The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  “I was looking for him,” she said, tears in her eyes, “but I couldn’t find him.”

  “He’s gone where you cannot follow,” said Druss. “Come home.”

  “I am both a wife and widow. Where is my home, Druss? Where?”

  Her head drooped and bright tears fell to her cheeks. Druss took her in his arms, drawing her in to him. “Wherever you choose to make your home,” he whispered,”I will build it for you. But it should be where the sun shines, and where you can hear the birdsong, smell the flowers. This place is not for you - nor would Michanek want you here. I love you, Rowena. But if you want to live without me I will bear it. Just so long as you live. Come back with me. We’ll talk again in the light.”

  “I don’t want to stay here,” she said, clinging to him. “But I miss him so.”

  The words tore at Druss, but he held her close and kissed her hair. “Let’s go home,” he said. “Take my hand.”

  Druss opened his eyes and drew in a great gulp of air. Beside him Rowena slept. He felt a moment of panic, but then a voice spoke. “She is alive.” Druss sat up, and saw the Old Woman sitting in a chair by the bedside.

  “You want the axe? Take it!”

  She chuckled, the sound dry and cold. “Your gratitude is overwhelming, axeman. But no, I do not need Snaga. You exorcised the demon from the weapon and he is gone. But I shall find him. You did well, boy. All that hatred and lust for death - yet you overcame it. What a complex creature is Man.”

  “Where are the others?” asked Druss.

  Taking up her staff, she eased herself to her feet. “Your friends are sleeping. They were exhausted and it took little effort to send them deep into dreams. Good luck to you, Druss. I wish you and your lady well. Take her back to the Drenai mountains, enjoy her company while you can. Her heart is weak, and she will never see the white hair of a human winter. But you will, Druss.”

  She sniffed and stretched, her bones creaking. “What did you want with the demon?” asked Druss as she made her way to the door.

  She turned in the doorway. “Gorben is having a sword made - a great sword. He will pay me to make it an enchanted weapon. And I shall, Druss. I shall.”

  And then she was gone.

  Rowena stirred and woke.

  Sunlight broke through the clouds and bathed the room.

  Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

  BOOK FOUR: Druss the Legend

  Prologue

  Druss took Rowena back to the lands of the Drenai, and, with the gold presented to him by a grateful Gorben, bought a farm in the high mountains. For two years he lived quietly, struggling to be a loving husband and a man of peace. Sieban travelled the land, performing his songs and tales before princes and courtiers, and the legend of Druss spread across the continent.

  At the invitation of the King of Gothir Druss travelled north, and fought in the Second Campaign against the Nadir, earning the title Deathwalker. Sieban joined him and together they travelled through many lands.

  From the Second Chronicles of Druss the Legend.

  And the legend grew.

  Between campaigns Druss would return to his farm, but always he would listen for the siren call to battle and Rowena would bid him farewell as he set off, time and again, to fight, what he assured her, would be his last battle.

  Faithful Pudri remained at Rowena’s side. Sieban continued to scandalise Drenai society and his travels with Druss were usually undertaken to escape the vengeance of outraged husbands.

  In the east the Ventrian Emperor, Gorben, having conquered all his enemies, turned his attention to the fiercely independent Drenai.

  Druss was forty five, and once more had promised Rowena there would be no more journeying to distant wars.

  What he could not know was, this time, the war was coming to him.

  The Battle of Skeln Pass

  Druss sat in the sunshine, watching the clouds glide slowly across the mountains, and thought of his life. Love and friendship had been with him always, the first with Rowena, the latter with Sieben, Eskodas and Bodasen. But the greater part of his forty-five years had been filled with blood and death, the screams of the wounded and dying.

  He sighed. A man ought to leave more behind him than corpses, he decided. The clouds thickened, the land falling into shadow, the grass of the hillside no longer gleaming with life, the flowers ceasing to blaze with colour. He shivered. It was going to rain. The soft, dull, arthritic ache had begun in his shoulder. “Getting old,” he said.

  “Who are you talking to, my love?” He turned and grinned. Rowena seated herself beside him on the wooden bench, slipping her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. His huge hand stroked her hair, noting the grey at the temples.

  “I was talking to myself. It’s something that happens when you get old.”

  She stared up into his grizzled face and smiled. “You’ll never get old. You’re the strongest man in the world.”

  “Once, princess. Once.”

  “Nonsense. You hefted that barrel of sand at the village fair right over your head. No one else could do that.”

  “That only makes me the strongest man in the village.”

  Pulling away from him, Rowena shook her head, but her expression, as always, was gentle. “You miss the wars and the battles?”

  “No. I… I am happy here. With you. You give my soul peace.”

  “Then what is troubling you?”

  “The clouds. They move in front of the sun. They cast shadows. Then they are gone. Am I like that, Rowena? Will I leave nothing behind me?”

  “What would you wish to leave?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, looking away.

  “You would have liked a son,” she said, softly. “As would I. But it was not to be. Do you blame me for it?”

  “No! No! Never.” His arms swept around her, drawing her to him. “I love you. I always have. I always will. You are my wife!”

  “I would have liked to have given you a son,” she whispered.

  “I does not matter.”.

  They sat in silence until the clouds darkened and the first drops of rain began to fall.

  Druss stood, lifting Rowena into his arms, and began the long walk to the stone house. “Put me down,” she commanded. “You’ll hurt your back.”

  “Nonsense. You are as light as a sparrow wing. And am I not the strongest man in the world?”

  A fire was blazing in the hearth, and their Ventrian servant, Pudri, was preparing mulled wine for them. Druss lowered Rowena into a broad-backed leather armchair.

  “Your face is red with the effort,” she chided him.

  He smiled and did not argue. His shoulder was hurting, his lower back aching like the devil. The slender Pudri grinned at them both.

  “Such children you are,” he said, and shuffled away into the kitchen.

  “He’s right,” said Druss. “With you I am still the boy from the farm, standing below the Great Oak with the most beautiful woman in the Drenai lands.”

  “I was never beautiful,” Rowena told him, “but it pleased me to hear you say it.”

  “You were - and are,” he assured her.

  The firelight sent dancing shadows on to the walls of the room as the light outside began to fail. Rowena fell asleep and Druss sat silently watching her. Four times in the last three years she had collapsed, the surgeons warning Druss of a weakness in her heart. The old warrior had listened to them without comment, his ice-blue eyes showing no expression. But within him a terrible fear had begun to grow. He had forsaken his battles and settled down to life in the mountains, believing that his presence nearby would hold Rowena to life.

  But he watched her always, never allowing her to become too tired, fussing over her meals, waking in the night to feel her pulse, then being unable to sleep.

  “Without her I am nothing,” he confided to his friend Sieben the Poet, whose house had been built less than a mile from the stone house. “If she dies, part of
me will die with her.”

  “I know, old horse,” said Sieben. “But I am sure the princess will be fine.”

  Druss smiled. “Why did you make her a princess? Are you poets incapable of the truth?”

  Sieben spread his hands and chuckled. “One must cater to one’s audience. The saga of Druss the Legend had need of a princess. Who would want to listen to the tale of a man who fought his way across continents to rescue a farm girl?”

  “Druss the Legend? Pah! There are no real heroes any more. The likes of Egel, Karnak and Waylander are long gone. Now they were heroes, mighty men with eyes of fire.”

  Sieben laughed aloud. “You say that only because you have heard the songs. In years to come men will talk of you in the same way. You and that cursed axe.”

  The cursed axe.

  Druss glanced up to where the weapon hung on the wall, its twin silver steel blades glinting in the firelight. Snaga the Sender, the blades of no return. He stood and moved silently across the room, lifting the axe from the brackets supporting it. The black haft was warm to the touch, and he felt, as always, the thrill of battle ripple through him as he hefted the weapon. Reluctantly he returned the axe to its resting place.

  “They are calling you,” said Rowena. He swung and saw that she was awake and watching him.

  “Who is calling me?”

  “The hounds of war. I can hear them baying.” Druss shivered and forced a smile.

  “No one is calling me,” he told her, but there was no conviction in his voice. Rowena had always been a mystic.

  “Gorben is coming, Druss. His ships are already at sea.”

  “It is not my war. My loyalties would be divided.”

  For a moment she said nothing. Then: “You liked him, didn’t you?”

  “He is a good Emperor - or he was. Young, proud, and terribly brave.”

  “You set too much store by bravery. There was a madness in him you could never see. I hope you never do.”

  “I told you, it is not my war. I’m forty-five years old, my beard is going grey and my joints are stiff. The young men of the Drenai will have to tackle him without me.”

  “But the Immortals will be with him,” she persisted. “You said once there were no finer warriors in the world.”

  “Do you remember all my words?”

  “Yes,” she answered, simply.

  The sound of hoofbeats came from the yard beyond, and Druss strode to the door, stepping out on to the porch.

  The rider wore the armour of a Drenai officer, white plumed helm and silver breastplate, with a long scarlet cloak. He dismounted, tied the reins of his horse to a hitching rail and walked towards the house.

  “Good evening. I am looking for Druss the Axeman,” said the man, removing his helm and running his fingers through his sweat-drenched fair hair.

  “You found him.”

  “I thought so. I am Dun Certak. I have a message from Lord Abalayn. He wonders if you would agree to ride east to our camp at Skeln.”

  “Why?”

  “Morale, sir. You are a legend. The Legend. It would boost the men during the interminable waiting.”

  “No,” said Druss. “I am retired.”

  “Where are your manners, Druss?” called Rowena. “Ask the young man to come in.”

  Druss stepped aside and the officer entered, bowing deeply to Rowena.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have heard so much about you.”

  “How disappointing for you,” she replied, her smile friendly. “You hear of a princess and meet a plump matron.”

  “He wants me to travel to Skeln,” said Druss.

  “I heard. I think you should go.”

  “I am no speechmaker,” growled Druss.

  “Then take Sieben with you. It will do you good. You have no idea how irritating it is to have you fussing around me all day. Be honest, you will enjoy yourself enormously.”

  “Are you married?” Druss asked Certak, his voice almost a growl.

  “No, sir.”

  “Very wise. Will you stay the night?”

  “No, sir. Thank you. I have other despatches to deliver. But I will see you at Skeln… and look forward to it.” The officer bowed once more and backed away towards the door.

  “You will stay for supper,” ordered Rowena. “Your despatches can wait for at least one hour.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but…”

  “Give up, Certak,” advised Druss. “You cannot win.”

  The officer smiled and spread his hands. “An hour then,” he agreed.

  The following morning, on borrowed horses, Druss and Sieben waved farewell and headed east. Rowena waved and smiled until they were out of sight, then returned to the house, where Pudri was waiting.

  “You should not have sent him away, lady,” said the Ventrian sadly. Rowena swallowed hard, and the tears began to flow. Pudri moved alongside her, his slender arms encircling her.

  “I had to. He must not be here when the time comes,”

  “He would want to be here.”

  “In so many ways he is the strongest man I have ever known. But in this I am right. He must not see me die.”

  “I will be with you, lady. I will hold your hand.”

  “You will tell him that it was sudden, and there was no pain - even if it is a lie?”

  “I will.”

  Six days later, after a dozen changes of mount, Certak galloped into the camp. There were four hundred white tents set in unit squares in the shadow of the Skeln range, each housing twelve men. Four thousand horse were picketed in the surrounding fields, and sixty cookfires were blazing under iron pots. The odour of stew assailed him as he reined in outside the large red-striped tent used by the general and his staff.

  The young officer handed over his despatches, saluted and left to rejoin his company at the northern edge of the camp. Leaving his lathered mount with a groom, he removed his helm and pushed aside the tent flap of his quarters. Inside his companions were dicing and drinking. The game broke up as he entered.

  “Certak!” said Orases, grinning and rising to meet him. “Well, what was he like?”

  “Who?” asked Certak innocently.

  “Druss, you moron.”

  “Big,” said Certak, moving past the burly blond officer and throwing his helm to the narrow pallet bed. He unbuckled his breastplate, letting it drop to the floor. Freed of its weight, he took a deep breath and scratched his chest.

  “Now don’t be annoying, there’s a good fellow,” said Orases, his smile fading. “Tell us about him.”

  “Do tell him,” urged the dark-eyed Diagoras. “He’s been talking about the axeman non-stop since you left.”

  “That’s not true,” muttered Orases, blushing. “We’ve all been talking about him.” Certak slapped Orases on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair.

  “You get me a drink, Orases, and then I’ll tell you all.”

  As Orases fetched a flagon of wine and four goblets, Diagoras moved smoothly to his feet and pulled up a chair, reversing it before sitting opposite Certak, who had streched out on the bed. The fourth man, Archytas, joined them, accepting a goblet of light honey mead wine from Orases and draining it swiftly.

  “As I said, he is big,” said Certak. “Not as tall as the stories claim, but built like a small castle. The size of his arms? Well, his biceps are as long as your thighs, Diagoras. He is bearded and dark, though there is some grey in his hair. His eyes are blue, and they seem to look right through you.”

  “And Rowena?” asked Orases eagerly. “Is she as fabulously beautiful as the poem says?”

  “No. She is nice enough, in a matronly sort of way. I suppose she would have been lovely once. It’s hard to tell with some of these older women. Her eyes are gorgeous, though, and she has a pretty smile.”

  “Did you see the axe?” asked Archytas, a wand-slender nobleman from the Lentrian border.

  “No.”

  “Did you ask Druss about his battles?” asked Diago
ras.

  “Of course not, you fool. He may be only a farmer now, but he’s still Druss. You don’t just march up and ask how many dragons he’s downed.”

  “There are no dragons,” said Archytas loftily.

  Certak shook his head, staring at the man through narrowed eyes.

  “It was a figure of speech,” he said. “Anyway, they invited me to join them for supper and we chatted about horses and the running of the farm. He asked my opinion about the war, and I told him I thought Gorben would sail for Penrac Bay.”

  “It’s a safe bet,” said Diagoras.

  “Not necessarily. If it’s that safe, how come we’re stuck here with five regiments?”

  “Abalayn is over-cautious,” answered Diagoras, grinning.

  “That’s the trouble with you westerners,” said Certak. “You live so long with your horses that you start to think like them. Skeln Pass is a gateway to the Sentran Plain. If Gorben took that we would starve during the winter. So would half of Vagria, for that matter.”

  “Gorben is no fool,” offered Archytas. “He knows Skeln can be defended forever with two thousand men. The pass is too narrow for the numbers of his army to be of any real use. And there’s no other way through. Penrac makes more sense. It’s only three hundred miles from Drenan and the countryside around is as flat as a lake. There his army could spread and cause real problems.”

  “I don’t particularly care where he lands,” said Orases, “as long as I’m close by to see it.”

  Certak and Diagoras exchanged glances. Both had fought the Sathuli and had seen the true, bloody face of battle, and watched the crows peck out the eyes of dead friends. Orases was a newcomer who had urged his father to buy him a commission in Abalayn’s lancers when news of the invasion fleet reached Drenan.

  “What about the Cuckold King?” asked Archytas. “Was he there?”

  “Sieben? Yes, he arrived for supper. He looks ancient. I can’t see the ladies swooning over him any longer. Bald as a rock and thin as a stick.”

  “You think Druss will want to fight alongside us?” asked Diagoras. “That would be something to tell the children.”