Legend

7

Two days and twenty-seven leagues from Skoda and Druss, with a mile-eating soldier's stride, was nearing the lush valleys at the edge of Skultik Forest. He was three days' march from Dros Delnoch, and evidence of the coming war met his eyes everywhere. Deserted homes, untended fields and the people he did meet were wary and mistrustful of strangers. They wore defeat like a cloak, Druss thought. Topping a small rise he found himself looking down on a village of maybe thirty homes, some crudely built, others showing signs of more careful construction. At the centre of the hamlet was a square, an inn and a stable.

Druss rubbed his thigh, trying to ease the rheumatic pain in his swollen right knee. His right shoulder ached, but this was a dull throbbing he could live with, a reminder of past battles when a Ventrian spear had cut under his shoulder blade. But the knee! This would not bear him many more leagues without rest and an ice pack.

He hawked and spat, wiping a huge hand across his bearded lips. You're an old man, he told himself. There is no point in pretending otherwise. He limped down the hill towards the inn, wondering once more whether he should purchase a mount. His head told him yes, his heart said no. He was Druss the Legend and he never rode. Tireless he could walk all night and fight all day. It would be good for morale when Druss walked into Dros Delnoch. Men would say: "Great Gods, the old boy's walked from Skoda." And others would answer: "Of course he has. That's Druss. He never rides."

But his head told him to buy a horse and leave it at the forest's edge, a mere ten miles from the Dros. And who would be the wiser?

The inn was crowded, but the innkeeper had rooms to spare. Most of the customers were passing through, heading south, or west into neutral Vagria. Druss paid his money, took a canvas sack of ice to his room and sat on the hard bed pressing it to his swollen knee. He had not been in the main room for long, but long enough to hear some of the conversations and to recognise many of the men there as soldiers. Deserters.

Always in war, he knew, there were men who would sooner ride than die. But many of the young men downstairs had seemed more demoralised than cowardly.

Were things so bad at Delnoch?

He removed the ice and massaged the fluid away from the joint, his thick fingers pressing and probing, his teeth gritted hard against the pain. Satisfied at last, he opened his small-pack and removed a length of sturdy cotton bandage which he wound tightly about the knee, tucking the end into the fold. Then he rolled down his woollen leggings and pulled his black boot on to his foot, grunting as the injured knee tensed. He stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. His knee felt better — not much, but enough. The sky was cloudless and blue, and a soothing breeze ruffled his beard. High overhead an eagle circled.

Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.

The script was writ large and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.

My Dearest Comrade,

Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar — you remember the Abbot of Swords? — to request The Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.

I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle, or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.

Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn's nephew and a martinet. He is despised and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.

I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.

It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favour.

Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.

Your comrade in arms.

Earl Delnar

Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.

"An old man with a swollen knee and arthritic back. If you've pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere."

A silvered mirror stood next to a wash-basin on an oak chest and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of grey hair. His thoughts were sombre as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.

At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.

"They say Ulric has a million men," said one tall youngster. "And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender, and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!"

"Do you know why he did it?" Druss asked, breaking into the conversation. The men looked at one another, then back at Druss.

"Of course I know. He's a bloodthirsty savage, that's why."

"Not at all," said Druss. "Join me in a drink?" He called the innkeeper and ordered more ale. "He did it so that men like you could spread the word to other cities. Wait! Mistake me not," said Druss, as the man's anger flushed his face. "I do not criticise you for telling the story. It is natural for these tales to be passed on. But Ulric is a canny soldier. Assume he took the city and treated the defenders heroically? Other cities would defend just as hard. But this way he sends fear ahead of him. And fear is a great ally."

"You talk like an admirer," said another man, shorter, with a curling blond moustache.

"But I am," said Druss, smiling. "Ulric is one of the greatest generals of the age. Who else in a thousand years has united the Nadir? And with such simplicity. It is the Nadir way to fight anyone not of their tribe. With a thousand tribes thinking this way, they could never become a nation. Ulric took his own tribe, the Wolfshead, and changed the style of Nadir war. To each tribe he conquered, he offered a choice: join him or die. Many chose to die, but many more chose to live. And his army grew. Each tribe keeps its own customs, and they are honoured. You cannot take such a man lightly."

"The man is a treacherous cur," offered a man from another group of speakers. "He signed a treaty with us. Now he is to break it."

"I am not defending his morals," said Druss equably. "Merely pointing out that he's a good general. His troops worship him."

"Well, I don't like the way you speak, old man," said the tallest of the listeners.

"No?" said Druss. "Are you a soldier, then?"

The man hesitated, glanced at his companions, then shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Forget it."

"Are you a deserter, then?"

"I said to forget it, old man," stormed the youngster.

"Are you all deserters?" asked Druss, leaning back against the bar and scanning the thirty or so men gathered there.

"No, not all," said one young man, emerging from the throng. He was tall and slim, dark hair braided beneath a helm of bronze. "But you cannot blame those who are."

"Don't bother with it, Pinar," said one. "We have talked it over."

"I know. Interminably," said Pinar. "But it doesn't change the situation. The Gan is a pig. Worse, he is incompetent. But in leaving, you are just making sure your comrades have no chance at all."

"They haven't any chance anyway," said the short one with the blond moustache. "If they had any sense, they would leave with us."

"Dorian, you are being selfish," said Pinar gently. "When the fighting starts, Gan Orrin will have to forget his idiot rules. We will all be too busy to worry about them."

"Well, I've had enough of it already," said Dorian. "Shining armour. Dawn parades. Forced marches. Midnight inspections. Penalties for sloppy salutes, uncombed crests, talking after lights out. The man's mad."

"If you're caught, you will be hung," said Pinar.

"He doesn't dare to send anyone after us. They would desert too. I came to Dros Delnoch to fight the Nadir. I left a farm, a wife and two daughters. I didn't come here for all that shining armour garbage."

"Then go, my friend," said Pinar. "I hope you do not live to regret it."

"I do regret it already. But my mind is set," said Dorian. "I am heading south to join Woundweaver. Now there's a soldier!"

"Is Earl Delnar still alive?" asked Druss. The young warrior nodded absently. "How many men still hold their positions?"

"What?" said Pinar, realising Druss was speaking to him.

"How many men have you at Delnoch?"

"What concern is it of yours?"

"It's where I am heading."

"Why?"

"Because I have been asked, young laddie," said Druss. "And in more years than I care to remember, I have never turned down a request from a friend."

"This friend asked you to join us at Dros Delnoch? Is he mad? We need soldiers, archers, pikemen, warriors. I haven't time to be respectful, old man. But you should go home — we have no need of greybeards."

Druss smiled grimly. "You are a blunt speaker, boy. But your brains are in your breeches. I have handled an axe for twice your lifetime. My enemies are all dead, or wished they were." His eyes blazed and he stepped closer towards the younger man. "When your life has been spent in one war after another for forty-five years, you have to be pretty handy to survive. Now you, laddie — your lips scarce dry from your mother's milk — are just a beardless boy to me. Your sword looks pretty there at your side. But if I chose, I could kill you without breaking sweat."

A silence had fallen on the room and the watchers noted the bright sheen on Pinar's brow.

"Who invited you to Dros Delnoch?" he said at last.

"Earl Delnar."

"I see. Well, the earl has been ill, sir. Now you may or may not be a mighty warrior still. And I most certainly am a beardless boy to you. But let me tell you this: Gan Orrin commands at Dros Delnoch, and he will not allow you to stay, Earl Delnar or no. I am sure your heart is in the right place, and I am sorry if I sounded disrespectful. But you are too old for a war."

"The judgement of youth!" said Druss. "It is seldom of value. All right, much as it goes against the grain, I can see I still have to prove myself. Set me a task, boy!"

"I don't understand you," said Pinar.

"Set me a task. Something no man here can do. And we will see how 'the old man' fares."

"I have no time for these games. I must return to the Dros." He turned to go, but Druss's words hit him like a blow, chilling his blood.

"You don't understand, boy. If you do not set me that task, I will have to kill you. For I will not be shamed."

The young man turned again. "As you say. Very well, shall we adjourn to the market-place?"

The inn emptied, the crowd forming a circle about the two men in the deserted village square. The sun beat down and Druss sucked in a deep breath, glorying in the warmth of spring.

"It will be pointless giving you a test of strength," said Pinar, "for you are built like a bull. But war, as you know, is a test of stamina. Do you wrestle?"

"I have been known to," said Druss, doffing his jerkin.

"Good! Then you may test your skill, one at a time, against three men of my choice. Do you agree?"

"All too simple against these soft, fat runners," said Druss. An angry murmur arose from the crowd but Pinar silenced them with a raised hand.

"Dorian. Hagir. Somin. Will you give old father here a trial?"

The men were the first three Dross had met at the bar. Dorian removed his cloak and tied his shoulder-length hair behind his neck with a leather thong. Druss, unnoticed, tested his knee: it was not strong.

"Are you ready?" asked Pinar.

Both men nodded and immediately Dorian rushed the older man. Druss lashed out, grabbing the other's throat, then stooped to push his right hand between the man's legs and lifted. With a grunt and a heave, he hurled him ten feet through the air to land like a sack on the hard-packed earth. Dorian half rose, than sat back shaking his head. The crowd hooted with laughter.

"Who's next?" asked Druss.

Pinar nodded to another youngster; then, observing the fear on the lad's face, he stepped forward. "You have made your point, greybeard. You are strong and I am at fault. But Gan Orrin will not allow you to fight."

"Laddie, he will not stop me. If he tries, I will tie him to a fast horse and send him back to his uncle." All eyes turned as a hoarse cry split the air.

"You old bastard!" Dorian had gathered up his longsword and was advancing Towards Druss, who stood with arms folded, waiting.

"No," said Pinar. "Put up your blade, Dorian."

"Back off or draw your sword," Dorian told him. "I have had enough of these games. You think you are a warrior, old man? Then let us see you use that axe. Because if you don't, I will put some air in your belly."

"Boy," said Druss, his eyes cold, "think well about this venture. For make no mistake, you cannot stand before me and live. No man ever has." The words were spoken softly, yet no one disbelieved the old man.

Except Dorian.

"Well, we shall see. Draw your blade!"

Druss slipped Snaga from its sheath, his broad hand curling round its black haft. Dorian attacked!

And died.

He lay on the ground, head half-severed from his neck. Druss hammered Snaga deep into the earth, cleansing the blade of blood, while Pinar stood in stunned silence. Dorian had not been a great swordsman, but he was certainly skilled. Yet the old man had batted aside the slashing sword and in one flowing motion had returned the attack — all without moving his feet. Pinar looked down at the body of his former companion. You should have stayed at the Dros, he thought.

"I did not want that to happen," said Druss, "but I gave him fair warning. The choice was his."

"Yes," said Pinar. "My apologies for speaking the way I did. You will be a great help to us, I think. Excuse me, I must help them to remove the body. Will you join me for a drink?"

"I will see you in the long bar," said Druss.

The tall dark-haired youngster whom Druss had been scheduled to wrestle approached him as he walked through the crowd.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "I am sorry about Dorian. He's hot-tempered. Always has been."

"Not any more," said Druss.

"There will be no blood feud," said the man.

"Good. A man with wife and daughters has no place losing his temper. The man was a fool. Are you a friend of the family?"

"Yes. My name is Hagir. Our farms are close. We are… were… neighbours."

"Then, Hagir, when you get home I hope you will see that his wife is cared for."

"I am not going home. I'm going back to the Dros."

"What changed your mind?"

"With respect, you did, sir. I think I know who you are."

"Make your own decisions, don't place them on my shoulders. I want good soldiers at Dros Delnoch, but also I want men who will stand."

"I didn't leave because I was frightened. I was just fed up with the crazy rules. But if men like you are prepared to be there, I will stick it out."

"Good. Join me for a drink later. Now I am going to have a hot bath."

Druss pushed his way past the men in the doorway and went inside.

"Are you really going back, Hagir?" asked one of the men.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"But why?" urged another. "Nothing has changed. Except that we shall all be on report and probably flogged."

"It's him — he's going there. The Captain of the Axe."

"Druss! That was Druss?"

"Yes, I am sure of it."

"How sickening!" said the other.

"What do you mean, Somin?" asked Hagir.

"Dorian — Druss was Dorian's hero. Don't you remember him talking about him? Druss this and Druss that. It is one reason he joined up — to be like Druss, and maybe even to meet him."

"Well, he met him," said Hagir sombrely.

Druss, dark-haired Pinar, tall Hagir and blunt-featured Somin sat at a corner table in the long room of the inn. Around them a crowd gathered, drawn by the legend of the grizzled old man.

"Just over nine thousand, you say. How many archers?"

Dun Pinar waved a hand. "No more than six hundred, Druss. The rest are remnants of cavalry lancers, infantrymen, pikers and engineers. The bulk of the complement is made up of volunteer fanners from the Sentran Plain. They're plucky enough."

"If I remember aright," said Druss, "the first wall is four hundred paces long and twenty wide. You will need a thousand archers on it. And I don't just mean a thousand bows. We need men who can pick a target from a hundred paces."

"We just haven't got them," said Pinar. "On the credit side, we do have almost a thousand Legion Riders."

"Some good news at least. Who leads them?"

"Gan Hogun."

"The same Hogun who routed the Sathuli at Corteswain?"

"Yes," said Pinar, pride in his voice. "A skilled soldier, strong on discipline and yet worshipped by his men. He's not very popular with Gan Orrin."

"He wouldn't be," said Druss. "But that's a matter we shall settle at Delnoch. What of supplies?"

"There we have a few problems. There is enough food for a year, and we discovered three more wells, one as far back as the keep. We have close to six hundred thousand arrows, a multitude of javelins and several hundred spare mail-shirts.

"But the biggest problem is the town itself. It has spread from Wall Three down to Wall Six, hundreds of buildings from wall to wall. There is no killing ground, Druss. Once over Wall Six, the enemy has cover all the way to the keep."

"We will tackle that, too, when I arrive. Are there still outlaws in Skultik?"

"Of course. When have there not been?" answered Pinar.

"How many?"

"Impossible to say. Five or six hundred, perhaps."

"Do they have a known leader?"

"Again, hard to say," said Pinar. "According to rumour, there is a young nobleman who heads the largest band. But you know how these rumours grow. Every outlaw leader is an ex-nobleman or a prince. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking they are archers," said Druss.

"But you cannot enter Skultik now, Druss. Anything could happen. They could kill you."

"True. All things could happen. My heart could give out, my liver fail. Disease could strike me. A man cannot spend his life worrying about the unexpected. I need archers. In Skultik there are archers. It's that simple, boy."

"But it's not that simple. Send someone else. You are too valuable lose like this," Pinar told him, gripping at the old man's arm.

"I'm too long in the tooth to change my ways now. Direct action pays off, Pinar. Believe me. And there's more to it, which I will tell you about some other time.

‘Now,’ he said, leaning back and addressing the crowd, ‘you know who I am, and where I am heading. I will speak plainly to you; many of you are Runners, some are frightened, others are demoralised. Understand this: When Ulric takes Dros Delnoch the Drenai lands will become Nadir lands. The farms you are running to will be Nadir farms. Your wives will become Nadir women. There are some things no man can run from. I know. At Dross Delnoch you risk death. But all men die. Even Druss. Even Karnak the One-Eyed. Even the Earl of Bronze. A man needs many things in his life to make it bearable. A good woman. Sons and daughters. Comradeship. Warmth. Food and shelter. But above all these things, he needs to be able to know that he is a man.

"And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop — and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.

"That man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf, or dispossessed. But he is unconquerable.

"And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strife and fear.

"I have fought in many battles. I have seen many men die. And women too. In the main, they died proud. Bear this in mind, as you decide your future." The old man's fierce blue eyes scanned the faces in the crowd, gauging reaction. He knew he had them. It was time to leave.

He bade his farewells to Pinar and the rest, settled his bill despite the protestations of the innkeeper and set off for Skultik.

He was angry as he walked, feeling the stares on his back as the inn emptied to watch him go. He was angry because he knew his speech had been a falsehood, and he was a man who liked the truth. Life, he knew, breaks many men. Some as strong as oak wither as their wives die, or leave them, as their children suffer or starve. Other strong men break if they lose a limb; or worse, the use of their legs or their eyesight. Each man has a breaking point, no matter how strong his spirit. Somewhere, deep inside him, there is a flaw that only the fickle cruelty of fate can find. A man's strength is ultimately born of his knowledge of his own weakness, Druss knew.

His own fear was of dotage and senility. The thought of it set him to trembling. Did he really hear a voice at Skoda, or was it merely his own terror booming inside him?

Druss the Legend. Mightiest man of his era. A killing machine, a warrior. And why?

Because I never had the courage to be a farmer, Druss told himself.

Then he laughed, dismissing all sombre thoughts and self doubt. It was a talent he had.

Today had a good feel about it. He felt lucky. If he kept to known trails he would certainly meet outlaws. One old man alone was a package not to be missed. They would be a sorely inefficient lot if he were to pass through the forest unnoticed — and unattended.

The woods were becoming thicker now, as he reached the outskirts of Skultik. Huge, gnarled oaks, graceful willows and slender elm interlinked their branches for as far as the eye could see — and greatly beyond, Druss knew.

The noon sun made shafts of shimmering light through the branches and the breeze carried the sounds of miniature waterfalls from hidden streams. It was a place of enchantment and beauty.

To his left a squirrel ceased its hunt for food and gazed warily at the old man as he marched past. A fox crouched in the undergrowth and a snake slithered beneath a fallen trunk as he approached. Overhead birds sang, a chorus full of the sounds of life.

Throughout the long afternoon Druss marched on, occasionally bursting into song, full-bodied and lusty versions of battle hymns from a score of nations.

Towards dusk he became aware that he was being watched.

How he was aware he could never explain. A tightening of the skin on his neck, a growing awareness that his back made a broad target. Whatever it was, he had learned to trust his senses in the matter. He loosened Snaga in her sheath.

Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, slender and wand-like against a background of oak.

At the centre of the clearing, on a fallen trunk, sat a young man, dressed in homespun garments of green tunic and brown leather leggings. Upon his legs lay a longsword, and by his side was a longbow and a quiver of goose-feathered arrows.

"Good day, old man," he said, as Druss appeared. Lithe and strong, thought Druss, noting with a warrior's eye the cat-like grace of the man as he stood, sword in hand.

"Good day, laddie," said Druss, spotting a movement to his left in the undergrowth. Another whisper of branch on cloth came from his right.

"And what brings you to our charming forest?" asked the young man. Druss casually walked to a nearby beech and sat, leaning his back against the bark.

"A desire for solitude," he said.

"Ah yes. Solitude! And now you have company. Perhaps this is not a lucky time for you."

"One time is as lucky as another," said Druss, returning the other's smile. "Why don't you ask your friends to join us? It must be damp skulking in the bushes."

"How rude of me, to be sure. Eldred, Ring, come forward and meet our guest." Sheepishly two other young men pushed their way through the greenery to stand beside the first. Both were dressed in identical clothing of green tunic and leather leggings. "Now we are all here," said the first.

"All except the bearded one with the longbow," said Druss.

The young man laughed. "Come out, Jorak. Old father here misses nothing, it seems." The fourth man came into the open. He was large — a head taller than Druss and built like an ox, his massive hands dwarfing the longbow.

"Now, dear sir, we are all here. Be so kind as to divest yourself of all your valuables, for we are in a hurry. There is a stag roasting at camp, and sweet new potatoes, garnished with mint. I don't want to be late." He smiled, almost apologetically.

Druss bunched his powerful legs beneath him, rising to his feet, his blue eyes glinting with battle joy.

"If you want my purse, you will have to earn it," he said.

"Oh damn!" said the young man, smiling and reseating himself. "I told you, Jorak, that this old fellow had a warrior look about him."

"And I told you that we should have merely shot him down and then taken his purse," said Jorak.

"Unsporting," said the first. He turned to Druss. "Listen, old man, it would be churlish of us to shoot you down from a distance and that sets us a pretty problem. We must have your purse, don't you see? No point in being a robber else?" He paused, deep in thought, then spoke once more. "You're obviously not a rich man, so whatever we get will not be worth a great deal of effort. How about spinning a coin? You win you keep your money, we win we take it. And I'll throw in a free meal. Roast stag! How does that sound?"

"How about if I win I get your purses, and a meal?" asked Druss.

"Now, now, old horse! No point in taking liberties when we're trying to be friendly. All right! How about this? Honour needs to be satisfied. How about a little skirmish with Jorak here? You look quite strong, and he's a dab hand at bare-knuckle squabbles."

"Done!" said Druss. "What are the rules?"

"Rules? Whoever is left standing wins. Win or lose, we'll stand you a supper. I rather like you — you remind me of my grandfather."

Druss grinned broadly, reached into his pack and pulled on his black gauntlets. "You don't mind do you, Jorak?" he asked. "It's the old skin on my knuckles — it tends to split."

"Let's get it over with," said Jorak, advancing.

Druss stepped in to meet him, taking in the awesome breadth of the man's shoulders. Jorak lunged, hurling a right cross. Druss ducked and crashed his own right fist into the other's belly. A whoosh of air exploded from the giant's mouth. Stepping back, Druss thundered a right hook to the jaw and Jorak hit the ground face first. He twitched once, then lay still.

"The youth of today," said Druss sadly, "have no stamina!"

The young leader chuckled. "You win, Father Time. But look, for the sake of my fast diminishing prestige, give me the opportunity of besting you at something. We will have a wager: I wager my purse against yours that I am a better archer."

"Hardly a fair bet, laddie. I will concede that point. But I will make a wager with you: strike the trunk of the tree behind me with one arrow, and I'll pay up."

"Come now, dear sir, where is the art in that? Less than fifteen paces, and the bole is three hands wide."

"Try it and see," offered Druss.

The young outlaw shrugged, hefted his bow and drew a long arrow from his doeskin quiver. With a fluid motion his strong fingers drew back the string and released the shaft. As the outlaw's bow bent, Druss drew Snaga and the axe sang through the air in a glittering arc of white light as he sliced the blade to his right. The outlaw's shaft splintered as the axe struck. The young man blinked and swallowed. "I would have paid to have seen that," he said.

"You did!" said Druss. "Where is your purse?"

"Sadly," said the young man, pulling his pouch from his belt, "it is empty. But the purse is yours as we agreed. Where did you learn that trick?"

"In Ventria, years ago."

"I've seen some axe work in the past. But that bordered on the incredible. My name is Bowman."

"I am Druss."

"I know that, old horse. Actions speak louder than words."