The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, it looks the same as a genuine fight, but all the punches are pulled. The purpose of it is to increase the speed of the fighter’s reflexes. But then a group of the camp women turned up, and sat close by us. Grawal wanted to show the women how tough he was, and he let rip with a combination of blows at full power. It was like being kicked by a mule and I have to admit that it irritated me. I stepped back and told him to ease up. The fool took no notice – and then rushed me. So I hit him. Damned if his jaw didn’t break in three places. As a result the Drenai had now lost their one heavy fighter, and I felt honour bound to take his place.’

‘What happened then?’ asked Pellin as Druss eased himself to his feet and leaned over the ramparts. The faint light of pre-dawn was showing in the east.

‘That story had better wait until tonight, laddie,’ said Druss softly. ‘Here they come!’

Pellin scrambled to his feet. Thousands of Nadir warriors were streaming silently towards the wall. Druss bellowed a warning and a bugler sounded the alert. Red-cloaked Drenai defenders came surging from their blankets.

Pellin drew his sword, his hand trembling as he gazed on the rushing tide of men. Hundreds were carrying ladders, others held coiled ropes and grappling hooks. Pellin’s heart was hammering now. ‘Sweet Missael,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing will stop them!’ He took a backward step, but then Druss laid his huge hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘Who am I, laddie?’ he asked, his ice-blue eyes holding to Pellin’s gaze.

‘W . . . what?’ stammered Pellin.

‘Who am I?’

Pellin blinked back the sweat that trickled into his eyes. ‘You are Druss the Legend,’ he answered.

‘You stand by me, Pellin,’ said the old man grimly, ‘and we’ll stop them together.’ Suddenly the axeman grinned. ‘I don’t tell many stories, laddie, and I hate it when they’re interrupted. So when we’ve seen off this little sortie I’ll stand you a goblet of Lentrian Red, and tell you the tale of the Gothir God-King and the Eyes of Alchazzar.’

Pellin took a deep breath. ‘I’ll stand with you, sir,’ he said.

Chapter One

As the huge crowd bayed for blood, Sieben the Poet found himself staring around the vast colosseum, its mighty columns and arches, its tiers and statues. Far below on the golden sand of the arena two men were fighting for the glory of their nations. Fifteen thousand people were shouting now, the noise cacophonous like the roaring of some inchoate beast. Sieben lifted a scented handkerchief to his face, seeking to blot out the smell of sweat that enveloped him from all sides.

The colosseum was a marvellous piece of architecture, its columns shaped into statues of ancient heroes and gods, its seats of finest marble covered by cushions of down-filled green velvet. The cushions irritated Sieben, for the colour clashed with his bright blue silken tunic inset with shards of opal on the puffed sleeves. The poet was proud of the garment, which had cost a suitably enormous amount of money from the best tailor in Drenan. To have it beggared by a poor choice of seat covering was almost more than he could stand. Still, with everyone seated, the effect was muted. Servants moved endlessly through the crowd, bearing trays of cool drinks, or sweetmeats, pies, cakes, savoury delicacies. The tiers of the rich were shaded by silken coverings, also in that dreadful green, while the very rich sat in red-cushioned splendour with slaves fanning them. Sieben had tried to change his seat and sit among the nobility, but no amount of flattery nor offers of bribes could purchase him a place.

To his right Sieben could just see the edge of the God-King’s balcony, and the straight backs of two of the Royal Guards in their silver breastplates and white cloaks. Their helms, thought the poet, were particularly magnificent, embossed with gold and crested with white horsehair plumes. That was the beauty of the simple colours, he thought, black, white, silver and gold were rarely upstaged by upholstery – no matter what the colour.