Drenai Saga 01 - Legend

by David Gemmell

  The old man leapt lightly from the ramparts to the grass beyond, where he waited. He made no move to halt the attack on the Nadir warrior. Nogusha saw Druss waiting, slashed a path, and jumped clear. Several Drenai warriors made to follow him, but Druss waved them back.

  “Well met, Nogusha,” said the old man.

  “Well met, Deathwalker.”

  “You will not live to collect Ulric’s reward,” said Druss. “There is no way back.”

  “All men must die. And this moment for me is as close to paradise as I could wish for. All my life you have been there before me, making my deeds seem shadows.”

  Druss nodded solemnly. “I, too, have thought of you.”

  Nogusha attacked with stunning speed. Druss hammered the sword aside, stepped in, and struck a blow of awesome power with his left fist. Nogusha staggered but recovered swiftly, blocking the downward sweep of Druss’s ax. The battle that followed was brief and viciously fought. No matter how high the skill, a contest between an axman and a swordsman could never last long. Nogusha feinted to the left, then swept his sword up under Druss’s guard. With no time for thought, Druss hurled himself under the arcing blade, slamming his shoulder into Nogusha’s midriff. As the tribesman was hurled backward, the sword’s blade sliced the back of Druss’s jerkin, gashing the skin and flesh of his upper back. The old man ignored the sudden pain and threw himself across the body of the fallen swordsman. His left hand clamped over the right wrist of his opponent, and Nogusha did likewise.

  The struggle was now titanic as each man strained to break the other’s grip. Their strength was nearly identical, and while Druss had the advantage of being above the fallen warrior and thus in a position to use his weight to bear down, Nogusha was younger and Druss had been cut deeply. Blood welled down his back, pooling above the thick leather belt around his jerkin.

  “You … cannot hold … against me,” hissed Nogusha through clenched teeth.

  Druss, face purple with effort, did not answer. The man was right; he could feel his strength ebbing. Nogusha’s right arm began to lift, the sword blade glinting in the morning sun. Druss’s left arm was beginning to shake with the effort and would give out at any moment. Suddenly the old man lifted his head and rammed his forehead down onto Nogusha’s helpless face. The man’s nose splintered as the edge of his adversary’s silver-rimmed helm crashed upon it. Thrice more Druss butted the tribesman, and Nogusha began to panic. Already his nose and one cheek-bone were smashed. He twisted, released Druss’s arm, and exploded a mighty punch to his chin, but Druss rode it and hammered Snaga into the man’s neck. Blood burst from the wound, and Nogusha ceased to struggle. His eyes met the old man’s, but no word was said: Druss had no breath, and Nogusha had no vocal chords. The tribesman transferred his gaze to the sky and died. Druss slowly pulled himself upright; then, taking Nogusha by the feet, he dragged him up the short steps to the battlements. Meanwhile the Nadir had fallen back, ready for another charge. Druss called two men and ordered them to pass up Nogusha’s body, then he climbed onto the ramparts.

  “Hold on to my legs but do not let yourselves be seen,” Druss whispered to the soldiers behind him. In full view of the Nadir massed below, he pulled the body of Nogusha upright in a tight bear hug, took hold of his neck and groin, and with a mighty effort raised the huge body above his head. With a heave and a scream he hurled the body out over the walls. But for the men holding him, he would have fallen. They helped him down, their faces anxious.

  “Get me to the hospital before I bleed to death,” he whispered.

  27

  Caessa sat beside the bed, silent but watchful, her eyes never leaving the sleeping Druss. Thirty stitches laced the wound on the axman’s broad back, the line curving alongside the shoulder blade and over the shoulder itself, where the cut was deepest. The old man was asleep, drugged with poppy wine. The blood loss from the wound had been prodigious, and he had collapsed on the way to the hospital. Caessa had stood by Calvar Syn as the stitches were inserted. She had said nothing. Now she merely sat.

  She could not understand her fascination for the warrior. Certainly she did not desire him—men had never raised desire in her. Love? Was it love? She had no way of knowing, no terms of reference to gauge her feelings by. Her parents had died horribly when she was seven. Her father, a peaceful placid farmer, had tried to stop raiders from robbing his barn, and they had cut him down without a moment’s thought. Caessa’s mother had seized her by the hand and raced for the woods above the cliff. But they had been seen, and the chase was short. The woman could not carry the child, for she was pregnant. And she would not abandon her. She had fought like a wildcat but had been overpowered, abused, and slain. All the while the child had sat beneath an oak tree, frozen with terror, unable even to scream. A bearded man with foul breath had finally come to her, lifted her brutally by the hair, carried her to the cliff edge, and hurled her out over the sea.

  She had missed the rocks, though her head was gashed in the fall and her right leg was broken. A fisherman saw her plunge and pulled her clear. From that day on she changed.

  The laughing child laughed no more, or danced, or sang. Sullen she was, and vicious she became. Other children would not play with her, and as she grew older, she found herself more and more alone. At the age of fifteen she killed her first man, a traveler who had chattered to her by a river’s edge, asking directions. She crept into his camp and cut his throat while he slept, sitting beside him to watch him die.

  He was the first of many.

  The death of men made her cry. In her tears she became alive. For Caessa, to live was the most important single objective of her life. And so men died.

  In later years, after her twentieth birthday, Caessa devised a new method of selecting victims: those who were attracted to her. They would be allowed to sleep with her, but later, as they dreamed—perhaps of the pleasures they had enjoyed—she would draw a sharpened blade gently across their throats. She had killed no one since joining Bowman some six months before, for Skultik had become her last refuge.

  Yet now she sat beside the bed of an injured man and wished for him to live. Why?

  She drew her dagger and pictured its blade drawing across the old man’s throat. Usually this death fantasy made her warm with desire, but now it created a sense of panic. In her mind’s eye she saw Druss sitting beside her in a darkened room, a log fire burning in the hearth. His arm was over her shoulder, and she was nestling into his chest. She had pictured the scene many times, but now she saw it afresh, for Druss was so large, a giant in her fantasy. And she knew why.

  She was seeing him through the eyes of a seven-year-old.

  Orrin slipped quietly into the room. He was thinner now, drawn and haggard, yet stronger. An indefinable quality marked his features. Lines of fatigue had aged him, but the change was more subtle; it emanated from the eyes. He had been a soldier longing to be a warrior; now he was a warrior longing to be anything else. He had seen war and cruelty, death and dismemberment. He had watched the sharp beaks of crows at work on dead men’s eyes and the growth of worms in pus-filled sockets. And he had found himself and wondered no longer.

  “How is he?” he asked Caessa.

  “He will recover. But he will not fight for weeks.”

  “Then he will not fight again, for we have only days. Prepare him to be moved.”

  “He cannot be moved,” she said, turning to look at him for the first time.

  “He must be. We are giving up the wall, and we draw back tonight. We lost over four hundred men today. Wall Four is only a hundred yards long; we can hold that for days. Get him ready.”

  She nodded and rose. “You are tired, too, General,” she said. “You should rest.”

  “I will soon,” he answered, and smiled. The smile sent a shiver down her back. “We will all rest soon, I think.”

  Bearers transferred Druss to a stretcher, lifting him gently and covering him with white blankets against the night cold. With other wounded men they m
ade a convoy to Wall Four, where ropes were lowered and the stretchers were silently raised. No torches were lit, and only the light of the stars bathed the scene. Orrin climbed the last rope and hauled himself over the battlements. A helping hand reached out and pulled him upright; it was Gilad.

  “You always seem on hand to help me, Gilad. Not that I’m complaining.”

  Gilad smiled. “With the weight you’ve lost, General, you would win that race now.”

  “Ah, the race! It seems like a different age. What happened to your friend. The one with the ax?”

  “He went home.”

  “A wise man. Why did you stay?”

  Gilad shrugged. He had grown tired of the question.

  “It’s a nice night, the best yet,” said Orrin. “Strange, I used to lie in bed at night and watch the stars. They always made me sleepy. Now I have no need of sleep. I feel I’m throwing away life. Do you feel that?”

  “No, sir. I sleep like a baby.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll say good night, then.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Orrin walked away slowly, then turned. “We didn’t do too badly, did we?” he said.

  “No, sir,” replied Gilad. “I think the Nadir will remember us without affection.”

  “Yes. Good night.” He had begun the walk down the short rampart steps when Gilad stepped forward.

  “Sir!”

  “Yes?”

  “I … I wanted to say … Well, just that I have been proud to serve under you. That’s all, sir.”

  “Thank you, Gilad. But I am the one who should be proud. Good night.”

  Togi said nothing as Gilad returned to the wall, but the young officer could feel the rider’s eyes upon him.

  “Well, say it,” said Gilad. “Get it over with.”

  “Say what?”

  Gilad looked at his friend’s blank face and searched his eyes for signs of humor or contempt. Nothing showed. “I thought you would think … I don’t know,” he said lamely.

  “The man has shown quality and courage, and you told him so. There is no harm in that, although it wasn’t your place. In peacetime I’d think you were crawling, currying favor with a comment like that. Not here. There is nothing to gain, and he knew that. So it was well said.”

  “Thank you,” said Gilad.

  “For what?”

  “For understanding. You know, I believe he is a great man, greater than Druss, perhaps. For he has neither Druss’s courage nor Hogun’s skill, yet he is still here. Still trying.”

  “He’ll not last long.”

  “None of us will,” said Gilad.

  “No, but he won’t see the last day. He’s too tired—up here he’s too tired.” Togi tapped his temple.

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s why you spoke to him as you did. You sensed it, too.”

  Druss floated on an ocean of pain, burning, searing his body. His jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding against the insistent agony creeping like slow acid through his back. Words were almost impossible, hissed through gritted teeth, and the faces of those around his bed shivered and swam, blurring beyond recognition.

  He became unconscious, but the pain followed him down into the depths of dreams where gaunt, shadow-haunted landscapes surrounded him and jagged mountains reared black against a gray, brooding sky. Druss lay on the mountain, unable to move against the pain, his eyes focused on a small grove of lightning-blasted trees some twenty paces from where he lay. Standing before them was a man dressed in black. He was lean, and his eyes were dark. He moved forward and sat on a boulder, gazing down at the axman.

  “So, it comes to this,” he said. The voice had a hollow ring like wind whistling through a cavern.

  “I shall recover,” hissed Druss, blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes.

  “Not from this,” said the man. “You should be dead now.”

  “I have been cut before.”

  “Ah, but the blade was poisoned—green sap from the northern marshes. Now you are riddled with gangrene.”

  “No! I will die with my ax in my hand.”

  “Think you so? I have waited for you, Druss, through these many years. I have watched the legions of travelers cross the dark river at your hands. And I have watched you. Your pride is colossal, your conceit immense. You have tasted glory and prized your strength above all else. Now you will die. No ax. No glory. Never to cross the dark river to the Forever Halls. There is satisfaction for me in this; can you understand that? Can you comprehend it?”

  “No. Why do you hate me?”

  “Why? Because you conquer fear. And because your life mocks me. It is not enough that you die. All men die, peasants and kings—all are mine, come the end. But you, Druss, you are special. Were you to die as you desire, you would mock me still. So for you I have devised this exquisite torture.

  “You should by now be dead from your wound. But I have not yet claimed you. And now the pain will grow more intense. You will writhe … You will scream … Finally your mind will snap and you will beg. Beg for me. And I shall come and take you by the hand, and you will be mine. Men’s last memories of you will be of a mewling, weeping wreck. They will despise you, and your legend will be tainted at the last.”

  Druss forced his massive arms beneath him and struggled to rise. But the pain drove him down once more, forcing a groan through clenched teeth.

  “That’s it, axman. Struggle on. Try harder. You should have stayed on your mountain and enjoyed your dotage. Vain man! You could not resist the call of blood. Suffer—and bring me joy.”

  In the makeshift hospital Calvar Syn lifted the hot towels from Druss’s bare back, replacing them swiftly as the stench filled the room. Serbitar stepped forward and also examined the wound.

  “It is hopeless,” said Calvar Syn, rubbing his hand over the polished dome of his skull. “Why is he still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” said the albino softly. “Caessa, has he spoken?”

  The girl glanced up from her bedside chair, her eyes dull with fatigue. She shook her head. The door opened, and Rek moved inside silently. He lifted his eyebrows in a question to the surgeon, but Calvar Syn shook his head.

  “Why?” asked Rek. “The wound was no worse than he has had before.”

  “Gangrene. The wound will not close, and the poison has spread through his body. He cannot be saved. All the experience I have gained in forty years says he should now be dead. His body is putrefying at an amazing rate.”

  “He is a tough old man. How long can he last?”

  “He will not live to see tomorrow,” answered the surgeon.

  “How goes it on the wall?” asked Serbitar. Rek shrugged. His armor was bloody, and his eyes tired.

  “We are holding for the moment, but they are in the tunnel beneath us, and the gate will not stand. It’s a damned shame we had no time to fill the gate tunnel. I think they will be through before dusk. They have already burst a postern gate, but Hogun and a few others are holding the stairwell.

  “That’s why I came, Doctor. I’m afraid you will have to prepare once more for evacuation. From now on the hospital will be at the keep. How soon can you move?”

  “How can I say? Men are being brought in all the time.”

  “Begin your preparations, anyway. Those who are too badly hurt to be moved must be dispatched.”

  “What?” shouted the surgeon. “Murdered, you mean?”

  “Exactly so. Move those who can move. The others … how do you think the Nadir will treat them?”

  “I will move everyone, regardless. If they die during the evacuation, it will still be better than knifing them in their beds.”

  “Then begin now. We are wasting time,” said Rek.

  On the wall Gilad and Togi joined Hogun at the postern stairwell. The stairs were littered with corpses, but more Nadir warriors rounded the bend in the spiral and scrambled over the bodies. Hogun stepped forward, blocking a thrust, and disemboweled the lea
ding man. He fell, tripping the warrior behind him. Togi slashed a two-handed stroke through the second man’s neck as he fell in turn. Two more warriors advanced, holding round oxhide shields before them. Behind, others pushed forward.

  “It’s like holding back the sea with a bucket,” yelled Togi.

  Above them the Nadir gained a foothold on the ramparts, driving a wedge into the Drenai formation. Orrin saw the danger and raced forward with fifty men of the new Group Karnak. Below them to the right the battering ram thundered against the giant gates of oak and bronze. So far the gates held, but ominous cracks had appeared beneath the crossed center beams, and the wood groaned under the impact.

  Orrin battled his way to the Nadir wedge, using his sword two-handed, cutting and slashing with no attempt at defense. Beside him a Drenai warrior fell, his throat gashed. Orrin backhanded a cut to the attacker’s face, then blocked a blow from his left.

  It was three hours to dusk.

  Bowman knelt on the grass behind the battlements, three quivers of arrows before him on the ground. Coolly he notched shaft to his bow, drew, and let fly. A man to the left of Orrin fell, the arrow piercing his temple. Then a second Nadir fell to Orrin’s sword before another arrow downed a third. The wedge was falling apart as the Drenai hacked their way forward.

  At the stairwell Togi was bandaging a long gash in his forearm while a fresh squad of legion warriors held the entrance. Gilad leaned against a boulder, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “A long day,” he said.

  “It will be longer yet,” muttered Togi. “They can sense how close they are to taking the wall.”

  “Yes. How is the arm?”