A young woman stumbled from the path, falling to her knees. Instantly a scaled hand caught at her cloak, dragging her back. Druss was too far back to help, and he cursed and moved on.
Many pathways merged with the road and Druss found himself travelling with a multitude of silent people, young and old. Their faces were blank, their expressions preoccupied. Many left the path and wandered through the mist.
It seemed to the axeman that he had walked for many days. There was no sense of time here, nor any fatigue, nor hunger. Gazing ahead, he could see vast numbers of souls wending their way through the mist-enveloped road.
Despair touched him. How would he find her among so many? Ruthlessly he pushed the fear from his mind, concentrating only on scanning the faces as he moved ever on. Nothing would ever have been achieved, he thought, if men had allowed themselves to be diverted by the scale of the problems faced.
After a while Druss noted that the road was rising. He could see further ahead, and the mist was thinning. There were no more merging pathways now; the road itself was more than a hundred feet wide.
On and on he moved, forcing his way through the silent throng. Then he saw that the road was beginning to diverge once more, into scores of pathways leading to arched tunnels, dark and forbidding.
A small man in a robe of coarse brown wool was moving back through the river of souls. He saw Druss and smiled. “Keep moving, my son,” he said, patting Druss’s shoulder.
“Wait!” called the axeman as the man moved past him. Brown Robe swung back, surprised. Stepping to Druss, he gestured him to the side of the road.
“Let me see your hand, brother,” he said.
“What?”
“Your hand, your right hand. Show me the palm!” The little man was insistent. Druss held out his hand and Brown Robe grasped it, peering intently at the calloused palm. “But you are not ready to pass over, brother. Why are you here?”
“I am looking for someone.”
“Ah,” said the man, apparently relieved. “You are the despairing heart. Many of you try to pass through. Did your loved one die? Has the world treated you savagely? Whatever the answer, brother, you must return whence you came. There is nothing for you here - unless you stray from the path. And then there is only an eternity of suffering. Go back!”
“I cannot. My wife is here. And she is alive - just like me.”
“If she is alive, brother, then she will not have passed the portals before you. No living soul can enter. You do not have the coin.” He held out his own hand. Nestling there was a black shadow, circular and insubstantial. “For the Ferryman,” he said, “and the road to Paradise.”
“If she could not pass the tunnels, then where could she be?” asked Druss.
“I don’t know, brother. I have never left the path and I know not what lies beyond, save that it is inhabited by the souls of the damned. Go to the Fourth Gateway. Ask for Brother Domitori. He is the Keeper.”
Brown Robe smiled, then moved away to be swallowed up by the multitude. Druss joined the flow and eased his way through to the Fourth Gateway where another man in a brown, hooded robe stood silently by the entrance. He was tall and round-shouldered, with sad, solemn eyes. “Are you Brother Domitori?” asked Druss.
The man nodded, but did not speak.
“I am looking for my wife.”
“Pass on, brother. If her soul lives you will find her.”
“She had no coin,” said Druss. The man nodded and pointed to a narrow, winding path that led up and around a low hill.
“There are many such,” said Domitori, “beyond the hill. There they flicker and fade, and rejoin the road when they are ready, when their bodies give up the fight, when the heart ceases.”
Druss turned away, but Domitori called out to him. “Beyond the hill the road is no more. You will be in the Valley of the Dead. Best you arm yourself.”
“I have no weapons here.”
Domitori raised his hand and the flow of souls ceased to move through the Gateway. He stepped alongside Druss. “Bronze and steel have no place here, though you will see what appear to be swords and lances. This is a place of Spirit, and a man’s spirit can be steel or water, wood or fire. To cross the hill - and return - will require courage, and so much more. Do you have faith?”
“In what?”
The man sighed. “In the Source? In yourself? What do you hold most dear?”
“Rowena - my wife.”
“Then holdfast to your love, my friend. No matter what assails you. What do you fear most?”
“Losing her.”
“What else?”
“I fear nothing.”
“All men fear something. And that is your weakness. This place of the Damned and the Dead has an uncanny talent for bringing a man face to face with what he fears. I pray that the Source will guide you. Go in peace, brother.”
Returning to the Gateway he lifted his hand once more, and the entrance opened, the grim, silent flow of souls continuing without pause.
“You gutless whoreson!” stormed Sieben. “I should kill you!”
The surgeon Shalitar stepped between Sieben and the priest of Pashtar Sen. “Be calm,” he urged. The man has admitted to lacking courage and has no need to apologise for it. Some men are tall, some short, some brave, others not so brave.”
“That may be true,” conceded Sieben, “but what chance does Druss have in a world of enchantment and sorcery? Tell me that!”
“I don’t know,” Shalitar admitted.
“No, but he does,” said Sieben. “I have read of the Void; a great many of my tales are centred there. I have spoken to Seekers and mystics who have journeyed through the Mist. All agree on one point - without access to the powers of sorcery a man is finished there. Is that not true, priest?”
The man nodded, but did not look up. He was sitting beside the wide bed upon which lay the still figures of Druss and Rowena. The axeman’s face was pale, and he did not seem to be breathing.
“What will he face there?” insisted Sieben. “Come on, man!”
“The horrors of his past,” answered the priest, his voice barely audible.
“By the gods, priest, I tell you this: If he dies, you will follow him.”
Druss had reached the brow of the hill and gazed down into a parched valley. There were trees, black and dead, silhouetted against the slate-grey earth, as if sketched there with charcoal. There was no wind, no movement save for the few souls who wandered aimlessly across the face of the valley. A little way down the hill he saw an old woman sitting on the ground with head bowed and shoulders hunched. Druss approached her. “I am looking for my wife,” he said.
“You are looking for more than that,” she told him.
He squatted down opposite her. “No, just my wife. Can you help me?”
Her head came up and he found himself staring into deep-set eyes that glittered with malice. “What can you give me, Druss?”
“How is it you know me?” he countered.
“The Axeman, the Silver Slayer, the man who fought the Chaos Beast. Why should I not know you? Now, what can you give me?”
“What do you want?”
“Make me a promise.”
“What promise?”
“You will give me your axe.”
“I do not have it here.”
“I know that, boy,” she snapped. “But in the world above you will give me your axe.”
“Why do you need it?”
“That is no part of the bargain. But look around you, Druss. How will you begin to find her in the time that is left?”
“You can have it,” he said. “Now, where is she?”
“You must cross a bridge. You will find her there. But the bridge is guarded, Druss, by an awesome warrior.”
“Just tell me where it is.”
A staff lay beside the old woman and she used it to lever herself to her feet. “Come,” she said, and began to walk towards a low line of hills. As they walked, Druss saw many new
souls wandering down into the valley.
“Why do they come here?” he asked.
“They are weak,” she told him. “Victims of despair, of guilt, of longing. Suicides, mostly. As they wander here their bodies are dying - like Rowena.”
“She is not weak.”
“Of course she is. She is a victim of love - just as you are. And love is the ultimate downfall of Man. There is no abiding strength in love, Druss. It erodes the natural strength of man, it taints the heart of the hunter.”
“I do not believe that.”
She laughed, a dry sound like the rattling of bones.”Yes, you do,”‘ she said. “‘You are not a man of love, Druss. Or was it love that led you to leap upon the decks of the corsair ship, cutting and killing? Was it love that sent you over the battlements at Ectanis? Was it love that carried you through the battles in the sand circles of Mashrapur?” She halted in her stride and turned to face him.”Was it?”
“Yes. Everything was for Rowena - to help me find her. I love her.”
“It is not love, Druss; it is perceived need. You cannot bear what you are without her - a savage, a killer, a brute. But with her it is a different story. You can leach from her purity, suck it in like fine wine. And then you can see the beauty in a flower, smell the essence of life upon the summer breeze. Without her you see yourself as a creature without worth. And answer me this, axeman: If it was truly love, would you not wish for her happiness above all else?”
“Aye, I would. And I do!”
“Really? Then when you found that she was happy, living with a man who loved her, her life rich and secure, what did you do? Did you try to persuade Gorben to spare Michanek?”
“Where is this bridge?” he asked.
“It is not easy to face, is it?” she persisted.
“I am no debater, woman. I only know that I would die for her.”
“Yes, yes. Typical of the male - always look for the easy solutions, the simple answers.” She walked on, cresting the hill, and paused, resting on her staff. Druss gazed down into the chasm beyond. Far, far below a river of fire, at this distance a slender ribbon of flame, flowed through a black gorge. Across the gorge stretched a narrow bridge of black rope and grey timber. At the centre stood a warrior in black and silver with a huge axe in his hands.
“She is on the far side,” said the old woman. “But to reach her you must pass the guardian. Do you recognise him?”
“No.”
“You will.”
The bridge was secured by thick black ropes tied to two blocks of stone. The wooden slats that made up the main body of the structure were, Druss judged, around three feet long and an inch thick. He stepped out on to the bridge, which immediately began to sway. There were no guiding ropes attached by which a man could steady himself and, looking down, Druss felt a sick sense of vertigo.
Slowly he walked out over the chasm, his eyes fixed to the boards.He was half-way to the man in black and silver before he looked up. Then shock struck him like a blow.
The man smiled, bright teeth shining white against the black and silver beard. “I am not you, boy,” he said. “I am everything you could have been.”
Druss stared hard at the man. He was the very image of Druss himself, except that he was older and his eyes, cold and pale, seemed to hold many secrets.
“You are Bardan,” said Druss.
“And proud of it. I used my strength, Druss. I made men shake with fear. I took my pleasures where I wanted them. I am not like you, strong in body but weak in heart. You take after Bress.”
“I take that as a compliment,” said Druss. “For I would never have wanted to be like you - a slayer of babes, an abuser of women. There is no strength in that.”
“I fought men. No man could accuse Bardan of cowardice. Shemak’s balls, boy, I fought armies!”
“I say you were a coward,” said Druss. “The worst kind. What strength you had came from that,” he said, pointing to the axe. “Without it you were nothing. Without it you are nothing.”
Bardan’s face reddened, then grew pale. “1 don’t need this to deal with you, you weak-kneed whoreson. I could take you with my hands.”
“In your dreams,” mocked Druss.
Bardan made as if to lay down the axe, but then hesitated. “You can’t do it, can you?” taunted Druss. “The mighty Bardan! Gods, I spit on you!”
Bardan straightened, the axe still in his right hand. “Why should I lay aside my only friend? No one else stood by me all those lonely years. And here - even here he has been my constant aid.”
“Aid?” countered Druss. “He destroyed you, just as he destroyed Cajivak and all others who took him to their hearts. But I don’t need to convince you, Grandfather: You know it, but you are too weak to acknowledge it.”
“I’ll show you weakness!” roared Bardan, leaping forward with axe raised. The bridge swayed perilously, but Druss leapt in under the swinging axe, hammering a ferocious punch to Bardan’s chin. As the other man staggered, Druss took one running step and leapt feet first, his boots thudding into Bardan’s chest to hurl him back. Bardan lost his grip on the axe and teetered on the edge.
Druss rolled to his feet and dived at the man. Bardan, recovering his footing, snarled and met him head-on. Druss smashed a blow to the other man’s chin, but Bardan rolled with the punch, sending an uppercut which snapped the axeman’s head back. The power in the blow was immense and Druss reeled. A second blow caught him above the ear, smashing him to the boards. Rolling as a booted foot slashed past his ear, he grabbed Bardan’s leg and heaved. The warrior fell heavily. As Druss pushed himself upright, Bardan launched himself from the boards, his hands circling Druss’s throat. The bridge was swaying wildly now and both men fell and rolled towards the edge. Druss hooked his foot into the space between two boards, but he and Bardan were hanging now over the awesome drop.
Druss tore himself free of Bardan’s grip and thundered a punch to the warrior’s chin. Bardan grunted and toppled from the bridge. His hand snaked out to grab Druss’s arm - the wrenching grasp almost pulled Druss over the edge.
Bardan hung above the river of fire, his pale eyes looking up into Druss’s face.
“Ah, but you’re a bonnie fighter, laddie,” said Bardan softly. Druss got a grip on the other man’s jerkin and tried to pull him up on to the bridge.
“Time to die at last,” said Bardan. “You were right. It was the axe, always the axe.” Releasing his hold, he smiled. “Let me go, boy. It’s over.”
“No! Damn you, take my hand!”
“May the gods smile on you, Druss!” Bardan twisted up and hit out at Druss’s arm, dislodging his grip. The bridge swayed again and the black and silver warrior fell. Druss watched him fall, spinning down, down, until he was just a dark speck swallowed up by the river of fire.
Pushing himself to his knees he glanced at the axe. Red smoke swirled from it to form a crimson figure - the skin scaled, the head horned at the temples. There was no nose, merely two slits in the flesh above a shark-like mouth.
“You were correct, Druss,” said the demon affably. “He was weak. As was Cajivak, and all the others. Only you have the strength to use me.”
“I want no part of you.”
The demon’s head lifted and his laughter sounded. “Easy to say, mortal. But look yonder.” At the far end of the bridge stood the Chaos Beast, huge and towering, its taloned paws glinting, its eyes glowing like coals of fire.
Druss felt a swelling of despair and his heart sank as the axe-demon stepped closer, his voice low and friendly. “Why do you hesitate, Man? When have I failed you? On the ship of Earin Shad, did I not turn away the fire? Did I not slip in Cajivak’s grasp? I am your friend, Mortal. I have always been your friend. And in these long and lonely centuries I have waited for a man with your strength and determination. With me you can conquer the world. Without me you will never leave this place, never feel the sun upon your face. Trust me, Druss! Slay the beast - and then we can go home.”
The demon shimmered into smoke, flowing back into the black haft of the axe.
Druss glanced up to see the Chaos Beast waiting at the far end of the bridge. It was even more monstrous now: massive shoulders beneath the black fur, saliva dripping from its huge maw. Stepping forward, Druss gripped the haft of Snaga, swinging the blades into the air.
Instantly his strength returned, and with it a soaring sense of hatred and a lust to cleave and kill. His mouth was dry with the need for battle, and he moved towards the flame-eyed bear. The beast waited with arms at its sides.
It seemed to Druss then that all the evil of the world rested in the creature’s colossal frame, all the frustrations of life, the angers, the jealousies, the vileness - everything that he had ever suffered could be laid upon the black soul of the Chaos Beast. Fury and madness made his limbs tremble and he felt his lips draw back in a snarl as he lifted high the axe and ran at the creature.
The beast did not move. It stood still, arms down and head drooping.
Druss slowed in his charge. Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! He reeled with the intensity of his need to destroy, then looked down at the axe in his hand.
“No!” he shouted, and with one tremendous heave hurled the axe high in the air and out over the chasm. It spun glistening towards the ribbon of flame, and Druss saw the demon spew from it, blackagainst the silver of the blades. Then the axe struck the river of fire. Exhausted, Druss turned back to face the beast.
Rowena stood alone and naked, her gentle eyes watching him.
He groaned and walked towards her. “Where is the beast?” he said.
“There is no beast, Druss. Only me. Why did you change your mind about killing me?”
“You? I would never hurt you! Sweet heaven, how could you think it?”
“You looked at me with hate and then you ran at me with your axe.”
“Oh, Rowena! I saw only a demon. I was bewitched! Forgive me!” Stepping in close he tried to put his arms around her, but she moved back from him.
“I loved Michanek,” she said.
He sighed and nodded. “I know. He was a good man - perhaps a great one. I was with him at the end. He asked me… urged me to look after you. He didn’t need to ask that of me. You are everything to me, you always were. Without you there was no light in my life. And I’ve waited so long for this moment. Come back with me, Rowena. Live!”
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 33