Read Online Drenai Saga 01 - Legend by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Gemmell
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creaked. “The sun has set,” whispered the old warrior, addressing the ax. “Now only death waits, and he’s a patient bastard.” He walked from the cabin, gazing out over the distant mountains. His massive frame and gray-black hair mirrored in miniature the mountains he surveyed. Proud, strong, ageless, and snow-topped, they defied the spring sun as it strove to deny them their winter peaks of virgin snow.
Druss soaked in their savage splendor, sucking in the cool breeze and tasting life as if for the last time.
“Where are you, death?” he called. “Where do you hide on this fine day?” The echoes boomed around the valleys … DEATH, DEATH, Death, Death … DAY, DAY, Day, Day …
“I am Druss! And I defy you!”
A shadow fell across Druss’s eyes, the sun died in the heavens, and the mountains receded into mist. Pain clamped Druss’s mighty chest, soul deep, and he almost fell.
“Proud mortal!” hissed a sibilant voice through the veils of agony. “I never sought you. You have hunted me through these long, lonely years. Stay on this mountain and I guarantee you two score more years. Your muscles will atrophy; your brain will sink into dotage. You will bloat, old man, and I will only come when you beg it.
“Or will the huntsman have one more hunt?
“Seek me if you will, old warrior. I stand on the walls of Dros Delnoch.”
The pain lifted from the old man’s heart. He staggered once, drew soothing mountain air into his burning lungs, and gazed about him. Birds still sang in the pine, no clouds obscured the sun, and the mountains stood, tall and proud, as they always had.
Druss returned to the cabin and went to a chest of oak, padlocked at the onset of winter. The key lay deep in the valley below. He placed his giant hands about the lock and began to exert pressure. Muscles writhed on his arms, veins bulged on his neck and shoulders, and the metal groaned, changed shape, and—split! Druss threw the padlock aside and opened the chest. Within lay a jerkin of black leather, the shoulders covered in a skin of shining steel, and a black leather skull cap relieved only by a silver ax flanked by silver skulls. Long black leather gauntlets came into view, silver-skinned to the knuckles. Swiftly he dressed, coming finally to the long leather boots, a present from Abalayn himself so many years before.
Lastly he reached for Snaga, which seemed to leap from the wall to his waiting hand.
“One last time, brother,” he told it. “Before the sun sets.”
6
W ith Vintar standing beside him, Serbitar watched from a high balcony as the two riders approached the monastery, cantering their horses toward the northern gate. Grass showed in patches on the snow-covered fields as a warm spring wind eased in from the west.
“Not a time for lovers,” said Serbitar aloud.
“It is always a time for lovers, my son. In war most of all,” said Vintar. “Have you probed the man’s mind?”
“Yes. He is a strange one. A cynic by experience, a romantic by inclination, and now a hero by necessity.”
“How will Menahem test the messenger?” asked Vintar.
“With fear,” answered the albino.
Rek was feeling well. The air he breathed was crisp and clean, and a warm westerly breeze promised an end to the harshest winter in years. The woman he loved was beside him, and the sky was blue and clear.
“What a great day to be alive!” he said.
“What’s so special about today?” asked Virae.
“It’s beautiful. Can’t you taste it? The sky, the breeze, the melting snow?”
“Someone is coming to meet us. He looks like a warrior,” she said.
The rider approached them and dismounted. His face was covered by a black and silver helm crowned with a horse-hair plume. Rek and Virae dismounted and approached him.
“Good morning,” said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.
“You are the messenger?” he asked her.
“I am. I wish to see Abbot
Druss soaked in their savage splendor, sucking in the cool breeze and tasting life as if for the last time.
“Where are you, death?” he called. “Where do you hide on this fine day?” The echoes boomed around the valleys … DEATH, DEATH, Death, Death … DAY, DAY, Day, Day …
“I am Druss! And I defy you!”
A shadow fell across Druss’s eyes, the sun died in the heavens, and the mountains receded into mist. Pain clamped Druss’s mighty chest, soul deep, and he almost fell.
“Proud mortal!” hissed a sibilant voice through the veils of agony. “I never sought you. You have hunted me through these long, lonely years. Stay on this mountain and I guarantee you two score more years. Your muscles will atrophy; your brain will sink into dotage. You will bloat, old man, and I will only come when you beg it.
“Or will the huntsman have one more hunt?
“Seek me if you will, old warrior. I stand on the walls of Dros Delnoch.”
The pain lifted from the old man’s heart. He staggered once, drew soothing mountain air into his burning lungs, and gazed about him. Birds still sang in the pine, no clouds obscured the sun, and the mountains stood, tall and proud, as they always had.
Druss returned to the cabin and went to a chest of oak, padlocked at the onset of winter. The key lay deep in the valley below. He placed his giant hands about the lock and began to exert pressure. Muscles writhed on his arms, veins bulged on his neck and shoulders, and the metal groaned, changed shape, and—split! Druss threw the padlock aside and opened the chest. Within lay a jerkin of black leather, the shoulders covered in a skin of shining steel, and a black leather skull cap relieved only by a silver ax flanked by silver skulls. Long black leather gauntlets came into view, silver-skinned to the knuckles. Swiftly he dressed, coming finally to the long leather boots, a present from Abalayn himself so many years before.
Lastly he reached for Snaga, which seemed to leap from the wall to his waiting hand.
“One last time, brother,” he told it. “Before the sun sets.”
6
W ith Vintar standing beside him, Serbitar watched from a high balcony as the two riders approached the monastery, cantering their horses toward the northern gate. Grass showed in patches on the snow-covered fields as a warm spring wind eased in from the west.
“Not a time for lovers,” said Serbitar aloud.
“It is always a time for lovers, my son. In war most of all,” said Vintar. “Have you probed the man’s mind?”
“Yes. He is a strange one. A cynic by experience, a romantic by inclination, and now a hero by necessity.”
“How will Menahem test the messenger?” asked Vintar.
“With fear,” answered the albino.
Rek was feeling well. The air he breathed was crisp and clean, and a warm westerly breeze promised an end to the harshest winter in years. The woman he loved was beside him, and the sky was blue and clear.
“What a great day to be alive!” he said.
“What’s so special about today?” asked Virae.
“It’s beautiful. Can’t you taste it? The sky, the breeze, the melting snow?”
“Someone is coming to meet us. He looks like a warrior,” she said.
The rider approached them and dismounted. His face was covered by a black and silver helm crowned with a horse-hair plume. Rek and Virae dismounted and approached him.
“Good morning,” said Rek. The man ignored him; his dark eyes, seen through the slits in the helm, focused on Virae.
“You are the messenger?” he asked her.
“I am. I wish to see Abbot
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