Praise for David Gemmell
and his Druss the
Legend adventures
“I am truly amazed at David Gemmell’s ability to focus his writer’s eye. His images are crisp and complete, a history lesson woven within the detailed tapestry of the highest adventure. Gemmell’s characters are no less complete, real men and women with qualities good and bad, placed in trying times and rising to heroism or falling victim to their own weaknesses.”
—R. A. SALVATORE
New York Times bestselling author
of The Demon Awakens
“Gemmell is very talented; his characters are vivid and very convincingly realistic.”
—CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
Author of the Wizard in Rhyme novels
“Legend is a rousing tale, all primary colors: think of Robert E. Howard meeting David Eddings. If you like headlong adventure, this one’s for you.”
—HARRY TURTLEDOVE
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books:
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
DARK MOON
IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER
THE HAWK ETERNAL
The Drenai Saga
LEGEND
THE KING
BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
WINTER WARRIORS
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY
The Stones of Power Cycle
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
The Rigante
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
Troy
LORD OF THE SILVER BOW
SHIELD OF THUNDER
FALL OF KINGS
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1996 by David A. Gemmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd., in 1996.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.delreybooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-93423
eISBN: 978-0-307-79756-8
v3.1
The Legend of Deathwalker is dedicated with love to the Hotz de Baars: to Big Oz, who walks the vales of dead computers and finds the novels lost in the void, a man who will give freely of his time, his energy, and his brilliance but never of his biscuits; to Young Oz, who taught me that Civilization was beyond me; to his sister Claire for the barbecue treats she didn’t drop; and to Alison for the Upthorpe hospitality.
My thanks to my editor, Liza Reeves; test readers Val Gemmell, Edith Graham, and her daughter Stella; and to my copy editor, Jean Maund. Thanks also to the many readers who have written over the years demanding more stories of Druss. The volume of mail is so great these days that I can no longer answer all the letters. They are all read, and I do take note of the points raised.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Prologue
THE MOON HUNG like a sickle blade over Dros Delnoch, and Pellin stood quietly staring down at the Nadir camp in the lunar light below. Thousands of warriors were gathered there, and the next day they would come screaming across the narrow strip of bloodstained ground, hauling their ladders and carrying their grappling irons. They would be baying for battle and death, and just as on this day, the sound would terrify him, seeming to penetrate his skin like needles of ice. Pellin was more frightened than he had ever been in his young life, and he longed to run, to hide, to throw away his ill-fitting armor and race south to his home. The Nadir kept coming, wave after wave, their raucous battle cries sending their hatred ahead of them. The shallow wound in his upper left arm was both throbbing and itching. Gilad had assured him that this meant that it was healing well, but it had been a taste of pain, a bitter promise of worse pain to come. He had watched comrades writhing and screaming, their bellies opened by serrated swords … Pellin fought to push the memories away. A cold wind began to blow from the north, bunching dark rainclouds before it. He shivered and remembered his warm farmhouse with its thatched roof and large stone-built fireplace. On cold nights like this one he and Kara would lie in bed, her head resting on his shoulder, her left leg warm on his thighs. They would lie together in the soft red glow of the fading fire and listen to the wind howling mournfully outside.
Pellin sighed. “Please don’t let me die here,” he prayed aloud.
Of the twenty-three men who had volunteered from his village, only nine were left. He gazed back at the rows of sleeping defenders lying on the open ground between Walls Three and Four. Could these few men hold the greatest army ever assembled? Pellin knew they could not.
Returning his gaze to the Nadir camp, he scanned the area close to the mountains. The Drenai dead, stripped of armor and weapons, had been thrown there and burned. Oily black smoke had drifted over the Dros for hours afterward, bringing with it the sickly and nauseating smell of roasting flesh. It could have been me, thought Pellin, remembering the slaughter as Wall Two fell.
He shivered. Dros Delnoch, the mightiest fortress in all the world: six walls of rearing stone and a broad keep. Never had she been conquered by an enemy. But then, never had she faced an army of such numbers. It seemed to Pellin that there were more Nadir than there were stars in the sky. The defenders had fallen back from Wall One after bitter fighting, for it was the longest and therefore the hardest to hold. They had crept back in the night, conquering the wall without further losses. But Wall Two had been taken at great cost, with the enemy breaching the defenses and sweeping forward to encircle the defenders. Pellin had barely made it back to Wall Three and remembered the acid taste of fear in his throat and the terrible shaking of his limbs as he had hauled himself over the battlements and had sunk to the ramparts.
And what was it all for? he wondered. What difference would it make if the Drenai enjoyed self-rule or government by the warlord Ulric? Would the farm yield any less corn? Would his cattle sicken and die?
It had all seemed such an adventure twelve weeks earlier, when the Drenai recruiting officers had arrived at the village. A few weeks of patrolling the great walls and then a return home as heroes.
Heroes! Sovil was a hero until that arrow pierced his eye, ripping it from the socket. Jocan was a hero as he lay screaming, his blood-covered hands trying to hold his entrails in place.
Pellin added a little coal to the iron brazier and waved at the sentry thirty paces to the left. The man was stamping
his feet against the cold. He and Pellin had swapped places an hour before, and soon it would be his turn to stand by the brazier. The knowledge of heat soon to be lost gave the fire an even greater significance, and Pellin stretched out his hands, enjoying the warmth.
A huge figure moved into sight, stepping carefully over the sleeping defenders and making his way toward the ramparts. Pellin’s heart began to beat faster as Druss strode up the steps.
Druss the Legend, the Savior of Skeln Pass, the man who had battled his way across the world to rescue his wife. Druss the Axman, the Silver Slayer. The Nadir called him Deathwalker, and Pellin now knew why. He had watched him fighting on the battlements, his terrible ax cleaving and slaying. He was not mortal; he was a dark god of war. Pellin hoped the old man would stay away from him. What could a novice soldier find to say to a hero like Druss? To Pellin’s great relief the Legend stopped by the other sentry, and the two men began to talk; he could see the sentry moving nervously from foot to foot as the old warrior spoke to him.
It struck him then that Druss was the human embodiment of this ancient fortress, unbeaten yet eroded by time, less than he was but magnificent for all that. Pellin smiled as he remembered the Nadir herald giving Druss the ultimatum to surrender or die. The old hero had laughed. “In the north,” he had said, “the mountains may tremble when Ulric breaks wind. But this is Drenai land, and to me he is just another potbellied savage who couldn’t wipe his ass without a Drenai map tattooed on his thigh.”
Pellin’s smile faded as he saw Druss clap the other sentry on the shoulder and move on toward him. The rain had eased, and the moon was bright once more. Pellin’s hands began to sweat, and he wiped the palms on his cloak. The young sentry stood at attention as the Legend approached him, striding along the ramparts, his ax shining silver in the bright moonlight. Pellin’s mouth was dry as he stood, fist clenched against his breastplate, to salute him.
“Relax, laddie,” said Druss, laying the mighty ax on the ramparts. The old warrior stretched his huge hands to the brazier, warming them, then sat with his back to the wall, beckoning the youth to join him. Pellin had never been this close to Druss, and he saw the lines of age etched deep into his broad face, giving it the look of ancient granite. The eyes were bright and pale, though, beneath heavy brows, and Pellin found he could not stare into them. “They’ll not come tonight,” said Druss. “Just before first light they’ll rush in. No war cries; it will be a silent assault.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
Druss chuckled. “I’d like to tell you that my vast knowledge of war leads me to that conclusion, but the answer is more simple. The Thirty predict it, and they’re a canny bunch. Normally I have little time for wizards and such, but these lads are great fighters.” He lifted his black helm clear of his head and ran his fingers through his thick white hair. “Served me well, this helm,” he told Pellin, twirling it so that moonlight shone on the silver ax motif on the brow. “And I don’t doubt it will do its job tomorrow.”
At the thought of the battle to come Pellin cast a nervous glance over the wall to where the Nadir waited. From there he could see many of them lying in their blankets, close to hundreds of campfires. Others were awake, sharpening weapons or talking in small groups. The young man turned and ran his gaze over the exhausted Drenai defenders lying on the ground behind the ramparts, wrapped in their blankets, trying to snatch a few hours of precious, refreshing sleep. “Sit down, laddie,” said Druss. “You can’t worry them away.”
Resting his spear against the wall, the sentry sat. His scabbard clanged against the stone, and clumsily he swiveled it. “I cannot get used to wearing all this armor,” said Pellin. “I trip over the sword all the time. I am not much of a soldier, I fear.”
“You looked every inch the soldier three days ago on Wall Two,” said Druss. “I saw you kill two Nadir, then fight your way back to the ropes on this wall. Even then you helped a comrade who had a wound in his leg; you climbed below him, supporting him.”
“You saw that? But there was so much confusion, and you were in the midst of the battle yourself!”
“I see many things, boy. What is your name?”
“Pellin … Cul Pellin,” he corrected himself. “Sir,” he added swiftly.
“We can dispense with the formalities, Pellin,” Druss told him amiably. “Here tonight we are just two veterans sitting quietly waiting for the dawn. Are you frightened?”
Pellin nodded, and Druss smiled. “And do you ask yourself, Why me? Why should I be standing here facing the might of the Nadir?”
“Yes. Kara didn’t want me to go with the others. She told me I was a fool. I mean, what difference will it make if we win or lose?”
“In a hundred years? None at all,” said Druss. “But all invading armies carry their own demons with them, Pellin. If they break through here, they will sweep across the Sentran Plain bringing fire and destruction, rape and slaughter. That’s why we must stop them. And why you? Because you are the man for the role.”
“I think I am going to die here,” said Pellin. “I don’t want to die. My Kara is pregnant and I want to see my son grow tall and strong. I want …” He stumbled to silence as the lump in his throat blocked further speech.
“You want what we all want, laddie,” Druss said softly. “But you are a man, and men must face what they fear or be destroyed by it.”
“I don’t know if I can. I keep thinking of joining the other deserters. Creeping south in the night. Going home.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
Pellin thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said lamely.
“I’ll tell you why, boy. Because you look around and see the others who must stay and fight all the harder because you are not standing by your post. You are not a man to leave others to do your work for you.”
“I’d like to believe that. Truly I would.”
“Believe it, laddie, for I am a good judge of men.” Suddenly Druss grinned. “I knew another Pellin once. He was a spear thrower. A good one, too. Won the gold in the Fellowship Games when they were held in Gulgothir.”
“I thought that was Nicotas,” said Pellin. “I remember the parade when the team came home. Nicotas carried the Drenai flag.”
The old man shook his head. “That feels like yesterday,” Druss said, with a wide grin. “But I am talking about the Fifth Games. I would guess they took place around thirty years ago, long before you were a gleam in your mother’s eye. Pellin was a good man.”
“Were they the games you took part in, sir? At the court of the mad king?” asked the sentry.
Druss nodded. “It was no part of my plan. I was a farmer then, but Abalayn invited me to Gulgothir as part of the Drenai delegation. My wife, Rowena, urged me to accept the invitation; she thought I was growing bored with life in the mountains.” He chuckled. “She was right! We came through Dros Delnoch, I remember. There were forty-five competitors and around another hundred hangers-on, whores, servants, trainers. I have forgotten most of their names now. Pellin I remember—but then, he made me laugh, and I enjoyed his company.” The old man fell silent, lost in memories.
“So how did you become part of the team, sir?”
“Oh, that! The Drenai had a fistfighter named … damned if I can remember. Old age is eating away at my memory. Anyway, he was an ill-tempered man. All the fighters brought their own trainers with them and lesser fighters to spar with. This fellow—Grawal, that was it!—was a brute, and he disabled two of his sparring partners. One day he asked me to spar with him. We were still three days from Gulgothir, and I was really bored by then. That’s one of the curses of my life, lad. Easily bored! So I agreed. It was a mistake. Lots of the camp women used to watch the fighters train, and I should have realized that Grawal was a crowd pleaser. Anyway, he and I began to spar. At first it went well; he was good, a lot of power in the shoulders but supple, too. Have you ever sparred, Pellin?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, it looks the s
ame as a genuine fight, but all the punches are pulled. The purpose of it is to increase the speed of the fighter’s reflexes. But then a group of the camp women turned up and sat close by us. Grawal wanted to show the women how tough he was, and he let rip with a combination of blows at full power. It was like being kicked by a mule, and I have to admit that it irritated me. I stepped back and told him to ease up. The fool took no notice and then rushed me. So I hit him. Damned if his jaw didn’t break in three places. As a result the Drenai had now lost their one heavy fighter, and I felt honor bound to take his place.”
“What happened then?” Pellin asked as Druss eased himself to his feet and leaned over the ramparts. The faint light of predawn was showing in the east.
“That story had better wait until tonight, laddie,” said Druss softly. “Here they come!”
Pellin scrambled to his feet. Thousands of Nadir warriors were streaming silently toward the wall. Druss bellowed a warning, and a bugler sounded the alert. Red-cloaked Drenai defenders came surging from their blankets.
Pellin drew his sword, his hand trembling as he gazed at the rushing tide of men. Hundreds were carrying ladders; others held coiled ropes and grappling hooks. Pellin’s heart was hammering. “Sweet Missael,” he whispered. “Nothing will stop them!” He took a backward step, but then Druss laid his huge hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Who am I, laddie?” he asked, his ice-blue eyes holding to Pellin’s gaze.
“W-what?” stammered Pellin.
“Who am I?”
Pellin blinked back the sweat that trickled into his eyes. “You are Druss the Legend,” he answered.
“You stand by me, Pellin,” the old man said grimly, “and we’ll stop them together.” Suddenly the axman grinned. “I don’t tell many stories, laddie, and I hate it when they’re interrupted. So when we’ve seen off this little sortie, I’ll stand you a goblet of Lentrian red and tell you the tale of the Gothir God-King and the Eyes of Alchazzar.”
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 1
