefs their new-found truce steered through, but agreeing on little. Eventually Deras decided his brother needed rest and took his leave. He came away with conflicting thoughts.

  And wondered how Velda could pair with a man who believed in dragons.

  * * *

  The brothers spoke on most days during the following week. Their meetings grew easier, if only because they learned to avoid each other’s sore spots. As far as the important issues went, the distance between them remained unbridegable. They settled into a kind of wary tolerance, with the occasional smattering of good humour.

  That routine was broken before dawn on the eighth day.

  Someone shook Deras, violently.

  “Master! Master Deras! Wake up!”

  Deras blinked into consciousness and quickly rose. Ismey was there. He had blood on his face. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Raiders, master. They’ve… they’ve killed some of our people.”

  “What? Where are they? Are we under attack?”

  “They’re gone. And… they took Velda with them!”

  The blood splattering Ismey turned out to be from the three healers murdered by the intruders. He had been roughed up but escaped lightly, and could give no description of the raiders other than they numbered upward of a dozen and wore dark clothing.

  A sweep of the encampment confirmed that they were gone, but Deras had all the tents and storerooms searched anyway.

  While that was going on, Goran came to his brother.

  “This was because of me,” he said.

  “I know.” Deras handed him a scrap of parchment. “They left this.”

  Goran scanned the hastily-written scrawl. “So they’ll exchange Velda for me at the abandoned redoubt at Wilburr Reach, noon tomorrow.” He screwed up the note and tossed it aside. “Why didn’t they just go for me last night?”

  “I’m sure that was their intent, but they were disturbed before they could locate you. I suspect Velda was very much a secondary target, settled on once they were discovered. She was bedded down near the periphery and would have been easier to snatch.

  What I don’t understand is how they knew about her connection with you.”

  “No mystery there. Somebody on the empire side you treated here passed on the word. Like you said, everybody had noticed Velda and I were close. Don’t look so pained, brother. Gratitude to the League is one thing, but loyalty to their cause overrides it.”

  “So you reckon it was the empire, not some band of marauders?”

  “Had to be. I’ve done a lot of damage to them, and they’d like to see me pay for it. I expect they’ve got a nice little public execution in mind.”

  “You have to get General Dunisten to storm the place.”

  “They’d certainly kill her if we did. That’s something I couldn’t bear.”

  He spoke with such conviction that any doubts Deras had about Goran’s feelings for Velda were dispelled. “What, then?”

  “I’ll go there, of course.”

  “To give yourself up? With no guarantee that they would let Velda go?”

  “I wasn’t thinking so much of giving myself up as getting her out of there.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll think of a way.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Do I look as though I am?”

  “With respect, Deras, I don’t need a peace-lover along on this.”

  “You care for Velda, and so do I. I’ll do whatever I can to help her. Besides, you might be glad to have a healer with you.”

  “I’ve no time to argue. Come if you must, but don’t get in the way. Now I’ve got to think, and I’ve some allies to summon. Wilburr Reach isn’t that far. We’ll set out at first light tomorrow.”

  * * *

  They were up and ready well before dawn broke.

  Deras went to Goran’s tent, where his brother had something to show him.

  “Take a look at this,” he said.

  He held up a black leather face mask. There were holes for eyes, mouth and nose, and inset studs. Some kind of soft fabric lined the inside.

  “I got one of the female healers to make it for me,” Goran explained. “Turns out they’re not only good at stitching wounds. Here, let me show you.” He put the mask on and tightened the straps at its rear. “What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s certainly striking. Doesn’t it pain you to wear it?”

  “A little. I’ll get used to it.”

  “So, have you a plan?”

  “Yes, and it involves you. But it’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Are you willing to take the risk?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Now let’s get ourselves outside. I’m expecting some people. I’ll explain while we wait.”

  Shortly, twenty or more riders arrived at the camp entrance. Most were men, but there were three or four women, too. All had bows slung on their backs.

  The one leading them was a red-haired, flame-bearded giant of a man. He dismounted and was greeted by Goran with a warrior’s grasp.

  “Gods, Goran,” the giant exclaimed, “if that mask isn’t an improvement on your usual dismal mug.”

  Goran took that in good part. “I reckon you could do with one yourself, Gled.”

  The giant roared with laughter.

  “This is my brother, Deras,” Goran went on. “Deras, this is Gled Brackenstall.”

  Brackenstall pumped his hand. Deras thought his fingers might break.

  “And this,” Goran said, waving an expansive hand at the rest of them, “is his band of archers.”

  “God killers all,” Brackenstall added with dry irony.

  “Gled’s band comprises an autonomous unit in the Lycerian army,” Goran explained. “Today they’re undertaking a little freelance work with us. I take it you haven’t bothered to tell the general about your absence, Gled. “

  “We archers tend to be independent minded. I didn’t see the need for bureaucratic complications.”

  “I’m grateful. And you’re all in agreement about this?”

  “We owe you, Goran. For much. We’re all happy to repay some of that debt.”

  The mounted archers nodded and murmured agreement.

  “Thank you. By the way, Deras is coming with us.”

  “We’re taking a healer? No offence, Deras.”

  “None taken,”

  “I have a plan, Gled, and my brother’s part of it,” Goran said. He looked at the rising sun. “But we should be leaving. I’ll fill you in as we travel.”

  “The sooner we get to grips with those Eagamar bastards the better,” Brackenstall replied. “Let’s ride.”

  * * *

  Wilburr Reach was situated not far from the border with the land of Megaka, which in the shifting landscape of alliances was currently an ally of the empire. The area was contested and consequently perilous, and it had to be assumed that the kidnappers had lookouts posted along the way.

  The latter turned out to be true, and proved the value of archers.

  When they were close to their destination, but not yet within sight of the redoubt, they came to a wood. The neglected road running through it was the only direct route. Judging this a good place for an ambush, or at least somewhere the alarm could be raised, Gled Brackenstall sent six of his archers ahead on foot. They fanned out into the trees on either side while the main party kept to the trail.

  The ploy paid off. Barely halfway through the wood there was a commotion in the green canopy far above. Two men plunged from trees, pepp
ered with arrows. They wore empire uniforms.

  As the wood’s rim came into view it happened again. A single man fell this time, bolts protruding from his chest and back. They saw no more lookouts after that.

  At last they were free of trees, and found themselves on a rise affording a view of the derelict fortress. At one time a formidable bastion, it had fallen long ago in a battle half forgotten. Now it was a jumble of ruins, its pockmarked walls covered in ivy and showing the blackened evidence of fire. Only one of its towers remained, and that stood at a precarious angle.

  They kept out of sight, and saw a group of men, perhaps twenty in number, milling about in the open in front of what had once been the fortress’ entrance.

  Goran looked to the sky. As near as damn it was noon. “Position the band, Gled. Deras, are you ready?”

  His brother nodded, finding that easier than trying to talk.

  “Then it’s time. Good luck to us all.”

  The group at the fortress began to hoot and jeer when they saw the lone, masked man approaching them on foot. Several ran forward, seized him and frogmarched him to the one in charge.

  He held the rank of sergeant, and was muscular, stubble-chinned and broken-toothed.

  “Well, well,” he mocked, “Goran Minshal, at last. I’d have staked a month’s pay you wouldn’t have shown up here for the sake of a woman.”

  “I want to see her.”

  The men laughed at him.

  “You’re in no position to demand anything,” the sergeant said. “But yes, you can see her, god killer.” He signalled.

  Velda appeared from behind a large chunk of fallen masonry, shoved forward by a trooper. Her hands were tied and she looked frightened. There was a bruise on her forehead, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. She stared at her lover.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  That sparked another gust of spiteful laughter.

  Velda had a curious expression on her face, and looked about to say something, but instead simply nodded.

  “We have something special in store for you once we get you back to Wyndell, Minshal,” the sergeant promised. “Meantime, you can watch this bitch die.”

  The man holding Velda drew a knife and held it to her throat. The others began braying.

  The sergeant raised a hand. “Hold it, lads.” He moved closer to their prisoner. His breath was fetid. “You’re not going to get the best view through that thing, are you, Minshal? Besides, we’d all like to take a look at your messed up face.” He smirked and reached for the buckles on the mask.