‘I loaned it to the Legend Riders. They are running out of arrows.’
Skilgannon drew both swords then, holding one above his head, the other before his eyes. Carefully he adjusted the higher sword until the path could be seen reflected in the blade before his eyes.
Then he walked slowly towards the hidden temple.
‘How does anyone find the strength to fight, wearing all this?’ complained Stavut, as Gilden looped the chain-mail hauberk over his head. The sleeves came down to Stavut’s elbows, the hem touching the backs of his calves. It was split front and back at the waist, allowing for freedom of movement in the saddle, but the biggest surprise to Stavut was the weight. ‘I feel as if I’m carrying Shakul on my back!’
‘The best is yet to come,’ said Gilden, lifting the coif and settling it over Stavut’s head. It was lined with soft leather, and smelt of rancid goose grease. Lastly came the helm. When Stavut had first tried it he had laughed aloud. It was way too big, and slid comically around his head. Now with the added thickness of the coif the helm fitted perfectly. Gilden tied the bronze cheek guards together.
‘How does it feel? he asked.
‘What? I can’t hear a thing in here.’
Gilden repeated the question. ‘It feels ludicrous,’ Stavut told him. ‘If I fell over I’d never be able to get up.’
‘If you fall over you won’t need to worry about getting up,’ observed Gilden. ‘Walk around for a while. You’ll get used to the weight.’
The sergeant wandered off and Stavut, feeling foolish, tromped off towards the pool. Most of the warriors had gathered there, and were sitting quietly. He noticed that many of them were casting furtive glances at Harad, who was standing apart from the men, the axe head resting on the ground, his huge hands crossed over the pommel on the haft. Stavut found a place to sit, close to some of the warriors.
Slowly he lowered himself down. The chain mail creaked and groaned as he sat.
‘You think it could be true?’ he heard a man ask, his voice low.
‘It comes from Alahir. He said Skilgannon told him.’
‘Gods, then we are looking at the Legend!’
‘Aye, we are. Did you see him today? I don’t know how the Guard felt, but he terrified me.’
Stavut had no idea what they were talking about. He felt incredibly tired, and stretched out on the ground. The mail hauberk made him feel as if he was lying on a bed of brambles. With a groan he rolled over and forced himself back into a sitting position. Then he looked around and realized he was the only man in armour. Feeling even more foolish he undid the chin straps of his helmet and pulled it clear. Then he struggled out of the chain mail. The relief was total.
Gilden wandered back and crouched down beside him. ‘What happened in the other pass today?’ he asked.
‘I told you. Enemy Jems attacked and we beat them.’
‘To Harad, I mean.’
‘I know. He is speaking most strangely. He seems to be copying Skilgannon’s archaic style of speech.
He was struck in the head. Ever since he woke he’s been. . been. .’ Stavut struggled for the right description.
‘Like someone else?’ offered Gilden.
‘Yes, that’s it exactly. Called me laddie. And those eyes. I’ve never noticed before how frightening they are.’
‘Did you see him fight here today?’
‘Of course. Completely different. In the pass earlier he was massively powerful, but clumsy and winning through brute strength. On the road he was awesome, balanced and deadly and terrible to behold.’
Gilden sat beside him, then glanced back at Harad. ‘Skilgannon says he is Harad no longer. He says the ghost of Druss the Legend now inhabits his body.’
‘I hate to be the man who shoots down someone else’s pigeon,’ said Stavut, ‘but he got a hefty whack to the head. Could he not have become. . you know. .’
‘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.’
He 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?’
The axeman 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 about 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 theatre, and watched actors perform. They had been speaking lines written hundreds of years ago, 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 hint 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 axeman 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 axeman pointed at Alahir. ‘Be so good as to stand, Earl of Bronze,’ he said. Alahir, still in the golden armour, 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 farm workers and land labourers. 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 Skein 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 axe 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 nor 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.