The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  “No. He’s past it. Tired. You can see it in him. But I liked him. He’s no braggart, that’s for sure. Down to earth. You’d never believe he was the subject of so many songs and ballads. They say Gorben has never forgotten him.”

  “Maybe he sailed the fleet just for a reunion with his friend Druss,” said Archytas, with a sneer. “Perhaps you should put that idea to the general. We could all go home.”

  “It’s an idea,” admitted Certak, biting back his anger. “But if the regiments separate, we’d be deprived of your delightful company, Archytas. And nothing is worth that.”

  “I could live with it,” said Diagoras.

  “And I could do without being forced to share a tent with a pack of ill-bred hounds,” said Archytas. “But needs must.”

  “Well, woof woof,” said Diagoras. “Do you think we’ve been insulted, Certak?”

  “Not by anyone worth worrying about,” he replied.

  “Now that is an insult,” said Archytas, rising. A sudden commotion from outside the tent cut through the gathering drama. The flap was pulled aside. A young soldier pushed his head inside.

  “The beacons are lit,” he said. The Ventrians have landed at Penrac.”

  The four warriors leapt to their feet, rushing to gather their armour.

  Archytas turned as he buckled his breastplate.

  “This changes nothing,” he said. “It is a question of honour.”

  “No,” said Certak. “It is a question of dying. And you’ll do that nicely, you pompous pig.”

  Archytas grinned mirthlessly back at him.

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  Diagoras pulled down the earflaps of his bronze helmet and tied them under his chin. He leaned conspiratorially close to Archytas.

  “A thought to remember, goat-face. If you kill him - which is extremely doubtful - I shall cut your throat while you’re sleeping.” He smiled pleasantly and patted Archytas’ shoulder. “You see, I’m no gentleman.”

  The camp was in uproar. Along the coast the warning beacons were blazing from the Skeln peaks. Gorben, as expected, had landed in the south. Abalayn was there with twenty thousand men. But he would be outnumbered at least two to one. It was a hard five days’ ride to Penrac and the orders were being issued at speed, the horses saddled, and the tents packed away. Cooking fires were doused and wagons loaded as men scurried about the camp in seeming chaos.

  By morning only six hundred warriors remained in the mouth of Skeln Pass, the bulk of the army thundering south to bolster Abalayn.

  Earl Delnar, Warden of the North, gathered the men together just after dawn. Beside him stood Archytas.

  “As you know, the Ventrians have landed,” said the Earl. “We are to stay here in case they send a small force to harry the north. I know many of you would have preferred to head south, but, to state the obvious, someone has to stay behind to protect the Sentran Plain. And we’ve been chosen. The camp here is no longer suitable for our needs and we will be moving up into the pass itself. Are there any questions?”

  There were none and Delnar dismissed the men, turning to Archytas.

  “Why you have been left here I do not know,” he said. “But I don’t like you at all, lad. You are a troublemaker. I would have thought your skills would have been welcome at Penrac. However, be that as it may. You cause any trouble here and you will regret it.”

  “I understand, Lord Delnar,” replied Archytas.

  “Understand this also: As my aide I will require you to work, passing on my instructions exactly as I give them to you. I am told you are a man of surpassing arrogance.”

  “That is hardly fair.”

  “Perhaps. I cannot see that it should be true, since your grandfather was a tradesman and your nobility is scarce two generations old. You will find as you grow older that it is what a man does that counts, and not what his father did.”

  “Thank you for your advice, ray lord. I shall bear it in mind,” said Archytas stiffly.

  “I doubt that you will. I do not know what drives you, but then I don’t care overmuch. We should be here about three weeks and then I’ll be rid of you.”

  “As you say, my lord.”

  Delnar waved him away, then glanced beyond him to the edge of the trees bordering the field to the west. Two men were walking steadily towards them. Delnar’s jaw tightened as he recognised the poet. He called Archytas back.

  “Sir?”

  “The two men approaching yonder. Go out to meet them and have them brought to my tent.”

  “Yes, sir. Who are they, do you know?”

  “The large one is Druss the Legend. The other is the saga poet Sieben.”

  “I understand you know him very well,” said Archytas, barely disguising his malice.

  “It doesn’t look much of an army,” said Druss, shading his eyes against the sun rising over the Skeln peaks. “Can’t be more than a few hundred of them.”

  Sieben didn’t answer. He was exhausted. Early the previous day Druss had finally tired of riding the tall gelding borrowed in Skoda. He had left it with a stock breeder in a small town thirty miles west, determined to walk to Skeln. In a moment - in which Sieben could only consider he had been struck by transient and massive stupidity - he had agreed to walk with him. He seemed to remember thinking that it would be good for him. Now, even with Druss carrying both packs, the poet stumbled wearily alongside, his legs boneless and numb, his ankles and wrists swollen, his breathing ragged.

  “You know what I think?” said Druss. Sieben shook his head, concentrating on the tents. “I think we’re too late. Gorben has landed at Penrac and the army’s gone. Still, it’s been a pleasant journey. Are you all right, poet?”

  Sieben nodded, his face grey.

  “You don’t look it. If you weren’t standing here beside me I’d think you were dead. I’ve seen corpses that looked in better health.” Sieben glared at him. It was the only response his fading strength would allow. Druss chuckled. “Lost for words, eh? This was worth coming for.”

  A tall young officer was making his way towards them, fastidiously avoiding small patches of mud and the more obvious reminders of the horses picketed in the field the night before.

  Halting before them, he bowed elaborately.

  “Welcome to Skeln,” he said. “Is your friend ill?”

  “No, he always looks like this,” said Druss, running his eyes over the warrior. He moved well, and handled himself confidently, but there was something about the narrow green eyes and the set of his features that nettled the axeman.

  “Earl Delnar asked me to conduct you to his tent. I am Archytas. And you?”

  “Druss. This is Sieben. Lead on.”

  The officer set a fast pace which Druss made no effort to match on the last few hundred paces uphill. He walked slowly beside Sieben. The truth of it was that Druss himself was tired. They had walked most of the night, both trying to prove they still had a claim to youth.

  Delnar dismissed Archytas and remained seated behind the small folding table on which were strewn papers and despatches. Sieben, oblivious of the tension, slumped to Delnar’s narrow bed. Druss lifted a flagon of wine to his lips, taking three great swallows.

  “He is not welcome here - and, therefore, neither are you,” said Delnar, as Druss replaced the flagon.

  The axeman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had I been sure you were here, I would not have brought him,” he said. “I take it the army has moved on.”

  “Yes. They travelled south. Gorben has landed. You may borrow two horses, but I want you gone by sundown.”

  “I came to give the men something to think about besides waiting,” said Druss. They won’t need me now. So I’ll just rest here for a couple of days then head back to Skoda.”

  “I said you’re not welcome here,” said Delnar.

  The axeman’s eyes grew cold as he stared at the Earl. “Listen to me,” said Druss, as softly as he could. “I know why you feel as you do. In your place I would fe
el the same. But I am not in your place. I am Druss. And I walk where I will. If I say I will stay here then I shall. Now I like you, laddie. But cross me and I’ll kill you.”

  Delnar nodded and rubbed his chin. The situation had gone as far as he could allow it. He had hoped Druss would leave, but he could not force him. What could be more ludicrous than the Earl of the North ordering Drenai warriors to attack Druss the Legend? Especially since the man had been invited to the camp by the Lord of Hosts. Delnar did not fear Druss, because he did not fear death. His life had been ended for him six years before. Since then his wife, Vashti, had shamed him with many more affairs. Three years ago she had delivered to him a daughter, a delightful child he adored, even if he doubted his part in her conception. Vashti had run away to the capital soon after, leaving the child at Delnoch. The Earl had heard his wife was now living with a Ventrian merchant in the rich western quarter. Taking a deep, calming breath, he met Druss’ eyes.

  “Stay then,” he said. “But keep him from my sight.”

  Druss nodded. He glanced down at Sieben. The poet was asleep.

  “This should never have come between us,” said Delnar.

  “These things happen,” said Druss. “Sieben always had a weakness for beautiful women.”

  “I shouldn’t hate him. But he was the first I knew about. He was the man who destroyed my dreams. You understand?”

  “We will leave tomorrow,” said Druss wearily. “But for now let’s walk in the pass. I need some air in my lungs.”

  The Earl rose and donned his helm and red cape, and together the two warriors walked through the camp and on up the steep rocky slope to the mouth of the pass. It ran for almost a mile, narrowing at the centre to less than fifty paces, where the ground dropped away gently in a rolling slope down to a stream that flowed across the valley floor, angling towards the sea some three miles distant. From the mouth of the pass, through the jagged peaks, the sea glittered in the fragmented sunlight, glowing gold and blue. A fresh easterly wind cooled Druss’s face.

  “Good place for a defensive battle,” said the axeman, scanning the pass. “At the centre any attacking force would be funnelled in and numbers would be useless.”

  “And they would have to charge uphill,” said Delnar. “I think Abalayn was hoping Gorben would land here. We could have sealed him in the bay. Left his army to starve, and brought the fleet round to harry his ships.”

  “He’s too canny for that,” said Druss. “A more wily warrior you will not find.”

  “You liked him?”

  “He was always fair with me,” said Druss, keeping his tone neutral.

  Delnar nodded. “They say he’s become a tyrant.”

  Druss shrugged. “He once told me it was the curse of kings.”

  “He was right,” said Delnar. “You know your friend Bodasen is still one of his top generals?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s a loyal man, with a good eye for strategy.”

  “I should think you are relieved to miss this battle, my friend,” commented the Earl.

  Druss nodded. “The years I served with the Immortals were happy ones, I’ll grant that. And I have other friends among them. But you are right, I would hate to come up against Bodasen. We were brothers in battle, and I love the man dearly.”

  “Let’s go back. I’ll arrange some food for you.”

  The Earl saluted the sentry at the mouth of the pass and the two men made their way up the slope to the camp. Delnar took him to a square white tent, lifting the flap for Druss to enter first. Within were four men. They leapt to their feet as the Earl followed Druss inside.

  “Stand easy,” said Delnar. “This is Druss, an old friend of mine. He’ll be staying with us for a while. I’d like you to make him welcome.” He turned to Druss. “I believe you know Certak and Archytas. Well, this black-bearded reprobate is Diagoras.” Druss liked the look of the man; his smile was quick and friendly, and the gleam in his dark eyes bespoke humour. But more than this he had what soldiers call “the look of eagles’ and Druss knew instantly he was a warrior born.

  “Nice to meet you, sir. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “And this is Orases,” said Certak. “He’s new with us. From Drenan.”

  Druss shook hands with the young man, noting the fat around his middle and the softness of his grip. He seemed pleasant enough, but beside Diagoras and Certak he seemed boyish and clumsy.

  “Would you like some food?” asked Diagoras, after the Earl had departed.

  “I certainly would,” muttered Druss. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been sliced.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Orases swiftly.

  “I think he’s a little in awe of you, Druss,” said Diagoras as Orases raced from the tent.

  “It happens,” said Druss. “Why don’t you ask me to sit down?”

  Diagoras chuckled and pulled up a chair. Druss reversed it and sat. The others followed suit and the atmosphere eased. The world is getting younger, thought Druss, wishing he had never come.

  “May I see your axe, sir?” asked Certak.

  “Certainly,” said Druss, pulling Snaga smoothly from the oiled sheath. In the older man’s hands the weapon seemed almost weightless, but as it passed to Certak the officer grunted.

  “The blade that smote the Chaos Hound,” whispered Certak, turning it over in his hands, then returning it to Druss.

  “Do you believe everything you hear?” said Archytas, sneering.

  “Did it happen, Druss?” said Diagoras, before Certak could answer.

  “Yes. A long time ago. But it scarce pierced its hide.”

  “Was it true they were sacrificing a princess?” asked Certak.

  “No. Two small children. But tell me about yourselves,” said Druss. “Wherever I go people ask me the same questions and I get very bored.”

  “If you’re that bored,” said Archytas, “why do you take the poet with you on all your adventures?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Quite simply that it seems strange for a man as modest as you seem to be to take a saga master with him. Although it proved very convenient.”

  “Convenient?”

  “Well, he created you, didn’t he? Druss the Legend. Fame and fortune. Surely any wandering warrior with such a companion could have been boosted into legend?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” said Druss. “I’ve known a lot of men in my time whose deeds are forgotten, but who were worthy of remembrance in song or tale. I never really thought of it before.”

  “How much of Sieben’s great saga is exaggerated?” asked Archytas.

  “Oh do shut up,” snapped Diagoras.

  “No,” said Druss, lifting his hand. “You’ve no idea how good this is. Always people ask me about the stories, and whenever I tell them they are - shall we say - rounded, they disbelieve me. But it’s true. The stories are not about me. They are based on the truth, but they have grown. I was the seed; they have become the tree. I never met a princess in my life. But to answer your first question. I never took Sieben on my quest. He just came. I think he was bored and wanted to see the world.”

  “But did you slay the werebeast in the mountains of Pelucid?” said Certak.

  “No. I just killed a lot of men in a lot of battles.”

  “Then why do you allow the poems to be sung?” asked Archytas.

  “If I could have stopped them I would,” Druss told him. “The first few years of my return were a nightmare. But I’ve got used to it since. People believe what they want to believe. The truth rarely makes a difference. People need heroes, and if they don’t have any, they invent them.”

  Orases returned with a bowl of stew and a loaf of black bread. “Have I missed anything?” he asked.

  “Not really,” said Druss. “We were just chatting.”

  “Druss has been telling us that his legend is all lies,” said Archytas. “It’s been most revealing.”

  Druss chuckled with genuine humour and shook his
head. “You see,” he told Diagoras and Certak, “people believe what they want to believe, and hear only what they wish to hear.” He glanced across at the tight-lipped Archytas. “Boy, there was a time when your blood would now be staining the walls of this tent. But I was younger then, and headstrong. Now I get no delight from killing puppies. But I am still Druss, so I tell you this, walk softly around me from now on.”

  Archytas forced a laugh. “You cause me no concern, old man,” he said. “I don’t think…”

  Druss rose swiftly and backhanded him across the face. Archytas hurtled backwards over his chair to lie groaning on the tent floor, his nose smashed and leaking blood.

  “No, you don’t think,” said Druss. “Now give me that stew, Orases. It must be getting cold.”

  “Welcome to Skeln, Druss,” said Diagoras, grinning.

  For three days Druss remained at the camp. Sieben had woken in Delnar’s trent, complaining of chest pains. The regimental surgeon examined him and ordered him to rest, explaining to Druss and Delnar that the poet had suffered a serious spasm of the heart.

  “How bad is it?” asked Druss.

  The surgeon’s eyes were bleak. “If he rests for a week or two he could be fine. The danger is that the heart might cramp suddenly - and fail. He’s not a young man, and the journey here was hard for him.”

  “I see,” said Druss. “Thank you.” He turned to Delnar. “I am sorry, but we must stay.”

  “Do not concern yourself, my friend,” responded the Earl, waving his hand. “Despite what I said when you arrived, you are welcome. But, tell me, what happened between you and Archytas? It looks like a mountain fell on his face.”

  “His nose tapped my hand,” grunted Druss.

  Delnar smiled. “He’s a somewhat loathsome character. But you had better watch out for him. He’s stupid enough to challenge you.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Druss. “He may be foolish, but he’s not in love with death. Even a puppy knows to hide from a wolf.”

  On the morning of the fourth day, as Druss sat with Sieben, one of the lookout sentries came running headlong into the camp. Within minutes chaos reigned as men raced for their armour. Hearing the commotion, Druss walked from the tent. A young soldier ran by. Druss’s arm snaked out, catching the man’s cloak and wrenching him to a stop.