A huge figure moved into sight, stepping carefully over the sleeping defenders and making his way towards the ramparts. Pellin’s heart began to beat faster as Druss strode up the steps.
Druss the Legend, the Saviour of Skein Pass, the man who had battled his way across the world to rescue his wife. Druss the Axeman, the Silver Slayer. The Nadir called him Deathwalker, and Pellin now knew why. He had watched him fighting on the battlements, his terrible axe cleaving and slaying. He was not mortal; he was a dark god of war. Pellin hoped the old man would stay away from him. What could a novice soldier find to say to a hero like Druss? To Pellin’s great relief the Legend stopped by the other sentry, and the two men began to talk; he could see the sentry moving nervously from foot to foot as the old warrior spoke to him.
It struck him then that Druss was the human embodiment of this ancient fortress, unbeaten and yet eroded by time; less than he was, but magnificent for all that. Pellin smiled as he remembered the Nadir herald giving Druss the ultimatum of surrender or die. The old hero had laughed. ‘In the north,’ he said, ‘the mountains may tremble when Ulric breaks wind. But this is Drenai land and to me he is just another pot-bellied savage who couldn’t wipe his arse without a Drenai map tattooed on his thigh.’
Pellin’s smile faded as he saw Druss clap the other sentry on the shoulder and move on towards him. The rain had eased, and the moon shone bright once more. Pellin’s hands began to sweat and he wiped the palms on his cloak. The young sentry stood to attention as the Legend approached him, striding along the ramparts, his axe shining silver in the bright moonlight. Pellin’s mouth was dry as he stood, fist clenched against his breastplate, to salute him. ‘Relax, laddie,’ said Druss, laying the mighty axe on the ramparts. The old warrior stretched his huge hands to the brazier, warming them, then sat with his back to the wall, beckoning the youth to join him. Pellin had never been this close to Druss, and he saw now the lines of age etched deep into his broad face, giving it the look of ancient granite. The eyes were bright and pale, though, beneath heavy brows, and Pellin found he could not stare into them. ‘They’ll not come tonight,’ said Druss. ‘Just before first light they’ll rush in. No war cries; it will be a silent assault.’
‘How do you know that, sir?’
Druss chuckled. ‘I’d like to tell you that my vast knowledge of war leads me to that conclusion, but the answer is more simple. The Thirty predict it, and they’re a canny bunch. Normally I have little time for wizards and such, but these lads are great fighters.’ He lifted his black helm clear of his head and ran his fingers through his thick white hair. ‘Served me well, this helm,’ he told Pellin, twirling it so that moonlight shone upon the silver axe motif on the brow. ‘And I don’t doubt it will do its job tomorrow.’
At the thought of the battle to come Pellin cast a nervous glance over the wall, to where the Nadir waited. From here he could see many of them lying in their blankets, close to hundreds of camp-fires. Others were awake, sharpening weapons or talking in small groups. The young man turned and ran his gaze over the exhausted Drenai defenders lying on the ground behind the ramparts, wrapped in their blankets, trying to snatch a few hours of precious, refreshing sleep. ‘Sit down, laddie,’ said Druss. ‘You can’t worry them away.’
Resting his spear against the wall the sentry sat. His scabbard clanged against the stone, and clumsily he swivelled it. ‘I cannot get used to wearing all this armour,’ said Pellin. ‘I trip over the sword all the time. I am not much of a soldier, I fear.’
‘You looked every inch the soldier three days ago on Wall Two,’ said Druss. ‘I saw you kill two Nadir, then fight your way back to the ropes on this wall. Even then you helped a comrade who had a wound in his leg – you climbed below him, supporting him.’