‘I don’t know if you can hear me, Bodasen,’ he whispered, staring up at the stars, ‘but I am sorry it had to be me. You were a good friend in happier days, and a man to walk the mountains with.’
Returning to the tent, he found Sieben had fallen asleep in the chair. Druss lifted him gently and carried him to his bed,.covering him with a thick blanket. ‘You’re worn out, poet,’ he said. He felt for Sieben’s pulse. It was ragged but strong. ‘Stay with me, Sieben,’ he told him. ‘I’ll get you home.’
As the dawn’s rays bathed the peaks Druss walked slowly down the rocky slope to stand again with the Drenai line.
For eight terrible days Skeln became a charnel house, littered with swelling corpses and the foul stench of putrefaction. Gorben threw legion after legion up into the pass, only to see them stumble back defeated and dejected. The dwindling band of defenders was held together by the indomitable courage of the black-garbed axeman, whose terrifying skill dismayed the Ventrians. Some said he was a demon, others a god of war. Old tales were recalled.
The Chaos Warrior walked again in the stories told around Ventrian camp-fires.
Only the Immortals stayed aloof from the fears. They knew it would fall to them to clear the pass, and they knew it would not be easy.
On the eighth night Gorben at last gave in to the insistent demands of his generals. Time was running out. The way had to be taken tomorrow lest the Drenai army trap them in this cursed bay.
The order was given and the Immortals honed their swords.
At dawn they rose silently, forming their black and silver line across the stream, staring stonily ahead at the three hundred men who stood between them and the Sentran Plain.
Tired were the Drenai, bone-weary and hollow-eyed.
Abadai, the new general of the Immortals, walked forward and lifted his sword in silent salute to the Drenai, as was the Immortal custom. The blade swept down and the line moved forward. To the rear three drummers began the doleful marching beat, and the Immortals’ swords flashed into the air.
Grim were the faces as the cream of Ventria’s army slowly marched towards the Drenai.
Druss, bearing a shield now, watched the advance, his cold blue eyes showing no expression, his jaw set, his mouth a tight line. He stretched the muscles of his shoulders, arid took a deep breath.
This was the test. This was the day of days.
The spear-point of Gorben’s destiny against the resolution of the Drenai.
He knew the Immortals were damned fine warriors, but they fought now for glory alone.
The Drenai, on the other hand, were proud men, and sons of proud men, descended from a race of warriors. They were fighting for their homes, their wives, their sons, and sons yet unborn. For a free land and the right to make their own way, run their own lives, fulfil the destiny of a free race. Egel and Karnak had fought for this dream, and countless more like them down through the centuries.
Behind the axeman, Earl Delnar watched the nearing enemy line. He was impressed by their discipline and, in a strangely detached way, found himself admiring them. He transferred his gaze to the axeman. Without him they could never have held this long. He was like the anchor of a ship in a storm, holding the prow into the wind, allowing it to ride clear and face the might of the elements without being broken upon the rocks or overturned by the power of the sea. Strong men drew courage from his presence. For he was a constant in a world of shifting change – a colossal force that could be trusted to endure.
As the Immortals loomed ever nearer, Delnar could feel the fear spreading among the men. The line shifted as shields were gripped more firmly. The Earl smiled. Time for you to speak, Druss, he thought.
With the instinct of a lifetime of war, Druss obliged. Raising his axe he bellowed at the advancing Immortals.
‘Come in and die, you whoresons! I am Druss and this is death!’