David Gemmell: White Wolf: A Novel of Druss the Legend

Morcha drew his cavalry sabre. It was a beautiful weapon, with a filigree fist guard and a pommel stone of emerald. It had been given to him by Bokram, as a reward for his loyalty and bravery. He glanced at the five swordsmen, and saw the fear on all their faces. They had all run here from the hall below, where they had faced Druss and Skilgannon. They knew they were going to die.

Morcha swung back to Boranius. ‘Lord, if you will just put the child down. We will need you to fight.’

‘Oh, I will fight, Morcha. I will kill them both. First, though, you can tire them for me.’

Tire them? Are you insane? Do you not know what is happening here?’

‘Skilgannon is coming, and the axeman. Of course I know. How is it that two warriors have breached our defences and are now climbing my stairs?

I will tell you, Morcha. It is because I am surrounded by dolts and cowards. After today I will raise a fresh force. Only this time I will pick the fighting men myself. Your judgement has proved to be sadly defective.’

Morcha stood silently for a moment. ‘You are right, my lord. My judgement has for years been defective.’ Before he could go on the sound of horses’ hooves echoed up to them from the courtyard below. Morcha ran to the window and looked out. When he turned away there was a grim smile on his face.

‘It seems, Boranius, that you will not be raising a new army — even if you kill Skilgannon and Druss. The Witch Queen is here, with a company of her guards.’

‘I’ll kill them too,’ said Boranius. ‘I’ll cut the bitch’s heart out.’

Skilgannon stepped into the hall, followed by the black-clad axeman.

The five Naashanite swordsmen backed away, dropping their blades.

Morcha sighed, then glanced at Skilgannon.

‘You have done well since those early days,’ he said. ‘I still have fond memories of the bathhouse.’

‘Put up your sword, Morcha. There is no need for you to die here.’

Morcha shrugged. ‘There is every need. Defend yourself!’ He leapt forward, his sabre slashing through the air. Skilgannon swayed. A piercing pain shot through Morcha’s chest. He stumbled and dropped his sabre, watching it clatter to the floor. Then he slumped against the wall, and slid down.

‘Oh, neatly done,’ said Boranius. Rising from his seat, still holding the child, he drew one of his own swords. Resting the blade against Elanin’s waist he stepped away from the chair.

‘It is good to see you, axeman,’ he told Druss. ‘I have heard so much about you.’

Druss slowly advanced on the masked figure. Blood seeped through the child’s thin blue dress.

‘One more step and I will slice her open, and you can watch her entrails fall to the floor.’

Druss paused. ‘Excellent choice,’ said Boranius. ‘Now be so good as to lay your axe down.’

‘He will kill her anyway, Druss,’ said Skilgannon. ‘He is just prolonging the moment.’

‘I know what he is doing,’ replied Druss, his voice cold. ‘I have met his like before. Weak men. They are all the same.’ Even as he spoke Druss let Snaga fall to the timber.

‘Now step forward so that I may savour this moment,’ said Boranius.

Druss did so, moving within range of the sword Boranius held at the girl’s side. ‘You know what happens now, axeman?’

‘Of course I know. You are going to die. I am going to kill you.’

‘If you move I shall kill the child.’

‘That’s what I am waiting for,’ said Druss coldly. ‘The moment that sword slides into her you won’t be able to use it against me. And then, you whoreson, I will break every bone in your body. So let us not wait. Do it!’

he thundered, stepping in. Shocked, Boranius instinctively stepped back.

The dying Joining growled, its jaws snapping towards Ironmask’s leg. The sword in Boranius’s hand flashed down, striking the Joining across its snout. Blood sprayed out. In that moment Druss dived forward, snatching Elanin from Boranius’s grasp. The silver blade swept out. Druss turned his back, protecting the child, and threw himself to the floor. The sword sliced through the back of his jerkin, scoring the flesh. Boranius screamed in fury and charged towards the axeman.

The Sword of Fire lunged towards Druss’s unprotected body.

The Sword of Day parried it.

Boranius leapt back, drawing his second sword from the scabbard hanging between his shoulders. Then he faced Skilgannon. ‘Oh, I have waited long for this, Olek,’ he said, his voice muffled by the iron mask. ‘I shall carve you like a banquet swan.’

The Swords of Blood and Fire glinted in the lantern light as the two men circled. Boranius sprang forward and their swords clashed. Time and again the music of the steel rang out.

Morcha watched them, his pain forgotten. The two warriors seemed to glide across the timbered floor, their swords creating glittering arcs of light. The fighters spun and moved, ever faster, and yet perfectly in balance. The deadly blades clanged and clashed, hissed and sang, the razor sharp steel seeking to sheathe itself in soft flesh. Back and forth across the hall the two men fought without pausing for breath.

Morcha became aware that others had entered the hall. Looking up he saw Jianna, the Witch Queen. Alongside her was the old swordsman, Malanek. Black-clad guards thronged the hall, and beyond them stood an old woman, leaning upon a gnarled staff. Morcha knew he was dying, but he prayed to be allowed to see the end of this incredible contest.

Both men had suffered wounds. Skilgannon was bleeding from a shallow cut to his face, Boranius had been sliced across the left bicep, the skin flapping, blood flowing. They fought on.

Inevitably they were slowing now, and once more circling one another.

Then Boranius spoke. ‘You remember Greavas, Olek? Ah, you should have heard him squeal. He was brave enough when I cut away his fingers. But when I sawed away at his arm his cowardice came through. He begged me to kill him.’

‘Don’t let him goad you, laddie!’ called Druss. ‘Stay cool and cut his heart out!’

Boranius leapt to the attack. Skilgannon parried desperately, then spun away. Boranius followed. The Sword of Blood lunged towards Skilgannon’s throat. He parried it, then blocked a cut from the Sword of Fire. Off balance now Skilgannon went down on one knee. Boranius launched a fresh assault. Skilgannon hurled himself to his right, rolled and came up, just as Boranius swung his right-hand blade in a murderous arc. The Sword of Night came up, the blade chopping through Boranius’s fingers.

With a scream he fell back, the Sword of Fire dropping from his mutilated hand. Boranius backed away.

Skilgannon followed. ‘Now tell me about Greavas!’ he said. ‘Now tell me about his pleading!’

Boranius screamed in pain and fury and rushed in. Skilgannon parried, leapt aside and sent a slashing cut across Boranius’s back as he blundered past. The Sword of Night sank deep, slicing into Boranius’s spine. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees, his remaining sword slipping from his hand.

Skilgannon walked around the man. The Sword of Day sliced through the leather straps holding the iron mask in place. It fell away, exposing the horror of Boranius’s mutilated face. The man’s blue eyes blazed with undisguised malice and hatred. ‘You are nothing, Boranius,’ said Skilgannon, his voice emotionless. ‘You never were. Greavas was ten times the man you are.’

With that he walked away. Boranius screamed insults after him. His body jerked as he tried to force his legs to obey him, but his fractured spine could no longer send messages to his muscles. He tried to reach for his sword, but his arm spasmed and twitched.

He looked up to see the Witch Queen walking towards him, a slender dagger in her hand.