The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

A sound like rolling thunder went up, booming around the packed arena. Druss took a deep breath and stepped back, acknowledging the cheers. The new Drenai flag, a white stallion on a field of blue, was hoisted high, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Striding forward, Druss halted below the Royal balcony and bowed to the God-King he could not see.

Behind him two Lentrians ran out and knelt beside their fallen champion. Stretcher-bearers followed and the unconscious man was carried from the arena. Druss waved to the crowd, then walked slowly to the dark mouth of the tunnel which led through to the bathhouses and rest areas for the athletes. The spear-thrower Pellin stood grinning at the tunnel entrance. ‘Thought he had you there, mountain man.’

‘It was close,’ said Druss, spitting blood from his mouth. His face was swollen and several teeth had been loosened. ‘He was strong. I’ll say that for him.’

The two men walked on down the tunnel, emerging into the first bathhouse. The sound from the arena was muted here, and around a dozen athletes were relaxing in die three heated pools of marble. Druss sat down beside the first. Rose petals floated on the steamy surface of the water, their fragrance filling the room. The runner, Pars, swam across to him. ‘You look as if a herd of horses has run across your face,’ he said.

Leaning forward Druss placed a hand on top of the man’s balding head and propelled him down beneath the surface. Pars swam clear and surfaced several yards away; with a sweep of his hand he drenched Druss. Pellin, stripped now of his leggings and tunic, dived into the pool.

Druss peeled off his leggings and slid into the warm water. The relief to his aching muscles was instant and for some minutes he swam around the pool then he hauled himself clear. Pars joined him. ‘Stretch yourself out and I’ll knead the aches away,’ he said. Druss moved to a massage table and lay face down, where Pars robbed oil into his palms and began to work expertly on the muscles of his upper back.

Pellin sat down close by, towelling his dark hair, then draping the white cloth over his shoulders. ‘Did you watch the other contest?’ he asked Druss.

‘No.’

‘The Gothir man, Klay, is awesome. Fast. Strong chin. That plus a right hand that comes down like a hammer. It was all over in less than twenty heartbeats. Never seen the like, Druss. The Vagrian didn’t know what hit him.’

‘So I heard,’ Druss grunted as Pars’s fingers dug deep into the swollen muscles of his neck.

‘You’ll take him, Druss. What does it matter that he’s bigger, stronger, faster, and better-looking?’

‘And fitter,’ put in Pellin. ‘They say he runs for five miles every day on the mountains outside the city.’

‘Yes, I forgot fitter. Younger, too. How old are you, Druss?’ asked Pars.

‘Thirty,’ grunted Druss.

‘An old man,’ said Pellin, with a wink at Pars. ‘Still, I’m sure you’ll win. Well . . . fairly sure.’

Druss sat up. ‘It is good of you youngsters to be so supportive.’

‘Well, we are a team,’ said Pellin. ‘And since you deprived us of Grawal’s delightful company we’ve sort of adopted you, Druss.’ Pars began to work on Druss’s swollen knuckles. ‘More seriously, Druss, my friend,’ said the runner, ‘your hands are badly bruised. Back home we’d use ice to bring the swelling down. I should soak them in cold water tonight.’

‘There’s three days before the final. I’ll be fine by then. How did you fare in your race ?’

‘I finished second – and so will contest the final at least. But I’ll not be in the first three. The Gothir man is far better than I, as are the Vagrian and the Chiatze. I cannot match their finish.’

‘You might surprise yourself,’ said Druss.

‘We’re not all like you, mountain man,’ observed Pellin. ‘I still find it hard to believe that you could come to these Games unprepared and fight your way to the final. You really are a legend.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘Ugly, old and slow – but still a legend,’ he added.