The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (49 page)

“Oh it’s you,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“The Ventrians tricked us. They’re on the other side of the mountain.”

Sieben swore softly. Druss chuckled. “You just lie here, poet, and I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve sent them running.”

“The Immortals are here too?” asked Sieben.

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. A nice little outing you promised me. A few speeches. And what do we get? Another war.”

“I saw Bodasen. He’s looking well.”

“Marvelous. Maybe after he’s killed us we can have a drink together and chat about old times.”

“You take things too seriously, poet. Rest now, and later I’ll have some men carry you up to the pass. You’d hate to miss the action, now, wouldn’t you?”

“Couldn’t you get them to carry me all the way back to Skoda?”

“Later,” grinned Druss. “Anyway, I must be getting back.”

The axeman walked swiftly up the mountain slopes and sat on a boulder at the mouth of the pass, gazing intently at the enemy camp.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Delnar, moving up to join him.

“I was remembering something I told an old friend a long time ago.”

“What was that?”

“If you want to win: Attack.”

Bodasen dismounted before the Emperor and knelt, pressing his forehead to the earth. Then he rose. From a distance the Ventrian looked as he always had, powerful, black-bearded, and keen of eye. But he could no longer stand close inspection. His hair and beard showed the unhealthy sheen of heavy, dark dye, his painted face glowed with unnatural color, and his eyes saw treachery in every shadow. His followers, even those like Bodasen who had served him for decades, knew never to stare into his face, addressing all their remarks to the gilded griffin on his breastplate. No one was allowed to approach him bearing a weapon, and he had not granted a private audience to anyone in years. Always he wore armor—even, it was said, when he slept. His food was tasted by slaves, and he had taken to wearing gloves of soft leather, in the belief that poison might be spread on the outside of his golden goblets.

Bodasen waited for permission to speak, glancing up swiftly to read the expression on the Emperor’s face. Gorben was staring moodily.

“Was that Druss?” he asked.

“Aye, my lord.”

“So even he has turned against me.”

“He is a Drenai, my lord.”

“Do you dispute with me, Bodasen?”

“No, sire. Of course not.”

“Good. I want Druss brought before me for judgment. Such treachery must be answered with swift justice. You understand?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Will the Drenai give us the way?”

“I think not, sire. But it will not take long to clear the path. Even with Druss there. Shall I order the men to stand down and prepare camp?”

“No. Let them stay in ranks for a while. Let the Drenai see their power and their strength.”

“Yes, sire.”

Bodasen backed away.

“Are you still loyal?” asked the Emperor, suddenly.

Bodasen’s mouth was dry. “As I have always been, lord.”

“Yet Druss was your friend.”

“Even though that is true, sire, I will see him dragged before you in chains. Or his head presented to you, should he be slain in the defense.”

The Emperor nodded, then turned his painted face to stare up at the pass.

“I want them dead. All dead,” he whispered.

In the cool of the predawn haze the Drenai formed their lines, each warrior bearing a rounded shield and a short stabbing sword. Their sabers had been put aside, for in close formation a swinging longsword could be as deadly to a comrade standing close as to an enemy bearing down. The men were nervous, constantly rechecking breastplate straps, or discovering the bronze greaves protecting their lower legs were too tight, too loose, too anything. Cloaks were removed and left in tight red rolls by the mountain wall behind the ranks. Both Druss and Delnar knew this was the time a man’s courage was under the greatest strain. Gorben could do many things. The dice were in his hands. All the Drenai could do was wait.

“Do you think he’ll attack immediately the sun comes up?” asked Delnar.

Druss shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’ll let the fear work for about an hour. But then again—you can never tell with him.”

The two hundred men in the front rank shared the same emotions
now, with varying intensity. Pride, for they had been singled out as the best; fear, for they would be the first to die. Some had regrets. Many had not written home for weeks, others had left friends and relatives with bitter words. Many were the thoughts.

Druss made his way to the center of the first line, calling for Diagoras and Certak to stand on either side of him.

“Move away from me a little,” he said. “Give me swinging room.” The line shuffled apart. Druss loosened his shoulders, stretching the muscles of his arms and back. The sky lightened. Druss cursed. The disadvantage for the defenders—apart from the numbers of the enemy—was that the sun rose in their eyes.

Across the stream the black-skinned Panthians sharpened their spears. There was little fear among them. The ivory-skins facing them were few in number. They would be swept away like antelope before a veldt blaze. Gorben waited until the sun cleared the peaks, then gave the order to attack.

The Panthians surged to their feet, a swelling roar of hatred rising from their throats, a wall of sound that hurtled up into the pass, washing over the defenders.

“Listen to that!” bellowed Druss. “That’s not strength you hear. That’s the sound of terror.”

Five thousand warriors raced toward the pass, their feet drumming a savage beat on the rocky slopes, echoing high into the peaks.

Druss hawked and spat. Then he began to laugh, a rich, full sound that brought a few chuckles from the men around him.

“Gods, I’ve missed this,” he shouted. “Come on, you cow-sons!” he yelled at the Panthians. “Move yourselves!”

Delnar, at the center of the second line, smiled and drew his sword.

With the enemy a bare hundred paces distant, the men of the third line looked to Archytas. He raised his arm. The men dropped their shields and stooped, rising with barbed javelins. Each man had five of them at his feet.

The Panthians were almost upon them.

“Now!” yelled Archytas.

Arms flew forward and two hundred shafts of death hurtled into the black mass.

“Again!” bellowed Archytas.

The front ranks of the advancing horde disappeared screaming, to be trampled by the men behind them. The charge faltered
as the tribesmen tripped and fell over fallen comrades. The mountain walls, narrowing like an hourglass, slowed the attack still further.

Then the lines clashed.

A spear lunged for Druss. Blocking it with his axe blades, he dragged a backhand cut that sheared through the wicker shield and the flesh beyond. The man grunted as Snaga clove through his ribcage. Druss tore the weapon clear, parried another thrust, and hammered his axe into his opponent’s face. Beside him Certak blocked a spear with his shield, expertly sliding his gladius into a gleaming black chest. A spear sliced his upper thigh, but there was no pain. He counterthrust, and his attacker fell across the growing pile of corpses in front of the line.

The Panthians now found themselves leaping upon the bodies of their comrades in their desperation to breach the line. The floor of the pass became slippery with blood, but the Drenai held.

A tall warrior threw aside his wicker shield and hurdled the wall of dead, spear raised. He hurtled toward Druss. Snaga buried itself in his chest, but the weight of the man bore Druss back, tearing his axe from his hands. A second man leaped at him. Druss turned aside the thrusting spear with his mail-covered gauntlets, and smashed a cruel punch to the man’s jaw. As the warrior crumpled, Druss grabbed him by the throat and groin and hoisted the body above his head, hurling him back over the corpse wall into the faces of the advancing warriors. Twisting, he wrenched his axe clear of the first man’s body.

“Come on, my lads,” he bellowed. “Time to send them home!”

Leaping up on the corpses, he cut left and right, opening up a space in the Panthian ranks. Diagoras couldn’t believe his eyes. He swore. Then leaped to join him.

The Drenai advanced, clambering over the Panthian dead, their swords red, their eyes grim.

At the center the tribesmen struggled first to overcome the madman with the axe, then to get back from him, as other Drenai warriors joined him.

Fear flashed through their ranks like a plague.

Within minutes they were streaming back across the valley floor.

Druss led the warriors back into position. His jerkin was stained with blood, and his beard spotted with crimson. Opening
his shirt, he removed a towel and wiped his sweating face. Doffing his helm of black and silver, he scratched his head.

“Well, lads,” he called out, his deep voice echoing in the crags, “how does it feel to have earned your pay?”

“They’re coming again!” someone shouted.

Druss’s voice cut through the rising fear. “Of course they are,” he bellowed. “They don’t know when they’re beaten. Front rank fall back, second rank stand to. Let’s spread the glory!”

Druss remained with the front line, Diagoras and Certak alongside him.

By dusk they had beaten off four charges with the loss of only forty men—thirty dead, ten wounded.

The Panthians had lost over eight hundred men.

It was a macabre scene that night as the Drenai sat around small campfires, the dancing flames throwing weird shadows across the wall of corpses in the pass, making it seem as if the bodies writhed in the darkness. Delnar ordered the men to gather all the wicker shields they could find and recover as many javelins and spears as were still usable.

Toward midnight many of the veterans were asleep, but others found the excitement of the day too fresh, and they sat in small groups, talking in low tones.

Delnar walked from group to group, sitting with them, joking and lifting their spirts. Druss slept in the tent of Sieben, high in the mouth of the pass. The poet had watched part of the day’s action from his bed, and fallen asleep during the long afternoon.

Diagoras, Orases, and Certak sat with half a dozen other men as Delnar approached and joined them.

“How are you feeling?” asked the Earl.

The men smiled. What answer could they give?

“Can I ask a question, sir?” asked Orases.

“Certainly.”

“How is it that Druss has stayed alive so long? I mean, he has no defense to speak of.”

“It’s a good point,” said the Earl, doffing his helm and running his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool of the night. “The reason is contained in your question. It is because he has no defense. That terrible axe rarely leaves a man with a nonmortal wound. To kill Druss you have to be prepared to die. No, not just prepared. You would have to attack Druss in the sure knowledge that he will kill you. Now, most men want to live. You understand?”

“Not really, sir,” admitted Orases.

“Do you know the one kind of warrior no one wants to face?” asked Delnar.

“No, sir.”

“The baresark, sometimes called the berserker, a man whose killing frenzy makes him oblivious to pain and uncaring about life. He throws his armor away and attacks the enemy, cutting and killing until he himself is cut to pieces. I saw a baresark once who had lost an arm. As the blood spewed from the stump, he aimed it in the faces of his attackers and carried on fighting until he dropped.

“No one wants to fight such a man. Now, Druss is even more formidable than the berserker. He has all the virtues, but his killing frenzy is controlled. He can think clearly. And when you add the man’s awesome strength, he becomes a veritable machine of destruction.”

“But surely a chance thrust amid the melee,” said Diagoras. “A sudden slip on a pool of blood. He could die as well as any other man.”

“Yes,” admitted Delnar. “I do not say that he won’t die in such a way; only that the odds are all with Druss. Most of you saw him today. Those who fought alongside him had no time to study his technique, but others of you caught a glimpse of the Legend. He’s always balanced, always moving. His eyes are never still. His peripheral vision is incredible. He can sense danger even amid chaos. Today a very brave Panthian warrior hurled himself on the axe, dragging it from Druss’s hand. A second warrior followed. Did anyone see it?”

“I did,” said Orases.

“But you didn’t really learn from it. The first Panthian died to remove Druss’s weapon. The second was to engage him while the others breached the line. Had they come through then, our force might have been split and pushed back into the walls of the mountain. Druss saw that instantly. That’s why, although he could have just knocked his attacker senseless and retrieved his axe, he hurled the man back into the breach. Now think on this: in that instant Druss had seen the danger, formulated a plan of action, and carried it out. More even than this. He retrieved the axe and took the battle to the enemy. That’s what broke them. Druss had judged exactly the right moment to attack. It’s the instinct of the born warrior.”

“But how did he know we would follow him?” asked Diagoras. “He could have been cut to pieces.”

“Even in this he was confident. That’s why he asked you and Certak to stand alongside him. Now that’s a compliment. He knew you would respond, and that others who might not follow him would follow you.”

“He has told you this?” asked Certak.

The Earl chuckled. “No. In a way Druss would be as surprised to hear it as you are. His actions are not reasoned. As I said, they are instinctive. If we live through this you will learn much.”

“Do you think we will?” asked Orases.

“If we are strong,” lied Delnar smoothly, surprised at himself.

The Panthians came again at dawn, creeping up through the pass as the Drenai waited, swords drawn. But they did not attack. Under the bewildered eyes of the defenders, they hauled away the bodies of their comrades.

It was a bizarre scene. Delnar ordered the Drenai back twenty paces to make room for the work, and the warriors waited. Delnar sheathed his sword and moved alongside Druss in the front line.