Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“Ah, the joys of married life!” said Pilan.

Druss laughed. “You should have tried harder to woo her. Too late to be jealous now.”

“She wouldn’t have me, Druss. She said she was waiting for a man whose face would curdle milk and that if she married me she would spend the rest of her life wondering which of her pretty friends would steal me from her. It seems her dream was to find the world’s ugliest man.”

His smile faded as he saw the expression on the woodsman’s face, and the cold gleam that appeared in his pale eyes. “Only jesting,” said Pilan swiftly, the colour ebbing from his face.

Druss took a deep breath and, remembering his father’s warning, fought down his anger. “I am not… good with jests,” he said, the words tasting like bile in his mouth.

“No harm done,” said Pilan’s brother, moving to sit alongside the giant. “But if you don’t mind my saying so, Druss, you need to develop a sense of humour. We all make jests at the expense of our… friends. It means nothing.”

Druss merely nodded and turned his attention to the pie. Yorath was right. Rowena had said exactly the same words, but from her it was easy to take criticism. With her he felt calm and the world had colour and joy. He finished the food and stood. “The girls should have been here by now,” he said.

“I can hear horses,” said Pilan, rising.

“They’re coming fast,” Yorath added.

Tailia and Berys came running into the clearing, their faces showing fear, their heads turning towards the unseen horsemen. Druss snatched his axe from the stump and ran towards them as Tailia, looking back, stumbled and fell.

Six horsemen rode into sight, armour gleaming in the sunlight. Druss saw raven-winged helms, lances and swords. The horses were lathered and, on seeing the three youths, the warriors shouted battle cries and spurred their mounts towards them.

Pilan and Yorath sprinted away towards the right. Three riders swung their horses to give chase, but the remaining three came on towards Druss.

The young man stood calmly, the axe held loosely across his naked chest. Directly in front of him was a felled tree. The first of the riders, a lancer, leaned forward in the saddle as his gelding jumped over the fallen beech. At that moment Druss moved, sprinting forward and swinging his axe in a murderous arc. As the horse landed the axe-blade hissed over its head, plunging into the chest of the lancer to splinter his breastplate and smash his ribs to shards. The blow hammered the man from the saddle. Druss tried to wrench the axe clear, but the blade was caught by the fractured armour. A sword slashed down at the youth’s head and Druss dived and rolled. As a horseman moved in close he hurled himself from the ground, grabbing the stallion’s right foreleg. With one awesome heave he toppled horse and rider. Hurdling the fallen tree, he ran to where the other two youths had left their hatchets. Scooping up the first he turned as a raider galloped towards him. Druss’ arm came back, then snapped forward. The hatchet sliced through the air, the iron head crunching into the man’s teeth. He swayed in the saddle. Druss ran forward to drag him from the horse. The raider, having dropped his lance, tried to draw a dagger. Druss slapped it from his hand, delivered a bone-breaking punch to the warrior’s chin and then, snatching up the dagger, rammed it into the man’s unprotected throat.

“Look out, Druss!” yelled Tailia. Druss spun, just as a sword flashed for his belly. Parrying the blade with his forearm, he thundered a right cross which took the attacker full on the jaw, spinning him from his feet. Druss leapt on the man, one huge hand grabbing his chin, the other his brow. With one savage twist Druss heard the swordsman’s neck snap like a dry stick.

Moving swiftly to the first man he had killed, Druss tore the felling axe clear of the breastplate as Tailia ran from her hiding-place in the bushes. “They are attacking the village,” she said, tears in her eyes.

Pilan came running into the clearing, a lancer behind him. “Swerve!” bellowed Druss. But Pilan was too terrified to obey and he ran straight on - until the lance pierced his back, exiting in a bloody spray from his chest. The youth cried out, then slumped to the ground. Druss roared in anger and raced forward. The lancer desperately tried to wrench his weapon clear of the dying boy. Druss swung wildly with the axe, which glanced from the rider’s shoulder and plunged into the horse’s back. The animal whinnied in pain and reared before falling to the earth, its legs flailing. The rider scrambled clear, blood gushing from his shoulder and tried to run, but Druss’s next blow almost decapitated him.

Hearing a scream, Druss began to run towards the sound and found Yorath struggling with one raider; the second was kneeling on the ground, blood streaming from a wound in his head. The body of Berys was beside him, a blood-smeared stone in her hand. The swordsman grappling with Yorath suddenly head-butted the youth, sending Yorath back several paces. The sword came up. Druss shouted, trying to distract the warrior. But to no avail. The weapon lanced into Yorath’s side.

The swordsman dragged the blade clear and turned towards Druss. “Now your time to die, farm boy!” he said.

“In your dreams!” snarled the woodsman. Swinging the axe over his head, Druss charged. The swordsman side-stepped to his right - but Druss had been waiting for the move, and with all the power of his mighty shoulders he wrenched the axe, changing its course. It clove through the man’s collarbone, smashing the shoulder-blade and ripping into his lungs. Tearing the axe loose, Druss turned from the body to see the first wounded warrior struggling to rise; jumping forward, he struck him a murderous blow to the neck. “Help me!” called Yorath.

“I’ll send Tailia,” Druss told him, and began to run back through the trees.

Reaching the crest of the hill he gazed down on the village. He could see scattered bodies, but no sign of raiders. For a moment he thought the villagers had beaten them back… but there was no movement at all.

“Rowena!” he yelled. “Rowena!”

Druss ran down the slope. He fell and rolled, losing his grip on the felling-axe, but scrambling to his feet he pounded on - down into the meadow, across the flat, through the half-finished gates. Bodies lay everywhere. Rowena’s father, the former book-keeper Voren, had been stabbed through the throat, and blood was staining the earth beneath him. Breathing hard, Druss stopped, and stared around the settlement square.

Old women, young children and all the men were dead. As he stumbled on he saw the golden-haired child, Kins, beloved of all the villagers, lying sprawled in death alongside her rag doll. The body of an infant lay against one building, a bloodstain on the wall above showing how it had been slain.

He found his father lying in the open with four dead raiders around him. Patica was beside him, a hammer in her hand, her plain brown woollen dress drenched in blood. Druss fell to his knees by his father’s body. There were terrible wounds to the chest and belly, and his left arm was almost severed at the wrist. Bress groaned and opened his eyes. “Druss….”

“I am here, Father.”

“They took the young women…. Rowena… was among them.”

“I’ll find her.”

The dying man glanced to his right at the dead woman beside him. “She was a brave lass; she tried to help me. I should have… loved her better.” Bress sighed, then choked as blood flowed into his throat. He spat it clear. “There is… a weapon. In the house… far wall, beneath the boards. It has a terrible history. But… but you will need it.”

Druss stared down at the dying man and their eyes met. Bress lifted his right hand. Druss took it. “I did my best, boy,” said his father.