“Deranged?”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far, but, yes. Not himself.”
“Skilgannon told Alahir that Druss had inhabited the body once before, to warn him of the coming battles. He also said that Harad was a Reborn, created from the bones of Druss.”
“That cannot be right,” said Stavut. “Druss was tall and golden haired. I read that somewhere.”
Gilden sighed. “According to our legends he was a silver-bearded giant. But then at the last battle he was very old.”
Stavut rose. “Where are you going?” asked Gilden.
“I am going to talk to Harad,” he said. “No point sitting here whispering about it. I’ll ask him.”
Stavut strolled through the ranks of the Drenai and waved as he approached Harad. “How is the head?” he asked.
“Bearable, laddie. Has the word spread to everyone yet?”
“About the Druss . . . er . . . story?”
Harad chuckled and fixed Stavut with a piercing glare. “Aye, the Druss story.”
“Yes. Is it true? Do you think you are Druss?”
“What I think is unimportant now. It is what they think that matters. You know what is going to happen tomorrow, Stavut?”
“We are all going to die.”
“And that is the general feeling, is it?”
“I think it is considered to be rather more of a fact,” Stavut told him. “We lost seventy today. They lost around twice that. If it is the same tomorrow there will be too few of us to hold the road. And there will still be around seven hundred of them.”
“It won’t be the same tomorrow, laddie. The wind blows the chaff away first. Good men though they are, it was, in the main, the weakest of them who died today.” Stavut was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. It didn’t sound like Harad. Many years ago, in Mellicane across the sea, he had attended a theater and watched actors perform. They had been speaking lines written hundreds of years before, and the pitch and style of their speech patterns sounded very similar to Harad now. Was Harad acting? Nothing in his brief experience of the man had given any evidence of a theatrical nature. He looked into those piercing ice-blue eyes. And shivered. If this was acting it was of far greater quality than the mummers in Mellicane produced.
The axman hefted Snaga and walked out to stand before the warriors. He said nothing for a moment, his gaze running over the gathered men.
“You can cease your whispering now!” he thundered. Silence fell on the Drenai. Stavut felt goose bumps on his neck. The voice rang with command. The axman pointed at Alahir. “Be so good as to stand, Earl of Bronze,” he said. Alahir, still in the golden Armor, rose to his feet. “The last man I saw wearing that was fighting on the ramparts of Dros Delnoch—against an army two hundred times the size of that facing you. The Nadir horde filled the valley. Their spears were a forest. Their arrows darkened the sun, so that we fought in the shade. In the main our army was made up of farmworkers and land laborers. Aye, we had Hogun’s legion, but many of the rest had never picked up a sword before enlisting. Yet they fought like heroes. By heaven they were heroes. At Skeln we stood against the best warriors I have ever known, Gorben’s Immortals. They had never lost before that day.” He paused and rested the ax blades on the ground before him, his hands on the haft. “Now I just asked young Stavut what is going to happen tomorrow. He said: We are all going to die. He was wrong. Those of you who think the same are wrong. We are going to win. We are going to break their spirit, destroy their morale, and send them running from the road. We are going to hold this position until Skilgannon achieves what he set out to do. Not man or beast will prevent us. Because we are Drenai. The Last of the Drenai. And we will not fail.” He fell silent again. Not a sound was heard as his gaze raked the ranks once more. “Skilgannon returned to this world to fulfill a prophecy. The Armor of Bronze reappeared to aid him. I am here for a little while, to stand once more with Drenai warriors in a cause that is just and noble. Now get on your feet. Up! I want to see you standing like men.” The Drenai rose and stood before him. Then he raised the ax above his head. “What is this?” he bellowed. A few men called out: “Snaga!”
“Again! Every man!”
“Snaga!” they shouted, the sound echoing around the rocks.
“And who carries Snaga the Sender, the Blades of No Return?”
“Druss the Legend!” came the answering roar.
“Again!”
The men began to chant the name. For Stavut the moment was hypnotic, and he found himself chanting along with the others. “Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!”
The axman let the chanting go on for a short while. Then he lowered his ax and raised his hand for silence. Obedience was instant. “Rest now, Drenai,” he said. “Tomorrow we carve a new legend for your children and their children.”
With that he turned and walked away, his giant frame passing into the shadows of the entrance and out into the road beyond.
Stavut’s heart was beating fast, and his hands were trembling. There was no way that could have been Harad. Deranged or not. Everywhere there was silence. He glanced at Alahir, who was staring in the direction the axman had taken.
Then the earl of Bronze walked away from his men and followed Druss the Legend out onto the road.
A lahir felt unsteady as he followed the Legend out into the night. The speech had been delivered with such power and confidence that he felt his spirits soar. Yet he knew the chances of actually winning were hundreds to one. The Eternal Guard were damned fine fighters, and they weren’t likely to break. And if they did there were a hundred Jiamads waiting to tear into the defenders.
He saw Druss ahead. The man had walked to the narrow section of the road and was staring down at the camp of the Guard, a quarter of a mile below.
Alahir was nervous as he approached him. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
“No, laddie. I hoped you would come.”
“Why are you out here? My men would love to sit around and talk to you about the glory days, and hear firsthand of your exploits.”
“I never was much for bragging about the past. However, I can’t sit with the men, and joke and laugh. I am the Legend. They need to feel in awe of me. I am not comfortable with that—but it is necessary here and now.”
“They were lifted when you said we could win. Did you mean it, or was it just to raise their morale?”
“I never lie, laddie.”
“And you never lose.”
“Some men are born lucky. A stray arrow could have pierced my eye, or a lancer could have plunged a weapon in my back as I fought someone else. I am not a god, laddie. These Guardsmen are fine fighters, and the odds are all with them. Plus they have made it slightly easier for themselves.”
“How so?”
“By sending the surgeon to you.”
“That was a noble gesture.”
“Perhaps. It was also good strategy. Men fight better when they are full of passion. I do not like hatred, but it is a vital weapon in war. If a leader can convince his men that the enemy they face is evil, and that their own cause is just or holy, then they will fight harder. If you tell them that the enemy will plunder their homes and rape their women they will fight like tigers. You understand, Alahir? While the Guard were merely tools of the evil Eternal, and the homeland was at risk, the men were fired up. When the surgeons came your riders found a new respect for the enemy. The enemy cares about your wounded. Good men. We could all be friends and brothers, couldn’t we? That single gesture, which will not add one more fighting man to our ranks, leached away the fire from your warriors’ hearts. What do you think will happen if they force a surrender tomorrow?”
Alahir thought about the question. The Guard had fought many battles, and he had heard stories of their ruthlessness. Agrias had told him that when Draspartha was besieged twenty years ago, the Guard had put to death every enemy soldier, then lined up the civilians of the city and butchered one in ten of the men.
“Judging from their past victories, they would kill us all.”
“And the wounded?”
“Them, too.”
“No surgeons then to offer assistance, and stitch wounds?”
“No,” said Alahir, his voice hardening.
“No,” echoed Druss. “They will come looking to hack us to death. They are hard, cold murderous men. Even now that surgeon is in his general’s tent, detailing the mood of the men. This is why I did not give my little talk until he had gone. He will report that the enemy has been softened and is ready for the kill. This will be passed to the fighting men. They will march up here tomorrow with high hopes. What they will find is men who fight twice as hard as yesterday. And I’ll wager you this, Alahir. When we push them back tomorrow there will be no offer of surgeons.”
Alahir sank down to the rock beside the warrior. “If I had been a better leader I would have seen that ploy. I am a captain, Druss, and not the brightest of our officers. I cannot understand why the Armor came to me.”
“Aye, fate does have a sense of humor sometimes. When I went to Dros Delnoch to train the troops, there was a general in command there named Orrin. A fat little fellow with the fighting instincts of a startled rabbit. Rek, who became the earl of Bronze, was a poser, frightened of the dark, who had only come to the Dros because he was in love with the daughter of the dying earl. There were farm boys with no sword skills. One stabbed himself in the leg when he tried to sheathe his blade. By the end Orrin was a hero, and I was proud to fight alongside him, and Rek held them all together after I died. His was the great victory.” Druss suddenly chuckled. “And don’t feel too bad about the surgeons. I didn’t realize it, either. Skilgannon told me before he left. So don’t judge yourself yet. Wait until sunset tomorrow.”
Alahir smiled. “Then will you sit with my men and tell us stories?”
“We’ll see. Now get back to your riders and walk among them. I have put a little passion back, but you need to inspire them.”
“Are we not going to discuss strategy?”
Druss laughed. “Strategy, eh? Very well. I shall take up my ax and stand at the center of our line. When the enemy appear I shall wade into them. You and your riders will follow me. Then we keep fighting until the Guard break and run.”
“No bowmen?”
“No. That will come later.”
“Later?” queried Alahir.
The smile faded from the axman’s face, and his eyes grew cold. “When we have broken the Guard they will not regroup for another attack. They will send the beasts. That is when you will need your arrows.”
“As good as my riders are, Druss, I have to tell you that one Jiamad can take out three men. They have more than a hundred Jems down there.”
“One battle at a time, laddie. First we break the Guard. Then we’ll worry about the puppies.”
E ven within the pathway of lights Skilgannon could feel the pull of the crater around them. A vague feeling of nausea, accompanied by light-headedness, made balance difficult. His vision swam, and he had to stop several times to adjust his swords and keep the shimmering lights in focus.
Finally they reached the high double doors to the temple. Stepping up to the doors, Skilgannon pressed a handle and pushed. The doors were locked. Sheathing the Sword of Day, he inserted the blade of the Sword of Night into the thin gap between the doors, locating the block of wood that sat in brackets beyond, barring entrance. Holding the sword two-handed, he slid the blade under the block and tried to lift it. It moved an inch or so, then seemed to catch on something. Askari joined him, sliding her saber alongside his own. The block lifted farther—then fell clattering to the floor beyond the entrance. Skilgannon pushed his shoulder against the doors, which swung open.
Inside was the entrance chamber he remembered from his past visit, a deep reception area that branched out left and right into tunnels, leading to a series of stairways. There were chairs here, and long couches, all covered with dust. The sight saddened him. On his last visit this area had been brightly lit, radiating harmony and warmth. It calmed the soul and lifted the spirits. Now it was cold and dead. Askari tapped his arm and pointed to the floor nearby. In several places there were mounds of dried animal droppings.
Skilgannon walked slowly across the reception area, moving toward the right and the tunnel that led to the first of the staircases. As he passed under the entrance arch to the tunnel the lights flickered. Then a voice echoed eerily from the walls.
“Do not enter here,” it said. The voice was bizarre, almost metallic. It was accompanied by a sound like wood crackling on a campfire. Skilgannon ignored it and walked on warily, both swords in his hands.
“These tunnels are guarded,” said the voice. “It is not my wish to see anyone suffer harm, but if you do not leave you will die.”
Askari moved alongside him. “From the droppings I would say the beasts are large, probably Jiamads.” Skilgannon nodded.
Together they advanced down the tunnel. They passed many doors, which had once housed priests of the Resurrection. There were none here now. The floor was dust covered, and there were cobwebs on the occasional chairs and couches placed in the recesses. Once this had been a temple of serenity and beauty. Now it was a shadow-haunted place of death and decay.
Sweat dripped into Skilgannon’s eyes. The feeling of nausea had not passed. He glanced at Askari. She, too, was suffering. His fingers began to tingle, and his mouth was dry. The light was poor, but Skilgannon could see the stairwell ahead. He walked on.
Something huge and pale rushed at him from a hidden recess on the left. The Sword of Night slashed out, cleaving into flesh. Then he was thrown from his feet. He struck the tunnel wall hard, then hurled himself to his right as the beast lunged for him. Askari leapt to his defense, the cavalry saber plunging into the beast’s back. It gave a shrill cry and spun to meet this new attack. Skilgannon surged to his feet and charged in. The Sword of Day sliced through the creature’s neck. Blood sprayed from the wound. The beast staggered. Skilgannon clove the Sword of Night through its heart. As it fell he dragged his blade clear, and the two companions stared down at the dead creature. It was unlike any Jiamad Skilgannon had seen. There were only patches of fur on the pale body, which was covered in huge warts and purple tumors. “It is grotesque,” whispered Askari. “Impossible to see with which animal it was melded.” The body was lying on its side. Skilgannon knelt to peer at a fist-sized section of skin-covered bone protruding from its back.
“What does that look like to you?” he said. Askari prodded the lump with her saber. The skin around it spasmed—and five bony fingers opened. Askari jumped back. “Sweet heaven!” she said. “It is a hand! A hand in the center of its back!”
“We need to move on,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. His stomach suddenly heaved, and he vomited. He stood for a moment, supporting himself on the wall. “We cannot stay here long,” he said. “The magic that warps the land outside has somehow seeped into here.”
Together they walked on until they reached the first stairway. It was of metal and speckled with rust. “This leads to the main dining and recreation area,” said Skilgannon. “There were also libraries and a museum.”
He climbed the stairs. The nausea had faded a little, but there was a metallic taste in his mouth, and his teeth began to ache. Behind him Askari staggered and grabbed the stair rail for support.
“I am all right,” she assured him. “Go on. I’ll follow!”
The top of the stairwell opened out into a vast deserted hall. Tables and chairs had been hurled around the room, as if by a storm. Books and scrolls littered the floors. There were also scattered bones. Moonlight could be seen through the high windows. Skilgannon walked out into the hall. A shadow moved against the far wall. Skilgannon spun. A massive, two-headed hound was padding across the hall toward them. It was the size of a lion. The hound began to run. Skilgannon sheathed the Sword of Night and held the Sword of Day two-handed. “Get behind me!” he ordered Askari. br />
The hound tore toward them—and sprang. Skilgannon leapt to meet it, the Sword of Day slashing down in an overhead cut that clove between the two heads, plunging down through its chest. The weight of the beast carried it on. It thudded into Skilgannon, hurling him from his feet. The Sword of Day slid clear. The beast rolled over, then came to its feet, both heads snarling. Askari hacked at it with her saber. It leapt for her, then stumbled, blood gouting from the terrible wound in its chest. Askari backed away. Skilgannon moved alongside her. The hound’s front legs gave way, and it crashed to the floor. Sunlight suddenly blazed through the windows, columns of golden light illuminating the hall.
Skilgannon watched as the light moved across the bone-littered floor. He blinked, then walked to the window. Askari joined him. Shielding his eyes, Skilgannon watched the sun rise.
“It is too fast,” he said. “The sun does not rise that swiftly.”
Askari pointed to a flock of birds in the distance. They were speeding across the sky. “Time is flowing faster out there,” she said. Skilgannon nodded agreement, and turned away from the sunlight. Taking a deep breath, he walked back past the dead beast and headed across the hall.
“Do you know where you are going?” Askari asked him.
“When I stayed here I was allowed to roam freely—except for the upper levels. So that is where we will make for.”
Crossing the hall, Skilgannon glanced at several skeletons. They were twisted and unnatural, some with overly curved spines, others with grossly distended bones. There was a skull with four eye sockets. Skilgannon and Askari traveled on in silence along deserted tunnels and up a second flight of metal steps. The higher they climbed, the better they felt. Skilgannon’s nausea passed, as did the tingling in his fingers. Another corridor led them back to a high gallery above the dining hall they had just left. There were creatures moving across it now, some like the giant hound, but other, paler beasts, hulking and brutal. One of them gazed up and saw them. It made no move to follow. Instead it loped to the dead hound and began ripping flesh from it. Other beasts joined in.