The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘Aye,’ agreed Druss.

‘It is a good fort now, yes?’

‘A good fort with old gates,’ said Druss. ‘That’s the weak spot.’

‘That is my position,’ said Nuang, his face devoid of expression. ‘Talisman has told me to stand among the defenders at that point. If the gate is breached we are to fill it with bodies.’ He forced a smile. ‘A long time since I have known such fear – but it is a good feeling.’

Druss nodded. ‘If the gate is breached, old man, you will find me beside you.’

‘Ha! Then there will be plenty killing.’ Nuang’s expression softened. ‘You will be fighting your own people again. How does this sit with you?’

Druss shrugged. ‘They are not my people, and I do not go hunting them. They are coming for me. Their deaths are on their own heads.’

‘You are a hard man, Druss. Nadir blood, maybe.’

‘Maybe.’ Nuang saw his nephew, Meng, below and called out to him. Without a word of farewell the old man strolled back down the steps. Druss transferred his gaze to the west and the line of hills. The enemy would be here soon. He thought of Rowena, back at the farm, and the days of work among the herds, the quiet of the nights in their spacious cabin. Why is it, he wondered, that when I am away from her I long for her company, and when I am with her I yearn for the call to arms? His thoughts ranged back to his childhood, travelling with his father, trying to escape the infamy of Bardan the Slayer. Druss glanced down at Snaga, resting against the battlement wall. The dread axe had belonged to his grandfather, Bardan. It had been demon-possessed then, and had turned Bardan into a raging killer, a butcher. Druss, too, had been touched by it. Is that why I am what I am, he thought? Even though the demon had long since been exorcized, still its malice had worked on him through the long years when he searched for Rowena.

Not normally introspective, Druss found his mood darkening. He had not come to the lands of the Gothir for war, but to take part in the Games. Now, through no fault of his own, he was waiting for a powerful army, and desperate to find two healing jewels that would bring Klay back to health.

‘You look angry, old horse,’ said Sieben, moving alongside him. Druss looked at his friend. The poet was wearing a pale blue shirt, with buttons of polished bone. His baldric was freshly polished, the knife-handles gleaming in their sheaths. His blond hair was newly combed, and held in place by a headband at the centre of which an opal was set.

‘How do you do it?’ asked Druss. ‘Here we are in a dust-blown wilderness, and you look as if you’ve just stepped from a bathhouse?’

‘Standards must always be maintained,’ said Sieben, with a broad grin. ‘These savages need to see how civilized men behave.’

Druss chuckled. ‘You lift my spirits, poet. You always have.’

‘Why so gloomy? War and death are but a few days away. I would have thought you would have been dancing for joy.’

‘I was thinking of Klay. The jewels aren’t here, and I can’t keep my promise to him.’

‘Oh, don’t be too sure of that, old horse. I have a theory — but we’ll say no more of it until the time is right.’

‘You think you can find them?’

‘As I said, I have a theory. But now is not the time. Nosta Khan wanted you to die, you know, and you almost did. We cannot trust him, Druss. Nor Talisman. The jewels are too important to them.’

‘You are right there,’ grunted Druss. ‘The shaman is a loathsome wretch.’

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Sieben, pointing to the line of hills. ‘Oh, sweet Heaven, they are here!’

Druss narrowed his eyes. A line of Lancers in bright armour were riding single file down the hillside. A cry went up on the walls and warriors ran from the com-pound to take their places, bows in hand.

‘They are riding ponies,’ muttered Druss. ‘What in Hell’s name . . . ?’