Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“What do you want?” asked Druss.

“They’re waiting for you, lad. There’s nine of them. Go back!”

“I cannot. They have my wife.”

“Damn you, boy, you’re going to die.”

“We’ll see.”

“Listen to me. Two have crossbows. Keep close to the wall on the right. The bowmen are in upper rooms; they’ll not be able to sight their weapons if you keep to the wall.”

“I’ll do that,” said Druss. “Thank you, old man.”

Thorn faded back into the shadows and was gone. Drawing in a deep breath, Druss moved on to the quay. Above and ahead of him he saw a window open. Altering his line, he moved in towards the walls of the moonlit buildings.

“Where are you, Collan?” he shouted.

Armed men moved out of the shadows and he saw the tall, handsome figure of Collan among them. Druss walked forward. “Where is my wife?” he called.

“That’s the beauty of it,” answered Collan, pointing at the ship. “She’s on board - sold to the merchant Kapuchek, who is even now sailing for his home in Ventria. Maybe she will even see you die!”

“In your dreams!” snarled Druss as he charged the waiting men. Behind them the drunken dock-worker suddenly rose, two knives in his hands. One blade flashed by Collan’s head, burying itself to the hilt in Kotis’s neck.

A dagger swept towards Druss’s belly, but he brushed the attacker’s arm aside and delivered a bone-crunching blow to the man’s chin, spinning him into the path of the warriors behind him. A knife plunged into Druss’s back. Twisting, he grabbed the wielder by the throat and groin and hurled him into the remaining men.

Sieben pulled Snaga from the work-sack and threw it through the air. Druss caught the weapon smoothly. Moonlight glittered from the terrible blades and the attackers scattered and ran.

Druss ran towards the ship, which was gliding slowly away from the quayside.

“Rowena!” he yelled. Something struck him in the back and he staggered, then fell to his knees. He saw Sieben run forward. The poet’s arm went back, then swept down. Druss half turned to see a crossbowman outlined against a window-frame; the man dropped his bow, then tumbled from the window with a knife embedded in his eye.

Sieben knelt alongside Druss. “Lie still,” he said. “You’ve a bolt in your back!”

“Get away from me!” shouted Druss, levering himself to his feet. “Rowena!”

He stumbled forward but the ship was moving away from the quay more swiftly now, the wind catching the sail. Druss could feel blood from his wounds streaming down his back and pooling above his belt. A terrible lethargy swept over him and he fell again.

Sieben came alongside. “We must get you to a surgeon,” he heard Sieben say. Then the poet’s voice receded away from him, and a great roaring filled his ears. Straining his eyes, he saw the ship angle towards the east, the great sail filling.

“Rowena!” he shouted. “Rowena!” The stone of the quay was cold against his face, and the distant cries of the gulls mocked his anguish. Pain flowed through him as he struggled to rise…..

And fell from the edge of the world.

Collan raced along the quay, then glanced back. He saw the giant warrior down, his companion kneeling beside him. Halting his flight, he sat down on a mooring-post to recover his breath. It was unbelievable! Unarmed, the giant had attacked armed men, scattering them. Borcha was right. The charging bull analogy had been very perceptive. Tomorrow Collan would move to a hiding place in the south of the city and then, as Borcha had advised, seek out the old woman. That was the answer. Pay her to cast a spell, or send a demon, or supply poison. Anything.

Collan rose - and saw a dark figure standing in the moon shadows by the wall. The man was watching him. “What are you staring at?” he said.

The shadowy figure moved towards him, moonlight bathing his face. He wore a tunic shirt of soft black leather, and two short swords were scabbarded at his hips. His hair was black and long, and tied in a pony-tail. “Do I know you?” asked Collan.

“You will, renegade,” said the man, drawing his right-hand sword.

“You’ve chosen the wrong man to rob,” Collan told him. His sabre came up and he slashed the air to left and right, loosening his wrist.

“I’m not here to rob you, Collan,” said the man, advancing. “I’m here to kill you.”

Collan waited until his opponent was within a few paces and then he leapt forward, lunging his sabre towards the man’s chest. There was a clash of steel as their blades met. Collan’s sabre was parried and a lightning riposte swept at the swordsman’s throat. Collan jumped back, the point of the sword missing his eye by less than an inch. “You are swift, my friend. I underestimated you.”

“It happens,” said the man.

Collan attacked again, this time with a series of sweeps and thrusts aiming for neck and belly. Their blades glittered in the moonlight and all around them windows were opened as the discordant clashing of steel echoed along the quay. Whores leaned out over the window-sills, yelling encouragement; beggars appeared from alleyways; a nearby tavern emptied and a crowd gathered in a large circle around the duelling men. Collan was enjoying himself. His attacks were forcing his opponent back, and he had now taken the measure of the man. The stranger was fast and lithe, cool under pressure; but he was no longer young and Collan could sense he was tiring. At first he had made several counter-attacks, but these were fewer now as he desperately fended off the younger man’s blade. Collan feinted a cut, then rolled, his wrist lunging forward on to his right foot. The stranger blocked too late, the point of the sabre piercing the man’s left shoulder. Collan leapt back, his blade sliding clear. “Almost time to die, old man,” said Collan.

“Yes. How does it feel?” countered his opponent. Collan laughed. “You have nerve, I’ll say that for you. Before I kill you, will you tell me why you are hunting me? A wronged wife, perhaps? A despoiled daughter? Or are you a hired assassin?”

“I am Shadak,” said the man.

Collan grinned. “So the night is not a total waste.” He glanced at the crowd. “The great Shadak!” he said, his voice rising. “This is the famed hunter, the mighty swordsman. See him bleed? Well, my friends, you can tell your children how you saw him die! How Collan slew the man of legend.”

He advanced on the waiting Shadak, then raised his sabre in a mock salute. “I have enjoyed this duel, old man,” he said, “but now it is time to end it.” Even as he spoke he leapt, sending a fast reverse cut towards Shadak’s right side. As his opponent parried Collan rolled his wrist, the sabre rolling over the blocking blade and sweeping up towards Shadak’s unprotected neck. It was the classic killing stroke, and one Collan had employed many times, but Shadak swayed to his left, the sabre cutting into his right shoulder. Collan felt a searing pain in his belly and glanced down. Horrified, he saw Shadak’s sword jutting there.

“Burn in Hell!” hissed Shadak, wrenching the blade clear. Collan screamed and fell to his knees, his sabre clattering against the stones of the quay. He could feel his heart hammering and agony, red-hot acid pain, scorched through him. He cried out: “Help me!”

The crowd was silent now. Collan fell face down on the stones. “I can’t be dying,” he thought. “Not me. Not Collan.”

The pain receded, replaced by a soothing warmth that stole across his tortured mind. He opened his eyes and could see his sabre glinting on the stones just ahead. He reached out for it, his fingers touching the hilt.

“I can still win!” he told himself. “I can….”