The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

by David Gemmell

  'Step aside,' repeated the Kalith, 'or I must kill you!'

  'In your dreams,' said Druss.

  The creature lunged forward, one great paw sweeping in towards the axeman. Druss dropped to one knee and swung the blood-red axe, the blade striking the beast's wrist and cleaving through. As the taloned paw fell to the ground beside the axeman, the Kalith reeled back. No blood issued from the wound, but an oily smoke pumped out into the air, billowing and growing. Fire blazed from the creature's mouth and it lunged again at the mortal before it. But instead of jumping back Druss leapt in to meet it, swinging Snaga high over his head and bringing the weapon down in a lethal arc that clove into the Kalith's chest, smashing the sternum and ripping a wound from throat to groin.

  Flames exploded from the beast, engulfing the axeman. Druss staggered - and the Kalith fell back, and as the huge form struck the ground even Sieben, some thirty feet away, felt the tremor of the earth. A breeze blew up, the smoke disappearing.

  And there was no sign of the Kalith . . .

  Sieben ran to where Druss stood. The axeman's eyebrows and beard were singed, but he bore no marks of burns. 'By the gods, Druss,' Sieben shouted, slapping his friend's back. 'Now that'll make a song to bring us both fame and riches!'

  'It killed Oliquar,' said Druss, shrugging off Sieben's embrace and letting fall the axe.

  Gorben moved alongside him. 'That was nobly done, my friend. I'll not forget - I owe you my life.' Bending his body, he lifted the axe. It was now black and silver once more. 'This is an enchanted weapon,' whispered the Emperor. 'I will give you twenty thousand in gold for it.'

  'It is not for selling, my Lord,' said Druss.

  'Ah, Druss, and I thought you liked me.'

  'I do, laddie. That's why I'll not sell it to you.'

  *

  A cold wind swirled around the cave. Anindais felt the chill and swung from the altar, looking back to see the Old Woman rise from her seat outside the golden circle. 'What is happening?' he asked. "The axeman has killed the beast. Can we send another?'

  'No,' she told him. 'But he did not kill it, he merely sent it back to the Pit.'

  'Well, what now?'

  'Now we pay for the services of the Kalith.'

  'You said the payment would be the blood of Gorben.'

  'Gorben did not die.'

  'Then I do not understand you. And why is it so cold?'

  A shadow fell across the Naashanite, who swung round to see a huge shape rearing above him. Talons flashed down, slicing into his chest.

  'Not even intelligence,' repeated the Old Woman, turning her back on his screams. Returning to her apartments, she sat back in an old wicker chair. 'Ah, Druss,' she whispered, 'perhaps I should have let you die back in Mashrapur.'

  Chapter Six

  Rowena opened her eyes and saw Michanek sitting at her bedside. He was wearing his ceremonial armour of bronze and gold, the helm with the red crest, and the enamelled cheek-guards, the moulded breastplate covered in sigils and motifs.

  'You look very handsome,' she said sleepily.

  'And you are very beautiful.'

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. 'Why are you wearing that today? It is not as strong as your old breastplate of iron.'

  'It will lift morale among the men.' Taking her hand he kissed her palm, then rose and moved towards the door. At the doorway he paused and spoke without looking back. 'I have left something for you - in my study. It is wrapped in velvet.'

  And then he was gone.

  Within minutes Pudri appeared, bearing a tray which he laid down beside her. There were three honey-cakes and a goblet of apple-juice. 'The Lord looks very magnificent today,' said the little man, and Rowena saw that his expression was sorrowful.

  'What is wrong, Pudri?'

  'I don't like battles,' he told her. 'So much blood and pain. But it is even worse when the reasons for battle have long been overtaken by events. Men will die today for no reason. Their lives will be snuffed out like midnight candles. And for why? And will it end here? No. When Gorben is strong enough he will lead a vengeance invasion against the people of Naashan. Futile and stupid!' He shrugged. 'Maybe it is because I am a eunuch that I do not understand such matters.'

  'You understand them very well,' she said. 'Tell me, was I a good seeress?'

  'Ah, you must not ask me this, my lady. That was yesterday, and it has flown away into the past.'

  'Did the Lord Michanek ask you to withhold my past from me?'

  He nodded glumly. 'It was for love that he asked this of me. Your Talent almost killed you and he did not wish for you to suffer again. Anyway, your bath is prepared. It is hot and steaming, and I managed to find some rose oil for the water.'

  An hour later Rowena was walking through the garden when she saw that the window to Michanek's study was open. This was unusual, for there were many papers here and the summer breezes would often scatter them around the room. Moving inside, she opened the door and pulled shut the small window. Then she saw the package on the oak desk. It was small and, as Michanek had said, was wrapped in purple velvet.

  Slowly she unwrapped the velvet to find a small, unadorned wooden box with a hinged lid, which she opened. Within lay a brooch which was simply, even crudely, made of soft copper strands surrounding a moonstone. Her mouth was suddenly dry. A part of her mind told her the brooch was new to her, but a tiny warning bell was ringing in the deep recesses of her soul. This is mine!

  Her right hand dropped slowly towards the brooch, then stopped, the fingers hovering just above the moonstone. Rowena drew back, then sat down. She heard Pudri enter the room.

  'You were wearing that when I first saw you,' he said gently. She nodded, but did not answer. The little Ventrian approached and handed her a letter, sealed with red wax. 'The Lord asked me to give you this when you had seen his . . . gift.'

  Rowena broke the seal and opened the letter. It was written in Michanek's bold, clear script.

  Greetings, Beloved.

  I am skilled with the sword, and yet, at this moment, I would sell my soul to be as skilful with words. A long time ago, as you lay dying, I paid three sorcerers to seal your Talents deep within you. In doing so they closed also the doorways of memory.

  The brooch was, they told me, made for you as a gift of love. It is the key to your past, and a gift for your future. Of all the pain I have known, there is no suffering greater than the knowledge that your future will be without me. Yet I have loved you, and would not change a single day. And if, by some miracle, I was allowed to return to the past and court you once more, I would do so in the same way, in ful knowledge of the same outcome.

  You are the light in my life and the love of my heart.

  Farewell, Pahtai. May your paths be made easy, and your soul know many joys.

  The letter fell from her hands, floating to the floor. Pudri stepped forward swiftly and placed his slender arm around her shoulders. 'Take the brooch, my lady!'

  She shook her head. 'He's going to die.'

  'Yes,' admitted the Ventrian. 'But he bade me urge you to take the brooch. It was his great wish. Do not deny him!'

  'I'll take the brooch,' she said solemnly, 'but when he dies, I shall die with him.'

  *

  Druss sat in the near deserted camp and watched the attack on the walls. From this distance it seemed that the attackers were insects, swarming up tiny ladders. He watched bodies topple and fall, heard the sound of battle horns and the occasional high-pitched scream that drifted on the shifting breeze. Sieben was beside him.

  'The first time I've ever seen you miss a fight, Druss. Are you mellowing in your old age?'

  Druss did not answer. His pale eyes watched the fighting and saw the smoke seeping out from under the wall. The timber and brushwood in the tunnels were burning now, and soon the foundations of the wall would disappear. As the smoke grew thicker the attackers fell back and waited.

  Time passed slowly now in the great silence that descended over the plain. The smoke thick
ened, then faded. Nothing happened.

  Druss gathered his axe and stood. Sieben rose with him. 'It didn't work,' said the poet.

  'Give it time,' grunted Druss and he marched forward, Sieben followed until they were within thirty yards of the wall. Gorben was waiting here with his officers around him. No one spoke.

  A jagged line, black as a spider's leg, appeared on the wall, followed by a high screeching sound. The crack widened and a huge block of masonry dislodged itself from a nearby tower, thundering down to crash on the rocks before the wall. Druss could see defenders scrambling back. A second crack appeared . . . then a third. A huge section of wall crumbled and a high tower pitched to the right, smashing down on the ruined wall and sending up an immense cloud of dust. Gorben covered his mouth with his cloak, and waited until the dust settled.

  Where moments before there had been a wall of stone, there were now only jagged ruins like the broken teeth of a giant.

  The battle horns sounded. The black line of the Immortals surged forward.

  Gorben turned to Druss. 'Will you join them in the slaughter?'

  Druss shook his head. 'I have no stomach for slaughter,' he said.

  *

  The courtyard was littered with corpses and pools of blood. Michanek glanced to his right where his brother Narin was lying on his back with a lance jutting from his chest, his sightless eyes staring up at the crimson-stained sky.

  Almost sunset, thought Michanek. Blood ran from a wound in his temple and he could feel it trickling down his neck. His back hurt, and when he moved he could feel the arrow that was lodged above his left shoulder-blade gouging into muscle and flesh. It made holding the heavy shield impossible, and Michanek had long since abandoned it. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. A man groaned to his left. It was his cousin Shurpac; he had a terrible wound in his belly, and was attempting to stop his entrails from gushing forth.

  Michanek transferred his gaze to the enemy soldiers surrounding him. They had fallen back now, and were standing in a grim circle. Michanek turned slowly. He was the last of the Naashanites still standing. Glaring at the Immortals, he challenged them. 'What's the matter with you? Frightened of Naashanite steel?' They did not move. Michanek staggered and almost fell, but then righted himself.

  All pain was fading now.

  It had been quite a day. The undermined wall had collapsed, killing a score of his men, but the rest had regrouped well and Michanek was proud of them. Not one had suggested surrender. They had fallen back to the second line of defence and met the Ventrians with arrows, spears and even stones. But there were too many, and it had been impossible to hold a line.

  Michanek had led the last fifty warriors towards the inner Keep, but they were cut off and forced down a side road that led to the courtyard of Kabuchek's old house.

  What were they waiting for?

  The answer came to him instantly: They are waiting for you to die.

  He saw a movement at the edge of the circle, the men moving aside as Gorben appeared - dressed now in a robe of gold, a seven-spiked crown upon his head. He looked every inch the Emperor. Beside him was the axeman, the husband of Pahtai.

  'Ready for another duel . . . my Lord?' called Michanek. A racking cough burst from his lungs, spraying blood into the air.

  'Put up your sword, man. It is over!' said Gorben.

  'Do I take it you are surrendering?' Michanek asked. 'If not, then let me fight your champion!'

  Gorben turned to the axeman, who nodded and moved forward. Michanek steadied himself, but his mind was wandering. He remembered a day with Pahtai, by a waterfall. She had made a crown of white water-lilies which she placed on his brow. The flowers were wet and cool; he could feel them now . . .

  No. Fight! Win!

  He looked up. The axeman seemed colossal now, towering above him, and Michanek realised he had fallen to his knees. 'No,' he said, the words slurring, 'I'll not die on my knees.' Leaning forward he tried to push himself upright, but fell again. Two strong hands took hold of his shoulders, drawing him upright, and he looked into the pale eyes of Druss the Axeman.

  'Knew. . .you would. . .come,' he said. Druss half carried the dying warrior to a marble bench at the wall of the courtyard, laying him gently to the cool stone. An Immortal removed his own cloak and rolled it into a pillow for the Naashanite general.

  Michanek gazed up at the darkening sky, then turned his head. Druss was kneeling alongside him, and beyond the axeman the Immortals waited. At an order from Gorben they drew their swords and held them high, saluting their enemy.

  'Druss! Druss!'

  'I am here.'

  Treat. . . her . . . gently.'

  Michanek did not hear his answer.

  He was sitting on the grass by a waterfall, the cool petals of a water-lily crown against his skin.

  *

  There was no looting in Resha, nor any organised slaughter amongst the population. The Immortals patrolled the city, having first marched through to the centre past cheering crowds who were waving banners and hurling flower petals beneath the feet of the soldiers. In the first hours there were isolated outbursts of violence, as angry citizens gathered in mobs to hunt down Ventrians accused of collaborating with the Naashanite conquerors.

  Gorben ordered the mobs dispersed, promising judicial inquiries at a later date to identify those who could be accused of treason. The bodies of the slain were buried in two mass graves beyond the city walls, and the Emperor ordered a monument built above the Ventrian fallen, a huge stone Kon with the names of the dead carved into the base. Above the Naashanite grave there was to be no stone. Michanek, however, was laid to rest in the Hall of the Fallen, below the Great Palace on the Hill that stood like a crown at the centre of Resha.

  Food was brought in to feed the populace, and builders began work, removing the dams that had starved the city of water, rebuilding the walls and repairing those houses and shops damaged by the huge stones of the ballistae that had hurtled over the walls during the past three months.

  Druss had no interest in the affairs of the city. Day by day he sat at Rowena's bedside, holding to her cold, pale hand.

  After Michanek had died Druss had sought out his house, the directions supplied by a Naashanite soldier who had survived the last assault. With Sieben and Eskodas he had run through the city streets until at last he had come to the house on the hill, entering it through a beautiful garden. There he saw a small man, sitting weeping by an ornamental lake. Druss seized him by his woollen tunic, hauling him to his feet. 'Where is she?' he demanded.

  'She is dead,' wailed the man, his tears flowing freely. 'She took poison. There is a priest with the body.' He pointed to the house, then fell to weeping again. Releasing him, Druss ran in to the house and up the curved stairs. The first three rooms were empty, but in the fourth he found the priest of Pashtar Sen sitting by the bedside.

  'Gods, no!' said Druss as he saw the still form of his Rowena, her face grey, her eyes closed. The priest looked up, his eyes tired.

  'Say nothing,' urged the priest, his voice weak and seemingly far away. 'I have sent for a . . .a friend. And it is taking all my power to hold her to life.' He closed his eyes. At a loss, Druss walked to the far side of the bed and gazed down on the woman he had loved for so long. It was seven years since last he had laid eyes on her, and her beauty tore at his heart with talons of steel. Swallowing hard, he sat at the bedside. The priest was holding to her hand; sweat was flowing down his face, making grey streaks on his cheeks, and he seemed mortally weary. When Sieben and Eskodas entered the room Druss waved them to silence, and they sat and waited.

  It was almost an hour before another man entered: a bald, portly man with a round red face and comically protruding ears, He was dressed in a long white tunic, and carried a large leather bag slung from his shoulder by a long gold-embroidered strap. Without a word to the three men he moved to the bedside, placing his fingers against Rowena's neck.

  The priest of Pashtar Sen opened his eyes
. 'She has taken yasroot, Shalitar,' he said.

  The bald man nodded. 'How long ago?'

  'Three hours, though I have prevented most of it from spreading through the blood. But a minute part has reached the lymphatic system.'

  Shalitar clicked his teeth, then delved into the leather bag. 'One of you fetch water,' he ordered. Eskodas stood and left the room, returning moments later with a silver jug. Shalitar told him to stand close to the head of the bed, then from the bag he produced a small packet of powder which he tipped into the jug. It foamed briefly, then settled. Delving into the bag again, he pulled clear a long grey tube and a funnel. Reaching down, he opened Rowena's mouth.

  'What are you doing?' stormed Druss, grabbing the man's hand.

  The surgeon was unperturbed. 'We must get the potion into her stomach. As you can see, she is in no condition to drink, therefore I intend to insert this tube in her throat and pour the potion in through the funnel. It is a delicate business, for I would not want to flood her lungs. It would be hard for me to do it correctly with a broken hand.'

  Druss released him, and watched in silent anguish as the tube was eased into her throat. Shalitar held the funnel in place and ordered Eskodas to pour. When half of the contents of the jug had vanished, Shalitar nipped the tube between thumb and forefinger and withdrew it. Kneeling by the bed, he pressed his ear to Rowena's breast.

  'The heartbeat is very slow,' he said, 'and weak. A year ago I treated her for plague; she almost died then, but the illness left its mark. The heart is not strong.' He turned to the men. 'Leave me now, for I must keep her circulation strong, and that will involve rubbing oil into her legs, arms and back.'

  'I'll not leave,' said Druss.

  'Sir, this lady is the widow of the Lord Michanek. She is well loved here - despite being wed to a Naashanite. It is not fitting for men to observe her naked - and any man who causes her shame will not survive the day.'

  'I am her husband,' hissed Druss. The others can go. I stay.'

  Shalitar rubbed his chin, but looked ready to argue no further. The priest of Pashtar Sen touched the surgeon's arm. 'It is a long story, my friend, but he speaks truly. Now do your best.'