The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  “What’s going on?” asked Druss.

  “The Ventrians are here!” shouted the soldier, tearing himself loose and running towards the pass. Druss swore and strode after him. At the mouth of the pass he halted, staring out over the stream.

  Standing in armoured line upon line, their lances gleaming, were the warriors of Gorben, filling the valley from mountainside to mountainside. At the centre of the mass was the tent of the Emperor, and around it were massed the black and silver ranks of the Immortals.

  Drenai warriors scurried past him as Druss made his slow way to Delnar’s side.

  “I told you he was cunning,” said Druss. “He must have sent a token force to Penrac, knowing it would draw our army south.”

  “Yes. But what now?”

  “You’re not left with many choices,” said Druss.

  “True.”

  The Drenai warriors spread out across the narrow centre of the pass in three ranks, their round shields glinting in the morning sun, their white horsehair-crested helms flowing in the breeze.

  “How many here are veterans?” asked Druss.

  “About half. I’ve placed them at the front.”

  “How long will it take a rider to reach Penrac?”

  “I’ve sent a man. The army should be back in about ten days.”

  “You think we’ve got ten days?” asked Druss.

  “No. But, as you say, there aren’t too many choices. What do you think Gorben will do?”

  “First he’ll talk. He’ll ask you to surrender. You’d better request a few hours to make up your mind. Then he’ll send the Panthians in. They’re an undisciplined bunch but they fight like devils. We should see them off. Their wicker shields and stabbing spears are no match for Drenai armour. After that he’ll test all his troops on us…”

  “The Immortals?”

  “Not until the end, when we’re weary and finished.”

  “It’s a gloomy picture,” said Delnar.

  “It’s a bitch,” agreed Druss.

  “Will you stand with us, axeman?”

  “Did you expect me to leave?”

  Delnar chuckled suddenly. “Why shouldn’t you? I wish I could.”

  In the first Drenai line Diagoras sheathed his sword, wiping his sweating palm on his red cloak. “There are enough of them,” he said.

  Beside him Certak nodded. “Masterly understatement. They look like they could run right over us.”

  “We’ll have to surrender, won’t we?” whispered Orases from behind them, blinking sweat from his eyes.

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s likely,” said Certak. “Though I admit it’s a welcome thought.”

  A rider on a black stallion forded the stream and galloped towards the Drenai line. Delnar walked through the ranks, Druss beside him, and waited.

  The rider wore the black and silver armour of a general of the Immortals. Reining in before the two men, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.

  “Druss?” he said. “Is that you?”

  Druss studied the gaunt features, the silver-streaked dark hair hanging in two braids.

  “Welcome to Skeln, Bodasen,” answered the axeman.

  “I’m sorry to find you here. I was meaning to ride for Skoda as soon as we took Drenan. Is Rowena well?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “As you see me. Fit and well. Yourself?”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “And Sieben?”

  “He’s asleep in a tent.”

  “He always knew when to avoid battles,” said Bodasen, forcing a smile. “And that’s what this is looking like unless commonsense prevails. Are you the leader?” he asked Delnar.

  “I am. What message do you bring?”

  “Merely this. Tomorrow morning my Emperor will ride through this pass. He would consider it a courtesy if you could remove your men from his path.”

  “We will think on it,” said Delnar.

  “I would advise you to think well,” said Bodasen, turning his mount. “I’ll be seeing you, Druss. Take care!”

  “You too.”

  Bodasen spurred the stallion back towards the stream and on through the Panthian ranks.

  Druss beckoned Delnar aside, away from the men. “It’s pointless standing here all day staring at them,” he said. “Why don’t you order them to stand down and we’ll send half of them back to bring up some blankets and fuel?”

  “You don’t think they’ll attack today?”

  “No. Why should they? They know we’ll not be reinforced tonight. Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Druss tramped back to the camp, stopping in to see the poet. Sieben was asleep. Druss pulled up a chair and stared down at the poet’s lined face. Uncharacteristically he stroked the balding head. Sieben opened his eyes.

  “Oh it’s you,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”

  “The Ventrians tricked us. They’re on the other side of the mountain.”

  Sieben swore softly. Druss chuckled. “You just lie here, poet, and I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve sent them running.”

  “The Immortals are here too?” asked Sieben.

  “Of course.”

  “Wonderful. A nice little outing you promised me. A few speeches. And what do we get? Another War.”

  “I saw Bodasen. He’s looking well.”

  “Marvellous. Maybe after he’s killed us we can have a drink together and chat about old times.”

  “You take things too seriously, poet. Rest now, and later I’ll have some men carry you up to the pass. You’d hate to miss the action, now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Couldn’t you get them to carry me all the way back to Skoda?”

  “Later,” grinned Druss. “Anyway, I must be getting back.”

  The axeman walked swiftly up the mountain slopes and sat on a boulder at the mouth of the pass, gazing intently at the enemy camp.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Delnar, moving up to join him.

  “I was remembering something I told an old friend a long time ago.”

  “What was that?”

  “If you want to win: Attack.”

  Bodasen dismounted before the Emperor and knelt, pressing his forehead to the earth. Then he rose. From a distance the Ventrian looked as he always had, powerful, black-bearded and keen of eye. But he could no longer stand close inspection. His hair and beard showed the unhealthy sheen of heavy, dark dye, his painted face glowed with unnatural colour and his eyes saw treachery in every shadow. His followers, even those like Bodasen who had served him for decades, knew never to stare into his face, addressing all their remarks to the gilded griffin on his breastplate. No one was allowed to approach him bearing a weapon, and he had not granted a private audience to anyone in years. Always he wore armour - even, it was said, when he slept. His food was tasted by slaves, and he had taken to wearing gloves of soft leather, in the belief that poison might be spread on the outside of his golden goblets.

  Bodasen waited for permission to speak, glancing up swiftly to read the expression on the Emperor’s face. Gorben was staring moodily.

  “Was that Druss?” he asked.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “So even he has turned against me.”

  “He is a Drenai, my lord.”

  “Do you dispute with me, Bodasen?”

  “No, sire. Of course not.”

  “Good. I want Druss brought before me for judgement. Such treachery must be answered with swift justice. You understand?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Will the Drenai give us the way?”

  “I think not, sire. But it will not take long to clear the path. Even with Druss there. Shall I order the men to stand down and prepare camp?”

  “No. Let them stay in ranks for a while. Let the Drenai see their power and their strength.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Bodasen backed away.

  “Are you still loyal?” asked the Emperor, suddenly.

  Bodasen’s mouth
was dry. “As I have always been, lord.”

  “Yet Druss was your friend.”

  “Even though that is true, sire, I will see him dragged before you in chains. Or his head presented to you, should he be slain in the defence.”

  The Emperor nodded, then turned his painted face to stare up at the pass. “I want them dead. All dead,” he whispered.

  In the cool of the pre-dawn haze the Drenai formed their lines, each warrior bearing a rounded shield and a short stabbing sword. Their sabres had been put aside, for in close formation a swinging longsword could be as deadly to a comrade standing close as to an enemy bearing down. The men were nervous, constantly rechecking breastplate straps, or discovering the bronze greaves protecting their lower legs were too tight, too loose, too anything. Cloaks were removed and left in tight red rolls by the mountain wall behind the ranks. Both Druss and Delnar knew this was the time a man’s courage was under the greatest strain. Gorben could do many things. The dice were in his hands. All the Drenai could do was wait.

  “Do you think he’ll attack immediately the sun comes up?” asked Delnar.

  Druss shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’ll let the fear work for about an hour. But then again - you can never tell with him.”

  The two hundred men in the front rank shared the same emotions now, with varying intensity. Pride, for they had been singled out as the best; fear, for they would be the first to die. Some had regrets. Many had not written home for weeks, others had left friends and relatives with bitter words. Many were the thoughts.

  Druss made his way to the centre of the first line, calling for Diagoras and Certak to stand on either side of him.

  “Move away from me a little,” he said. “Give me swinging room.” The line shuffled apart. Druss loosened his shoulders, stretching the muscles of his arms and back. The sky lightened. Druss cursed. The disadvantage for the defenders - apart from the numbers of the enemy - was that the sun rose in their eyes.

  Across the stream the black-skinned Pahthians sharpened their spears. There was little fear among them. The ivory-skins facing them were few in number. They would be swept away like antelope before a veldt blaze. Gorben waited until the sun cleared the peaks, then gave the order to attack. The Panthians surged to their feet, a swelling roar of hatred rising from their throats, a wall of sound that hurtled up into the pass, washing over the defenders.

  “Listen to that!” bellowed Druss. “That’s not strength you hear. That’s the sound of terror!”

  Five thousand warriors raced towards the pass, their feet drumming a savage beat on the rocky slopes, echoing high into the peaks.

  Druss hawked and spat. Then he began to laugh, a rich, full sound that brought a few chuckles from the men around him.

  “Gods, I’ve missed this,” he shouted. “Come on, you cowsons!” he yelled at the Panthians. “Move yourselves!”

  Delnar, at the centre of the second line, smiled and drew his sword.

  With the enemy a bare hundred paces distant, the men of the third line looked to Archytas. He raised his arm. The men dropped their shields and stooped, rising with barbed javelins. Each man had five of them at his feet.

  The Panthians were almost upon them.

  “Now!” yelled Archytas.

  Arms flew forward and two hundred shafts of death hurtled into the black mass.

  “Again!” bellowed Archytas.

  The front ranks of the advancing horde disappeared screaming, to be trampled by the men behind them. The charge faltered as the tribesmen tripped and fell over fallen comrades. The mountain walls, narrowing like an hour-glass, slowed the attack still further.

  Then the lines clashed.

  A spear lunged for Druss. Blocking it with his axe blades, he dragged a back-hand cut that sheared through the wicker shield and the flesh beyond. The man grunted as Snaga clove through his ribcage. Druss tore the weapon clear, parried another thrust and hammered his axe into his opponent’s face. Beside him Certak blocked a spear with his shield, expertly sliding his gladius into a gleaming black chest. A spear sliced his upper thigh, but there was no pain. He counter-thrust, and his attacker fell across the growing pile of corpses in front of the line.

  The Panthians now found themselves leaping upon the bodies of their comrades in their desperation to breach the line. The floor of the pass became slippery with blood, but the Drenai held.

  A tall warrior threw aside his wicker shield and hurdled the wall of dead, spear raised. He hurtled towards Druss. Snaga buried itself in his chest, but the weight of the man bore Druss back, tearing his axe from his hands. A second man leapt at him. Druss turned aside the thrusting spear with his mail-covered gauntlets, and smashed a cruel punch to the man’s jaw. As the warrior crumpled Druss grabbed him by the throat and groin and hoisted the body above his head, hurling him back over the corpse wall into the faces of the advancing warriors. Twisting, he wrenched his axe clear of the first man’s body.

  “Come on, my lads,” he bellowed. “Time to send them home!”

  Leaping up on the corpses, he cut left and right, opening up a space in the Panthian ranks. Diagoras couldn’t believe his eyes. He swore. Then leapt to join him.

  The Drenai advanced, clambering over the Panthian dead, their swords red, their eyes grim.

  At the centre the tribesmen struggled first to overcome the madman with the axe, then to get back from him, as other Drenai warriors joined him.

  Fear flashed through their ranks like a plague.

  Within minutes they were streaming back across the valley floor.

  Druss led the warriors back into position. His jerkin was stained with blood, and his beard spotted with crimson. Opening his shirt, he removed a towel and wiped his sweating face. Doffing his helm of black and silver, he scratched his head.

  “Well, lads,” he called out, his deep voice echoing in the crags, “how does it feel to have earned your pay?”

  “They’re coming again!” someone shouted.

  Druss’ voice cut through the rising fear. “Of course they are,” he bellowed. “They don’t know when they’re beaten. Front rank fall back, second rank stand to. Let’s spread the glory!”

  Druss remained with the front line, Diagoras and Certak alongside him.

  By dusk they had beaten off four charges for the loss of only forty men - thirty dead, ten wounded.

  The Panthians had lost over eight hundred men.

  It was a macabre scene that night as the Drenai sat around small campfires, the dancing flames throwing weird shadows across the wall of corpses in the pass making it seem as if the bodies writhed in the darkness. Delnar ordered the men to gather all the wicker shields they could find and recover as many javelins and spears as were still usable.

  Towards midnight many of the veterans were asleep, but others found the excitement of the day too fresh, and they sat in small groups, talking in low tones.

  Delnar walked from group to group, sitting with them, joking and lifting their spirits. Druss slept in the tent of Sieben, high in the mouth of the pass. The poet had watched part of the day’s action from his bed, and fallen asleep during the long afternoon.

  Diagoras, Orases and Certak sat with half a dozen other men as Delnar approached and joined them.

  “How are you feeling?” asked the Earl.

  The men smiled. What answer could they give?

  “Can I ask a question, sir?” asked Orases.

  “Certainly.”

  “How is it that Druss has stayed alive so long? I mean, he has no defence to speak of.”

  “It’s a good point,” said the Earl, doffing his helm and running his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool of the night. “The reason is contained in your question. It is because he has no defence. That terrible axe rarely leaves a man with a non-mortal wound. To kill Druss you have to be prepared to die. No, not just prepared. You would have to attack Druss in the sure knowledge that he will kill you. Now, most men want to live. You understand?”

 
“Not really, sir,” admitted Orases.

  “Do you know the one kind of warrior no one wants to face?” asked Delnar.

  “No, sir.”

  “The baresark, sometimes called the berserker, a man whose killing frenzy makes him oblivious to pain and uncaring about life. He throws his armour away and attacks the enemy, cutting and killing until he himself is cut to pieces. I saw a baresark once who had lost an arm. As the blood spewed from the stump he aimed it in the faces of his attackers and carried on fighting until he dropped.

  “No one wants to fight such a man. Now, Druss is even more formidable than the berserker. He has all the virtues, but his killing frenzy is controlled. He can think clearly. And when you add the man’s awesome strength he becomes a veritable machine of destruction.”

  “But surely a chance thrust amid the melee,” said Diagoras. “A sudden slip on a pool of blood. He could die as well as any other man.”

  “Yes,” admitted Delnar. “I do not say that he won’t die in such a way; only that the odds are all with Druss. Most of you saw him today. Those who fought alongside him had no time to study his technique, but others of you caught a glimpse of the Legend. He’s always balanced, always moving. His eyes are never still. His peripheral vision is incredible. He can sense danger even amid chaos. Today a very brave Panthian warrior hurled himself on the axe, dragging it from Druss’s hand. A second warrior followed. Did anyone see it?”

  “I did,” said Orases.

  “But you didn’t really learn from it. The first Panthian died to remove Druss’s weapon. The second was to engage him while the others breached the line. Had they come through then, our force might have been split and pushed back into the walls of the mountain. Druss saw that instantly. That’s why, although he could have just knocked his attacker senseless and retrieved his axe, he hurled the man back into the breach. Now think on this: In that instant Druss had seen the danger, formulated a plan of action, and carried it out. More even than this. He retrieved the axe and took the battle to the enemy. That’s what broke them. Druss had judged exactly the right moment to attack. It’s the instinct of the born warrior.”