Druss remained with the front line, Diagoras and Certak alongside him.
By dusk they had beaten off four charges for the loss of only forty men – thirty dead, ten wounded.
The Panthians had lost over eight hundred men.
It was a macabre scene that night as the Drenai sat around small campfires, the dancing flames throwing weird shadows across the wall of corpses in the pass making it seem as if the bodies writhed in the darkness. Delnar ordered the men to gather all the wicker shields they could find and recover as many javelins and spears as were still usable.
Towards midnight many of the veterans were asleep-, but others found the excitement of the day too fresh, and they sat in small groups, talking in low tones.
Delnar walked from group to group, sitting with them, joking and lifting their spirits. Druss slept in the tent of Sieben, high in the mouth of the pass. The poet had watched part of the day’s action from his bed, and fallen asleep during the long afternoon.
Diagoras, Orases and Certak sat with half a dozen other men as Delnar approached and joined them.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked the Earl.
The men smiled. What answer could they give?
‘Can I ask a question, sir?’ asked Orases.
‘Certainly.’
‘How is it that Druss has stayed alive so long? I mean, he has no defence to speak of.’
‘It’s a good point,’ said the Earl, doffing his helm and running his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool of the night. “The reason is contained in your question. It is because he has no defence. That terrible axe rarely leaves a man with a non-mortal wound. To kill Druss you have to be prepared to die. No, not just prepared. You would have to attack Druss in the sure knowledge that he will kill you. Now, most men want to live. You understand?’
‘Not really, sir,’ admitted Orases.
‘Do you know the one kind of warrior no one wants to face?’ asked Delnar.
‘No, sir.’
‘The baresark, sometimes called the berserker, a man whose killing frenzy makes him oblivious to pain and uncaring about life. He throws his armour away and attacks the enemy, cutting and killing until he himself is cut to pieces. I saw a baresark once who had lost an arm. As the blood spewed from the stump he aimed it in the faces of his attackers and carried on fighting until he dropped.
‘No one wants to fight such a man. Now, Druss is even more formidable than the berserker. He has all the virtues, but his killing frenzy is controlled. He can think clearly. And when you add the man’s awesome strength he becomes a veritable machine of destruction.’
‘But surely a chance thrust amid the melee,’ said Diagoras. ‘A sudden slip on a pool of blood. He could die as well as any other man.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Delnar. ‘I do not say that he won’t die in such a way; only that the odds are all with Druss. Most of you saw him today. Those who fought alongside him had no time to study his technique, but others of you caught a glimpse of the Legend. He’s always balanced, always moving. His eyes are never still. His peripheral vision is incredible. He can sense danger even amid chaos. Today a very brave Panthian warrior hurled himself on the axe, dragging it from Druss’s hand. A second warrior followed. Did anyone see it?’
‘I did,’ said Orases.
‘But you didn’t really learn from it. The first Panthian died to remove Druss’s weapon. The second was to engage him while the others breached the line. Had they come through then, our force might have been split and pushed back into the walls of the mountain. Druss saw that instantly. That’s why, although he could have just knocked his attacker senseless and retrieved his axe, he hurled the man back into the breach. Now think on this: In that instant Druss had seen the danger, formulated a plan of action, and carried it out. More even than this. He retrieved the axe and took the battle to the enemy. That’s what broke them. Druss had judged exactly the right moment to attack. It’s the instinct of the born warrior.’