Gemmell, David – Drenai 06 – The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

‘I don’t understand,’ whispered the man. There was nothing!’

‘You spoke with the voice of a woman,’ Sieben told him. ‘Druss recognised it.’

‘It is most peculiar, my son. Whenever I commune with the dead I know their words. But it was as if I slept.’

‘Do not concern yourself,’ said Sieben, fishing in his money-pouch for a silver coin.

‘I take no money,’ said the man, with a shy smile. ‘But I am perplexed and I will think on what just happened.’

‘I’m sure he will too,’ said Sieben.

*

He found Druss standing by the altar, reaching out to the shimmering golden horn, his huge fingers trying to close around it. The axeman’s face was set in concentration, the muscles of his jaw showing through the dark beard.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sieben, his voice gentle.

‘He said it could bring back the dead.’

‘No, my friend. He said that was the legend. There is a difference. Come away. We’ll find a tavern somewhere in this city, and we’ll drink.’

Druss slammed his hand down on to the altar, the golden horn apparently growing through the skin of his fist. ‘I don’t need to drink! Gods, I need to fight!’ Snatching up the axe, the big man strode from the temple.

The priest appeared alongside Sieben. ‘I fear that, despite my good intentions, the result of my labour was not as I had hoped,’ he said.

‘He’ll survive, Father.’ Sieben turned to the priest. ‘Tell me, what do you know of demon possession?’

‘Too much – and too little. You think you are possessed?’

‘No, not I. Druss.’

The priest shook his head. ‘Had he been so . . . afflicted . . . I would have sensed it when I touched his hand. No, your friend is his own man.’

Sieben sat down on a bench seat and told the priest what he had seen on the deck of the corsair trireme. The priest listened in silence. ‘How did he come by the axe?’ he asked.

‘Family heirloom, I understand.’

‘If there is a demonic presence, my son, I believe you will find it hidden within the weapon. Many of the ancient blades were crafted with spells, in order to give the wielder greater strength or cunning. Some even had the power to heal wounds, so it is said. Look to the axe.’

‘What if it is just the axe? Surely that will only help him in times of combat?’

‘Would that were true,’ said the priest, shaking his head. ‘But evil does not exist in order to serve, but to rule. If the axe is possessed it will have a history – a dark history. Ask him of its past. And when you hear it, and of the men who wielded it, you will understand my words.’

Sieben thanked the man and left the temple. There was no sign of Druss, and the poet had no wish to venture near the walls. He strolled through the near deserted city until he heard the sound of music coming from a courtyard nearby. He approached a wrought-iron gate and saw three women sitting in a garden. One of them was playing a lyre, the others were singing a gentle love song as Sieben stepped into the gateway.

‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said, offering them his most dazzling smile. The music ceased and the three all gazed at him. They were young and pretty – the oldest, he calculated, around seventeen. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, full-lipped and slender. The other two were smaller, their hair blonde, their eyes blue. They were dressed in shimmering gowns of satin, the dark-haired beauty in blue and the others in white.

‘Have you come to see our brother, sir?’ asked the dark-haired girl, rising from her seat and placing the lyre upon it.

‘No, I was drawn here by the beauty of your playing and the sweet voices which accompanied it. I am a stranger here, and a lover of all things beautiful, and I can only thank the fates for the vision I find here.’ The younger girls laughed, but the older sister merely smiled.

‘Pretty words, sir, well phrased, and I don’t doubt well rehearsed. They have the smooth edges of weapons that have seen great use.’