The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

by David Gemmell

  'Look out, Druss!' yelled Tailia. Druss spun, just as a sword flashed for his belly. Parrying the blade with his forearm, he thundered a right cross which took the attacker full on the jaw, spinning him from his feet. Druss leapt on the man, one huge hand grabbing his chin, the other his brow. With one savage twist Druss heard the swordsman's neck snap like a dry stick.

  Moving swiftly to the first man he had killed, Druss tore the felling axe clear of the breastplate as Tailia ran from her hiding-place in the bushes. 'They are attacking the village,' she said, tears in her eyes.

  Pilan came running into the clearing, a lancer behind him. 'Swerve!' bellowed Druss. But Pilan was too terrified to obey and he ran straight on - until the lance pierced his back, exiting in a bloody spray from his chest. The youth cried out, then slumped to the ground. Druss roared in anger and raced forward. The lancer desperately tried to wrench his weapon clear of the dying boy. Druss swung wildly with the axe, which glanced from the rider's shoulder and plunged into the horse's back. The animal whinnied in pain and reared before falling to the earth, its legs flailing. The rider scrambled clear, blood gushing from his shoulder and tried to run, but Druss's next blow almost decapitated him.

  Hearing a scream, Druss began to run towards the sound and found Yorath struggling with one raider; the second was kneeling on the ground, blood streaming from a wound in his head. The body of Berys was beside him, a blood-smeared stone in her hand. The swordsman grappling with Yorath suddenly head-butted the youth, sending Yorath back several paces. The sword came up. Druss shouted, trying to distract the warrior. But to no avail. The weapon lanced into Yorath's side. The swordsman dragged the blade clear and turned towards Druss. 'Now your time to die, farm boy!' he said. 'In your dreams!' snarled the woodsman. Swinging the axe over his head, Druss charged. The swordsman side-stepped to his right - but Druss had been waiting for the move, and with all the power of his mighty shoulders he wrenched the axe, changing its course. It clove through the man's collarbone, smashing the shoulder-blade and ripping into his lungs. Tearing the axe loose, Druss turned from the body to see the first wounded warrior struggling to rise; jumping forward, he struck him a murderous blow to the neck. 'Help me!' called Yorath.

  'I'll send Tailia,' Druss told him, and began to run back through the trees.

  Reaching the crest of the hill he gazed down on the village. He could see scattered bodies, but no sign of raiders. For a moment he thought the villagers had beaten them back . . . but there was no movement at all.

  'Rowena!' he yelled. 'Rowena!'

  *

  Druss ran down the slope. He fell and rolled, losing his grip on the felling-axe, but scrambling to his feet he pounded on - down into the meadow, across the flat, through the half-finished gates. Bodies lay everywhere. Rowena's father, the former book-keeper Voren, had been stabbed through the throat, and blood was staining the earth beneath him. Breathing hard, Druss stopped, and stared around the settlement square.

  Old women, young children and all the men were dead. As he stumbled on he saw the golden-haired child, Kins, beloved of all the villagers, lying sprawled in death alongside her rag doll. The body of an infant lay against one building, a bloodstain on the wall above showing how it had been slain.

  He found his father lying in the open with four dead raiders around him. Patica was beside him, a hammer in her hand, her plain brown woollen dress drenched in blood. Druss fell to his knees by his father's body. There were terrible wounds to the chest and belly, and his left arm was almost severed at the wrist. Bress groaned and opened his eyes. 'Druss. . . .'

  'I am here, Father.'

  'They took the young women. . . . Rowena . . . was among them.'

  'I'll find her.'

  The dying man glanced to his right at the dead woman beside him. 'She was a brave lass; she tried to help me. I should have . . . loved her better.' Bress sighed, then choked as blood flowed into his throat. He spat it clear. 'There is . . . a weapon. In the house . . . far wall, beneath the boards. It has a terrible history. But. . . but you will need it.'

  Druss stared down at the dying man and their eyes met. Bress lifted his right hand. Druss took it. 'I did my best, boy,' said his father.

  'I know.' Bress was fading fast, and Druss was not a man of words. Instead he lifted his father into his arms and kissed his brow, hugging him close until the last breath of life rasped from the broken body.

  Then he pushed himself to his feet and entered his father's home. It had been ransacked - cupboards hauled open, drawers pulled from the dressers, rugs ripped from the walls. But by the far wall the hidden compartment was undiscovered and Druss prised open the boards and hauled out the chest that lay in the dust below the floor. It was locked. Moving through into his father's workshop, he returned with a large hammer and a chisel which he used to pry off the hinges. Then he took hold of the lid and wrenched it clear, the brass lock twisting and tearing free. Inside, wrapped in oilskin, was an axe. And such an axe! Druss unwrapped it reverently. The black metal haft was as long as a man's arm, the double heads shaped like the wings of a butterfly. He tested the edges with his thumb; the weapon was as sharp as his father's shaving-knife. Silver runes were inscribed on the haft, and though Druss could not read them he knew the words etched there. For this was the awful axe of Bardan, the weapon that had slain men, women, and even children during the reign of terror. The words were part of the dark folklore of the Drenai.

  Snaga, the Sender, the blades of no return

  He lifted the axe clear, surprised by its lightness and its perfect balance in his hand.

  Beneath it in the chest was a black leather jerkin, the shoulders reinforced by strips of silver steel; two black leather gauntlets, also protected by shaped metal knuckle-guards; and a pair of black, knee-length boots. Beneath the clothes was a small pouch, and within it Druss found eighteen silver pieces.

  Kicking off his soft leather shoes, Druss pulled on the boots and donned the jerkin. At the bottom of the chest was a helm of black metal, edged with silver; upon the brow was a small silver axe flanked by silver skulls. Druss settled the helm into place, then lifted the axe once more. Gazing down at his reflection in the shining blades, he saw a pair of cold, cold blue eyes, empty, devoid of feeling.

  Snaga, forged in the Elder days, crafted by a master. The blade had never been sharpened, for it had never dulled despite the many battles and skirmishes that filled the life of Bardan. And even before that the blade had been in use. Bardan had acquired the battle-axe during the Second Vagrian War, looting it from an old barrow in which lay the bones of an ancient battle king, a monster of Legend, Caras the Axeman.

  'It was an evil weapon,' Bress had once told his son. 'All the men who ever bore it were killers with no souls.'

  'Why do you keep it then?' asked his thirteen-year-old son.

  'It cannot kill where I keep it,' was all Bress had answered.

  Druss stared at the blade. 'Now you can kill,' he whispered.

  Then he heard the sound of a walking horse. Slowly he rose.

  Chapter Two

  Shadak's horses were skittish, the smell of death unnerving the beasts. He had bought his own three-year-old from a farmer south of Corialis and the gelding had not been trained for war. The four mounts he had taken from the raiders were less nervous, but still their ears were back and their nostrils flaring. He spoke soothingly to them and rode on.

  Shadak had been a soldier for most of his adult life. He had seen death - and he thanked the gods that it still had the power to stir his emotions. Sorrow and anger vied in his heart as he gazed upon the still corpses, the children and the old women.

  None of the houses had been put to the torch - the smoke would be seen for miles, and could have brought a troop of lancers. He gently tugged on the reins. A golden-haired child lay against the wall of a building, a doll beside it. Slavers had no time for children, for they had no market in Mashrapur. Young Drenai women between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five were still popular in
the eastern kingdoms of Ventria, Sherak, Dospilis and Naashan. Shadak touched heels to the gelding. There was no point in remaining in this place; the trail led south.

  A young warrior stepped from one of the buildings, startling his horse which reared and whinnied. Shadak calmed it and gazed upon the man. Although of average height he was powerfully built, his huge shoulders and mighty arms giving the impression of a giant. He wore a black leather jerkin and helm and carried a fearful axe. Shadak glanced swiftly around the corpse-strewn settlement. But there was no sign of a horse.

  Lifting his leg, Shadak slid from the saddle. 'Your friends leave you behind, laddie?' he asked the axeman. The young man did not speak but stepped out into the open. Shadak looked into the man's pale eyes and felt the unaccustomed thrill of fear.

  The face beneath the helm was flat and expressionless, but power emanated from the young warrior. Shadak moved warily to his right, hands resting on the hilts of his short swords. 'Proud of your handiwork, are you?' he asked, trying to force the man into conversation. 'Killed many babes today, did you?'

  The young man's brow furrowed. 'This was my . . . my home,' he said, his voice deep. 'You are not one of the raiders?'

  'I am hunting them,' said Shadak, surprised at the relief he felt.

  'They attacked Corialis looking for slaves, but the young women escaped them. The villagers fought hard. Seventeen of them died, but the attack was beaten off. My name is Shadak. Who are you?'

  'I am Druss. They took my wife. I'll find them.' Shadak glanced at the sky. 'It's getting dark. Best to start in the morning, we could lose their trail in the night.'

  'I'll not wait,' said the young man. 'I need one of your horses.' Shadak smiled grimly. 'It is difficult to refuse when you ask so politely. But I think we should talk before you ride out.'

  'Why?'

  'Because there are many of them, laddie, and they do have a tendency to leave rearguards behind them, watching the road.' Shadak pointed to the horses. 'Four lay in wait for me.'

  'I'll kill any I find.'

  'I take it they took all the young women, since I see no corpses here?'

  'Yes.'

  Shadak hitched his horses to a rail and stepped past the young man into the home of Bress. 'You'll lose nothing by listening for a few minutes,' he said.

  Inside the building he righted the chairs and stopped. On the table was an old glove, made of lace and edged with pearls. 'What's this?' he asked the cold-eyed young man.

  'It belonged to my mother. My father used to take it out now and again, and sit by the fire holding it. What did you want to talk about?' Shadak sat down at the table. 'The raiders are led by two men -Collan, a renegade Drenai officer, and Harib Ka, a Ventrian. They will be making for Mashrapur and the slave markets there. With all the captives they will not be able to move at speed and we will have little difficult catching them. But if we follow now, we will come upon them in the open. Two against forty - these are not odds to inspire confidence. They will push on through most of tonight, crossing the plain and reaching the long valley trails to Mashrapur late tomorrow. Then they will relax.'

  'They have my wife,' said the young man. 'I'll not let them keep her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.'

  Shadak shook his head and sighed. 'Nor would I, laddie. But you know the country to the south. What chance would we have of rescuing her on the plains? They would see us coming from a mile away.'

  For the first time the young man looked uncertain. Then he shrugged and sat, laying the great axe on the table-top, where it covered the tiny glove. 'You are a soldier?' he asked.

  'I was. Now I am a hunter - a hunter of men. Trust me. Now, how many women did they take?'

  The young man thought for a moment. 'Perhaps around thirty. They killed Berys in the woods. Tailia escaped. But I have not seen all the bodies. Maybe others were killed.'

  'Then let us think of thirty. It won't be easy freeing them.'

  A sound from outside made both men turn as a young woman entered the room. Shadak rose. The woman was fair-haired and pretty, and there was blood upon her blue woollen skirt and her shirt of white linen.

  'Yorath died,' she told the young man. 'They're all dead, Druss.' Her eyes filled with tears and she stood in the doorway looking lost and forlorn. Druss did not move, but Shadak stepped swiftly towards her, taking her in his arms and stroking her back.

  He led her into the room and sat her at the table. 'Is there any food here?' he asked Druss. The young man nodded and moved through to the back room, returning with a pitcher of water and some bread. Shadak filled a clay cup with water and told the girl to drink. 'Are you hurt?' he asked.

  She shook her head. 'The blood is Yorath's,' she whispered. Shadak sat beside her and Tailia sagged against him; she was exhausted.

  'You need to rest,' he told her gently, helping her to rise and leading her through the building to a small bedroom. Obediently she lay down, and he covered her with a thick blanket. 'Sleep, child. I will be here.'

  'Don't leave me,' she pleaded.

  He took her hand. 'You are safe . . . Tailia. Sleep.' She closed her eyes, but clung to his hand, and Shadak sat with her until the grip eased and her breathing deepened. At last he stood and returned to the outer room.

  'You were planning to leave her behind?' he asked the young man.

  'She is nothing to me,' he said coldly. 'Rowena is everything.'

  'I see. Then think on this, my friend: suppose it was you who had died and it was Rowena who survived hiding in the woods. How would your spirit feel if you saw me ride in and leave her alone in this wilderness?'

  'I did not die,' said Druss.

  'No,' said Shadak, 'you didn't. We'll take the girl with us.'

  'No!'

  'Either that or you walk on alone, laddie. And I do mean walk.'

  The young man looked up at the hunter, and his eyes gleamed. 'I have killed men today,' he said, 'and I will not be threatened by you, or anyone. Not ever again. If I choose to leave here on one of your stolen horses, I shall do so. You would be wise not to try to stop me.'

  'I wouldn't try, boy, I'd do it.' The words were spoken softly, and with a quiet confidence. But deep inside Shadak was surprised, for it was a confidence he did not feel. He saw the young man's hand snake around the haft of the axe. 'I know you are angry, lad, and concerned for the safety of. . . Rowena. But you can do nothing alone - unless of course you are a tracker, and an expert horseman. You could ride off into the dark and lose them. Or you could stumble upon them, and try to kill forty warriors. Then there'll be no one to rescue her, or the others.'

  Slowly the giant's fingers relaxed, the hand moving away from the axe haft, the gleam fading from his eyes. 'It hurts me to sit here while they carry her further away.'

  'I understand that. But we will catch them. And they will not harm the women; they are valuable to them.'

  'You have a plan?'

  'I do. I know the country, and I can guess where they will be camped tomorrow. We will go in at night, deal with the sentries and free the captives.'

  Druss nodded. 'What then? They'll be hunting us. How do we escape with thirty women?'

  'Their leaders will be dead,' said Shadak softly. 'I'll see to that.'

  'Others will take the lead. They will come after us.'

  Shadak shrugged, then smiled. 'Then we kill as many as we can.'

  'I like that part of the plan,' said the young man grimly.

  *

  The stars were bright and Shadak sat on the porch of the timber dwelling, watching Druss sitting beside the bodies of his parents.

  'You're getting old,' Shadak told himself, his gaze fixed on Druss. 'You make me feel old,' he whispered. Not in twenty years had a man inspired such fear in Shadak. He remembered the moment well - he was a Sathuli tribesman named Jonacin, a man with eyes of ice and fire, a legend among his own people. The Lord's champion, he had killed seventeen men in single combat, among them the Vagrian champion, Vearl.

  Shadak had know
n the Vagrian - a tall, lean man, lightning-fast and tactically sound. The Sathuli, it was said, had treated him like a novice, first slicing off his right ear before despatching him with a heart thrust.

  Shadak smiled as he remembered hoping with all his heart that he would never have to fight the man. But such hopes are akin to magic, he knew now, and all men are ultimately faced with their darkest fears.

  It had been a golden morning in the Delnoch mountains. The Drenai were negotiating treaties with a Sathuli Lord and Shadak was present merely as one of the envoy's guards. Jonacin had been mildly insulting at the dinner the night before, speaking sneeringly of Drenai sword skills. Shadak had been ordered to ignore the man. But on the following morning the white-robed Sathuli stepped in front of him as he walked along the path to the Long Hall.

  'It is said you are a fighter,' said Jonacin, the sneer in his voice showing disbelief.

  Shadak had remained cool under the other's baleful stare. 'Stand aside, if you please. I am expected at the meeting.'

  'I shall stand aside - as soon as you have kissed my feet.'

  Shadak had been twenty-two then, in his prime. He looked into Jonacin's eyes and knew there was no avoiding confrontation. Other Sathuli warriors had gathered close by and Shadak forced a smile. 'Kiss your feet? I don't think so. Kiss this instead!' His right fist lashed into the Sathuli's chin, spinning him to the ground. Then Shadak walked on and took his place at the table.