Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“I was. Now I am a hunter - a hunter of men. Trust me. Now, how many women did they take?”

The young man thought for a moment. “Perhaps around thirty. They killed Berys in the woods. Tailia escaped. But I have not seen all the bodies. Maybe others were killed.”

“Then let us think of thirty. It won’t be easy freeing them.”

A sound from outside made both men turn as a young woman entered the room. Shadak rose. The woman was fair-haired and pretty, and there was blood upon her blue woollen skirt and her shirt of white linen.

“Yorath died,” she told the young man. “They’re all dead, Druss.” Her eyes filled with tears and she stood in the doorway looking lost and forlorn. Druss did not move, but Shadak stepped swiftly towards her, taking her in his arms and stroking her back.

He led her into the room and sat her at the table. “Is there any food here?” he asked Druss. The young man nodded and moved through to the back room, returning with a pitcher of water and some bread. Shadak filled a clay cup with water and told the girl to drink. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The blood is Yorath’s,” she whispered. Shadak sat beside her and Tailia sagged against him; she was exhausted.

“You need to rest,” he told her gently, helping her to rise and leading her through the building to a small bedroom. Obediently she lay down, and he covered her with a thick blanket. “Sleep, child. I will be here.”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

He took her hand. “You are safe… Tailia. Sleep.” She closed her eyes, but clung to his hand, and Shadak sat with her until the grip eased and her breathing deepened. At last he stood and returned to the outer room.

“You were planning to leave her behind?” he asked the young man.

“She is nothing to me,” he said coldly. “Rowena is everything.”

“I see. Then think on this, my friend: suppose it was you who had died and it was Rowena who survived hiding in the woods. How would your spirit feel if you saw me ride in and leave her alone in this wilderness?”

“I did not die,” said Druss.

“No,” said Shadak, “you didn’t. We’ll take the girl with us.”

“No!”

“Either that or you walk on alone, laddie. And I do mean walk.”

The young man looked up at the hunter, and his eyes gleamed. “I have killed men today,” he said, “and I will not be threatened by you, or anyone. Not ever again. If I choose to leave here on one of your stolen horses, I shall do so. You would be wise not to try to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t try, boy, I’d do it.” The words were spoken softly, and with a quiet confidence. But deep inside Shadak was surprised, for it was a confidence he did not feel. He saw the young man’s hand snake around the haft of the axe. “I know you are angry, lad, and concerned for the safety of… Rowena. But you can do nothing alone - unless of course you are a tracker, and an expert horseman. You could ride off into the dark and lose them. Or you could stumble upon them, and try to kill forty warriors. Then there’ll be no one to rescue her, or the others.”

Slowly the giant’s fingers relaxed, the hand moving away from the axe haft, the gleam fading from his eyes. “It hurts me to sit here while they carry her further away.”

“I understand that. But we will catch them. And they will not harm the women; they are valuable to them.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do. I know the country, and I can guess where they will be camped tomorrow. We will go in at night, deal with the sentries and free the captives.”

Druss nodded. “What then? They’ll be hunting us. How do we escape with thirty women?”

“Their leaders will be dead,” said Shadak softly. “I’ll see to that.”

“Others will take the lead. They will come after us.”

Shadak shrugged, then smiled. “Then we kill as many as we can.”

“I like that part of the plan,” said the young man grimly.

The stars were bright and Shadak sat on the porch of the timber dwelling, watching Druss sitting beside the bodies of his parents.

“You’re getting old,” Shadak told himself, his gaze fixed on Druss. “You make me feel old,” he whispered. Not in twenty years had a man inspired such fear in Shadak. He remembered the moment well - he was a Sathuli tribesman named Jonacin, a man with eyes of ice and fire, a legend among his own people. The Lord’s champion, he had killed seventeen men in single combat, among them the Vagrian champion, Vearl.

Shadak had known the Vagrian - a tall, lean man, lightning-fast and tactically sound. The Sathuli, it was said, had treated him like a novice, first slicing off his right ear before despatching him with a heart thrust.

Shadak smiled as he remembered hoping with all his heart that he would never have to fight the man. But such hopes are akin to magic, he knew now, and all men are ultimately faced with their darkest fears.

It had been a golden morning in the Delnoch mountains. The Drenai were negotiating treaties with a Sathuli Lord and Shadak was present merely as one of the envoy’s guards. Jonacin had been mildly insulting at the dinner the night before, speaking sneeringly of Drenai sword skills. Shadak had been ordered to ignore the man. But on the following morning the white-robed Sathuli stepped in front of him as he walked along the path to the Long Hall.

“It is said you are a fighter,” said Jonacin, the sneer in his voice showing disbelief.

Shadak had remained cool under the other’s baleful stare. “Stand aside, if you please. I am expected at the meeting.”

“I shall stand aside - as soon as you have kissed my feet.”

Shadak had been twenty-two then, in his prime. He looked into Jonacin’s eyes and knew there was no avoiding confrontation. Other Sathuli warriors had gathered close by and Shadak forced a smile. “Kiss your feet? I don’t think so. Kiss this instead!” His right fist lashed into the Sathuli’s chin, spinning him to the ground. Then Shadak walked on and took his place at the table.

As he sat he glanced at the Sathuli Lord, a tall man with dark, cruel eyes. The man saw him, and Shadak thought he glimpsed a look of faint amusement, even triumph, in the Lord’s face. A messenger whispered something in the Lord’s ear and the chieftain stood. “The hospitality of my house has been abused,” he told the envoy. “One of your men struck my champion, Jonacin. The attack was unwarranted. Jonacin demands satisfaction.”

The envoy was speechless. Shadak stood. “He shall have it, my Lord. But let us fight in the cemetery. At least then you will not have far to carry his body!”

Now the hoot of an owl brought Shadak back to the present, and he saw Druss striding towards him. The young man made as if to walk by, then stopped. “I had no words,” he said. “I could think of nothing to say.”

“Sit down for a moment and we will speak of them,” said Shadak. “It is said that our praises follow the dead to their place of rest. Perhaps it is true.”

Druss sat alongside the swordsman. “There is not much to tell. He was a carpenter, and a fashioner of brooches. She was a bought wife.”

“They raised you, helped you to be strong.”

“I needed no help in that.”

“You are wrong, Druss. If your father had been a weak, or a vengeful man, he would have beaten you as a child, robbed you of your spirit. In my experience it takes a strong man to raise strong men. Was the axe his?”

“No. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Bardan the Axeman,” said Shadak softly.

“How could you know?”

“It is an infamous weapon. Snaga. That was the name. Your father had a hard life, trying to live down such a beast as Bardan. What happened to your real mother?”