The Legend of Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  David A. Gemmell's first novel Legend, a powerful heroic fantasy, was published in 1984. Since then he has become a full-time writer and his bestsellers include the Jon Shannow novels, Wolf in Shadow, The Last Guardian and Bloodstone, the continuing Drenai series, and The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend. His most recent bestsellers, Sword in the Storm, Echoes of the Great Song and Midnight Falcon, are also published by Corgi. David Gemmell is married with two teenage children and lives in East Sussex.

  By David Gemmell

  The Drenai books

  Legend

  The King Beyond the Gate

  Waylander

  Quest for Lost Heroes

  Waylander 2: In the Realm of the Wolf

  The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

  The Legend of Deathwalker

  Winter Warriors

  Hero in the Shadows

  The Jon Shannow books

  Wolf in Shadow

  The Last Guardian

  Bloodstone

  The Stones of Power books

  Ghost King

  Last Sword of Power

  Lion of Macedon

  Dark Prince

  The Hawk Queen books

  Ironhand's Daughter

  The Hawk Eternal

  The Rigante books

  Sword in the Storm

  Midnight Falcon

  Ravenheart

  Individual titles

  Knights of Dark Renown

  Drenai Tales

  Morning Star

  Dark Moon

  Echoes of the Great Song

  THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER

  David A. Gemmell

  CORGI BOOKS

  THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER

  A CORGI BOOK : 0 551 14252 2

  Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Bantam Press edition published 1996 Corgi edition published 1996

  7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © David Gemmell 1996

  The right of David Gemmell to be identified as author of this

  work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of

  the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

  by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out

  or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including

  this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is set in 10/11pt Sabon by Phoenix Typesetting, Ilkley, West Yorkshire.

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

  61-63 Oxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

  a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

  in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

  and in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,

  Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire.

  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 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.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dros Delnoch

  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 tomorrow they would come screaming across the narrow strip of blood-stained ground, hauling their ladders, carrying their grappling irons. They would be baying for battle and death, and just like today 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 armour, 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 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 rain-clouds 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.

  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 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 armour and weapons, had been thrown there, and burnt. Oily black smoke had drifted over the Dros for hours afterwards, 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 righting, for it was the longest and therefore the hardest to hold. They had crept back in the night, surrendering the wall without further losses. But Wall Two had been taken at great cost, the enemy breaching the defences 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 hauled himself over the battlements and sank 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 f
arm yield any less corn? Would his cattle sicken and die?

  It had all seemed such an adventure twelve weeks ago, when the Drenai recruiting officers had arrived at the village. A few weeks of patrolling these 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 seeking 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 towards the ramparts. Pellin's heart began to beat faster as Druss strode up the steps.

  Druss the Legend, the Saviour of Skein Pass, the man who had battled his way across the world to rescue his wife. Druss the Axeman, the Silver Slayer. The Nadir called him Deathwalker, and Pellin now knew why. He had watched him fighting on the battlements, his terrible axe 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 and 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 of surrender or die. The old hero had laughed. 'In the north,' he said, 'the mountains may tremble when Ulric breaks wind. But this is Drenai land and to me he is just another pot-bellied savage who couldn't wipe his arse 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 towards him. The rain had eased, and the moon shone bright once more. Pellin's hands began to sweat and he wiped the palms on his cloak. The young sentry stood to attention as the Legend approached him, striding along the ramparts, his axe 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 axe 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 now 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 upon the silver axe 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 here he could see many of them lying in their blankets, close to hundreds of camp-fires. 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 swivelled it. 'I cannot get used to wearing all this armour,' 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,' said Druss 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 you 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,' said Druss, 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 eyes. 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 fist-fighter 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 on
e 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 same 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 honour bound to take his place.'

  'What happened then?' asked Pellin as Druss eased himself to his feet and leaned over the ramparts. The faint light of pre-dawn 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 towards 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 on the rushing tide of men. Hundreds were carrying ladders, others held coiled ropes and grappling hooks. Pellin's heart was hammering now. '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?'