Read Online Drenai Saga 01 - Legend by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Gemmell
Ads: Link
Druss there? Men will flock to the banner. To fight a battle alongside Druss the Legend—there’s an immortality in it.”
“Have you ever met the old man?” asked Rek.
“No. My father would never tell me, but there was something between them. Druss would never come to Dros Delnoch. It was something to do with my mother, I think.”
“She didn’t like him?”
“No. Something to do with a friend of Druss’s. Sieben, I think he was called.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was killed at Skeln. He was Druss’s oldest friend. That’s all I know about it.” Rek knew she was lying but let it rest. It was all ancient history, anyway.
Like Druss the Legend …
The old man crumpled the letter and let it fall.
It was not age that depressed Druss. He enjoyed the wisdom of his sixty years, the knowledge accrued, and the respect it earned. But the physical ravages of time were another thing altogether. His shoulders were still mighty above a barrel chest, but the muscles had taken on a stretched look—wiry lines that crisscrossed his upper back. His waist, too, had thickened perceptibly over the last winter. And almost overnight, he realized, his black beard streaked with gray had become a gray beard streaked with black. But the piercing eyes that gazed at their reflection in the silver mirror had not dimmed. Their stare had dismayed armies; caused heroic opponents to take a backward step, blushing and shamed; caught the imagination of a people who had needed heroes.
He was Druss the Legend. Invincible Druss, Captain of the Ax. The legends of his life were told to children everywhere, and most of them
were
legends, Druss reflected. Druss the hero, immortal, godlike.
His past victories could have ensured him a palace of riches, concubines by the score. Fifteen years before Abalayn himself had showered him with jewels following his exploits at the Skeln Pass.
By the following morning, however, Druss had gone back to the Skoda mountains, high into the lonely country bordering the clouds. Among the pine and the snow leopards the grizzled old warrior had returned to his lair to taste again of solitude. His wife of thirty years lay buried there. He had a mind to die there, though there would be no one to bury him, he knew.
During the past fifteen years Druss had not been inactive. He had wandered various lands, leading battle companies for minor princelings. Last winter he had retired to his high mountain retreat, there to think and die. He had long known he would die in his sixtieth year, even before the seer’s prediction all those decades ago. He had been able to picture himself at sixty—but never beyond. Whenever he tried to consider the prospect of being sixty-one, he would experience only darkness.
His gnarled hands curled around a wooden goblet and raised it to his gray-bearded lips. The wine was strong, brewed himself five years before; it had aged well—better than he. But it was gone, and he remained … for a little while.
The heat within his sparse furnished cabin was growing oppressive as the new spring sun warmed the wooden roof. Slowly he removed the sheepskin jacket he had worn all winter and the undervest of horsehair. His massive body, crisscrossed with scars, told of his age. He studied the scars, remembering clearly the men whose blades had caused them: men who would never grow old as he had, men who had died in their prime beneath his singing ax. His blue eyes flicked to the wall by the small wooden door. There it hung, Snaga, which in the old tongue meant “the Sender.” Slim haft of black steel, interwoven with eldritch runes in silver thread, and a double-edged blade so shaped that it sang as it slew.
Even now he could hear its sweet song. One last time, brother of my soul, it called to him. One last bloody day before the sun sets. His mind returned to Delnar’s letter. It was written to the memory and not the man.
Druss raised himself from the wooden chair, cursing as his joints
“Have you ever met the old man?” asked Rek.
“No. My father would never tell me, but there was something between them. Druss would never come to Dros Delnoch. It was something to do with my mother, I think.”
“She didn’t like him?”
“No. Something to do with a friend of Druss’s. Sieben, I think he was called.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was killed at Skeln. He was Druss’s oldest friend. That’s all I know about it.” Rek knew she was lying but let it rest. It was all ancient history, anyway.
Like Druss the Legend …
The old man crumpled the letter and let it fall.
It was not age that depressed Druss. He enjoyed the wisdom of his sixty years, the knowledge accrued, and the respect it earned. But the physical ravages of time were another thing altogether. His shoulders were still mighty above a barrel chest, but the muscles had taken on a stretched look—wiry lines that crisscrossed his upper back. His waist, too, had thickened perceptibly over the last winter. And almost overnight, he realized, his black beard streaked with gray had become a gray beard streaked with black. But the piercing eyes that gazed at their reflection in the silver mirror had not dimmed. Their stare had dismayed armies; caused heroic opponents to take a backward step, blushing and shamed; caught the imagination of a people who had needed heroes.
He was Druss the Legend. Invincible Druss, Captain of the Ax. The legends of his life were told to children everywhere, and most of them
were
legends, Druss reflected. Druss the hero, immortal, godlike.
His past victories could have ensured him a palace of riches, concubines by the score. Fifteen years before Abalayn himself had showered him with jewels following his exploits at the Skeln Pass.
By the following morning, however, Druss had gone back to the Skoda mountains, high into the lonely country bordering the clouds. Among the pine and the snow leopards the grizzled old warrior had returned to his lair to taste again of solitude. His wife of thirty years lay buried there. He had a mind to die there, though there would be no one to bury him, he knew.
During the past fifteen years Druss had not been inactive. He had wandered various lands, leading battle companies for minor princelings. Last winter he had retired to his high mountain retreat, there to think and die. He had long known he would die in his sixtieth year, even before the seer’s prediction all those decades ago. He had been able to picture himself at sixty—but never beyond. Whenever he tried to consider the prospect of being sixty-one, he would experience only darkness.
His gnarled hands curled around a wooden goblet and raised it to his gray-bearded lips. The wine was strong, brewed himself five years before; it had aged well—better than he. But it was gone, and he remained … for a little while.
The heat within his sparse furnished cabin was growing oppressive as the new spring sun warmed the wooden roof. Slowly he removed the sheepskin jacket he had worn all winter and the undervest of horsehair. His massive body, crisscrossed with scars, told of his age. He studied the scars, remembering clearly the men whose blades had caused them: men who would never grow old as he had, men who had died in their prime beneath his singing ax. His blue eyes flicked to the wall by the small wooden door. There it hung, Snaga, which in the old tongue meant “the Sender.” Slim haft of black steel, interwoven with eldritch runes in silver thread, and a double-edged blade so shaped that it sang as it slew.
Even now he could hear its sweet song. One last time, brother of my soul, it called to him. One last bloody day before the sun sets. His mind returned to Delnar’s letter. It was written to the memory and not the man.
Druss raised himself from the wooden chair, cursing as his joints
Similar Books
