David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

The axeman chuckled and fixed Stavut with a piercing glare. ‘Aye, the Druss story.’

‘Yes. Is it true? Do you think you are Druss?’

‘What I think is unimportant now. It is what they think that matters. You know what is going to happen tomorrow, Stavut?’

‘We are all going to die.’

‘And that is the general feeling, is it?’

‘I think it is considered to be rather more of a fact,’ Stavut told him. ‘We lost seventy today. They lost about twice that. If it is the same tomorrow there will be too few of us to hold the road. And there will still be around seven hundred of them.’

‘It won’t be the same tomorrow, laddie. The wind blows the chaff away first. Good men though they are it was, in the main, the weakest of them who died today.’

Stavut was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. It didn’t sound like Harad. Many years ago, in Mellicane across the sea, he had attended a theatre, and watched actors perform. They had been speaking lines written hundreds of years ago, and the pitch and style of their speech patterns sounded very similar to Harad now. Was Harad acting? Nothing in his brief experience of the man had given any hint of a theatrical nature. He looked into those piercing ice blue eyes. And shivered. If this was acting it was of far greater quality than the mummers in Mellicane produced.

The axeman hefted Snaga and walked out to stand before the warriors. He said nothing for a moment, his gaze running over the gathered men.

‘You can cease your whispering now!’ he thundered. Silence fell on the Drenai. Stavut felt goose bumps on his neck. The voice rang with command. The axeman pointed at Alahir. ‘Be so good as to stand, Earl of Bronze,’ he said. Alahir, still in the golden armour, rose to his feet. ‘The last man I saw wearing that was fighting on the ramparts of Dros Delnoch — against an army two hundred times the size of that facing you. The Nadir horde filled the valley. Their spears were a forest. Their arrows darkened the sun, so that we fought in the shade. In the main our army was made up of farm workers and land labourers. Aye, we had Hogun’s legion, but many of the rest had never picked up a sword before enlisting. Yet they fought like heroes. By Heaven, they were heroes. At Skein we stood against the best warriors I have ever known, Gorben’s Immortals. They had never lost before that day.’ He paused and rested the axe blades on the ground before him, his hands on the haft. ‘Now I just asked young Stavut what is going to happen tomorrow. He said: “We are all going to die.” He was wrong. Those of you who think the same are wrong. We are going to win. We are going to break their spirit, destroy their morale, and send them running from the road. We are going to hold this position until Skilgannon achieves what he set out to do. Not man nor beast will prevent us. Because we are Drenai. The last of the Drenai. And we will not fail.’ He fell silent again. Not a sound was heard, as his gaze raked the ranks once more.

‘Skilgannon returned to this world to fulfil a prophecy. The Armour of Bronze reappeared to aid him. I am here for a little while, to stand once more with Drenai warriors in a cause that is just and noble. Now get on your feet. Up! I want to see you standing like men.’ The Drenai rose and stood before him. Then he raised the axe above his head. ‘What is this?’ he bellowed.

A few men called out: ‘Snaga!’

‘Again! Every man!’

‘Snaga!’ they shouted, the sound echoing around the rocks.

‘And who carries Snaga the Sender, the Blades of No Return?’

‘Druss the Legend!’ came the answering roar.

‘Again!’

The men began to chant the name. For Stavut the moment was hypnotic, and he found himself chanting along with the others. ‘Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!’

The axeman let the chanting go on for a short while. Then he lowered his axe and raised his hand for silence. Obedience was instant. ‘Rest now, Drenai,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we carve a new legend for your children and their children.’

With that he turned and walked away, his giant frame passing into the shadows of the entrance, and out into the road beyond.

Stavut’s heart was beating fast, and his hands were trembling. There was no way that could have been Harad. Deranged or not. Everywhere there was silence. He glanced at Alahir, who was staring in the direction the axeman had taken.

Then the Earl of Bronze walked away from his men, and followed Druss the Legend out onto the road.

Alahir felt unsteady as he followed the Legend out into the night. The speech had been delivered with such power and confidence that he felt his spirits soar. Yet he knew the chances of actually winning were hundreds to one. The Eternal Guard were damn fine fighters, and they weren’t likely to break. And if they did there were a hundred Jiamads waiting to tear into the defenders.

He saw Druss ahead. The man had walked to the narrow section of the road and was staring down at the camp of the Guards, a quarter of a mile below.

Alahir was nervous as he approached him. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.

‘No, laddie. I hoped you would come.’

‘Why are you out here? My men would love to sit around and talk to you about the glory days, and hear first hand of your exploits.’

‘I never was much for bragging about the past. However, I can’t sit with the men, and joke and laugh.

I am the Legend. They need to feel in awe of me. I am not comfortable with that — but it is necessary here and now.’

‘They were lifted when you said we could win. Did you mean it, or was it just to raise their morale?’

‘I never lie, laddie.’

‘And you never lose.’

‘Some men are born lucky. A stray arrow could have pierced my eye, or a lancer could have plunged a weapon in my back as I fought someone else. I am not a god, laddie. These Guards are fine fighters, and the odds are all with them. Plus they have made it slightly easier for themselves.’

‘How so?’

‘By sending the surgeon to you.’

‘That was a noble gesture.’

‘Perhaps. It was also good strategy. Men fight better when they are full of passion. I do not like hatred, but it is a vital weapon in war. If a leader can convince his men that the enemy they face is evil, and that their own cause is just or holy, then they will fight harder. If you tell them that the enemy will plunder their homes and rape their women they will fight like tigers. You understand, Alahir? While the Guard were merely tools of the evil Eternal, and the homeland was at risk, the men were fired up. When the surgeons came your riders found a new respect for the enemy. The enemy cares about your wounded. Good men. We could all be friends and brothers, couldn’t we? That single gesture, which will not add one more fighting man to our ranks, leached away the fire from your warriors’ hearts. What do you think will happen if they force a surrender tomorrow?’

Alahir thought about the question. The Guard had fought many battles, and he had heard stories of their ruthlessness. Agrias had told him that when Draspartha was besieged twenty years ago the Guard had put to death every enemy soldier, then lined up the civilians of the city, and butchered one in ten of the men.

‘Judging from their past victories they would kill us all.’

‘And the wounded?’

‘Them too.’

‘No surgeons then to offer assistance, and stitch wounds?’

‘No,’ said Alahir, his voice hardening.

‘No,’ echoed Druss. ‘They will come looking to hack us to death. They are hard, cold murderous men. Even now that surgeon is in his general’s tent, detailing the mood of your men. That is why I did not give my little talk until he had gone. He will report that the enemy has been softened, and is ready for the kill. This will be passed to the fighting men. They will march up here tomorrow with high hopes. What they will find is men who fight twice as hard as yesterday. And I’ll wager you this, Alahir. When we push them back tomorrow there will be no offer of surgeons.’