Articoli correlati a The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
A tale set in the realm of Drenai tells of Druss, Captain of the Axe and Deathwalker, who, armed with his family's deadly heirloom, traveled across strange kingdoms and did battle with savage monsters in order to win back the beautiful, mystical Rowena
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Prologue
Screened by the undergrowth he knelt by the trail, dark eyes scanning the boulders ahead of him and the trees beyond. Dressed as he was in a shirt of fringed buckskin, and brown leather leggings and boots, the tall man was virtually invisible, kneeling in the shadows of the trees.
The sun was high in a cloudless summer sky, and the spoor was more than three hours old. Insects had criss-crossed the hoof-marks, but the edges of the prints were still firm.
Forty horsemen, laden with plunder...
Shadak faded back through the undergrowth to where his horse was tethered. He stroked the beast's long neck and lifted his swordbelt from the back of the saddle. Strapping it to his waist he drew the two short swords; they were of the finest Vagrian steel, and double edged. He thought for a moment, then sheathed the blades and reached for the bow and quiver strapped to the saddle pommel. The bow was of Vagrian horn, a hunting weapon capable of launching a two-foot-long arrow across a killing space of sixty paces. The doeskin quiver held twenty shafts that Shadak had crafted himself: the flights of goose feather, stained red and yellow, the heads of pointed iron, not barbed, and easily withdrawn from the bodies of the slain. Swiftly he strung the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Then looping the quiver over his shoulder, he made his way carefully back to the trail.
Would they have left a rearguard? It was unlikely, for there were no Drenai soldiers within fifty miles.
But Shadak was a cautious man. And he knew Collan. Tension rose in him as he pictured the smiling face and the cruel, mocking eyes. 'No anger,' he told himself. But it was hard, bitterly hard. Angry men make mistakes, he reminded himself. The hunter must be cold as iron.
Silently he edged his way forward. A towering boulder jutted from the earth some twenty paces ahead and to his left; to the right was a cluster of smaller rocks, no more than four feet high. Shadak took a deep breath and rose from his hiding-place. From behind the large boulder a man stepped into sight, bowstring bent. Shadak dropped to his knee, the attacker's arrow slashing through the air above his head. The bowman tried to leap back behind the shelter of the boulder, but even as he was dropping Shadak loosed a shaft which plunged into the bowman's throat, punching through the skin at the back of his neck.
Another attacker ran forward, this time from Shadak's right. With no time to notch a second arrow Shadak swung the bow, lashing it across the man's face. As the attacker stumbled, Shadak dropped the bow and drew his two short swords; with one sweeping blow he cut through the neck of the fallen man. Two more attackers ran into view and he leapt up to meet them. Both men wore iron breastplates, their necks and heads protected by chain mail, and they carried sabres.
'You'll not die easily, you bastard!' shouted the first, a tall, wide-shouldered warrior. Then his eyes narrowed as he recognised the swordsman facing him. Fear replaced battle lust--but he was too close to Shadak to withdraw and made a clumsy lunge with his sabre. Shadak parried the blade with ease, his second sword lancing forward into the man's mouth and through the bones of his neck. As the swordsman died, the second warrior backed away.
'We didn't know it was you, I swear!' he said, hands trembling.
'Now you do,' said Shadak softly.
Without a word the man turned and ran back towards the trees as Shadak sheathed his swords and moved to his bow. Notching an arrow, he drew back on the string. The shaft flashed through the air to punch home into the running man's thigh. He screamed and fell. As Shadak loped to where he lay, the man rolled to his back, dropping his sword.
'For pity's sake don't kill me!' he pleaded.
'You had no pity back in Corialis,' said Shadak. 'But tell me where Collan is heading and I'll let you live.' A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely sound. It was answered by another, then another.
'There's a village...twenty miles south-east,' said the man, his eyes fixed on the short sword in Shadak's hand. 'We scouted it. Plenty of young women. Collan and Harib Ka plan to raid it for slaves, then take them to Mashrapur.'
Shadak nodded. 'I believe you,' he said, at last.
'You're going to let me live, yes? You promised,' the wounded man whimpered.
'I always keep my promises,' said Shadak, disgusted at the man's weakness. Blood gushed from the wound, and the injured warrior groaned. Shadak wiped the arrow clean on the man's cloak, then stood and walked to the body of the first man he had killed. Kneeling beside the corpse, he recovered his arrow and then strode to where the raiders had tethered their horses. Mounting the first, he led the others back down the trail to where his gelding waited. Gathering the reins, he led the four mounts back out on to the trail.
'What about me?' shouted the wounded man.
Shadak turned in the saddle. 'Do your best to keep the wolves away,' he advised. 'By dark they will have picked up the scent of blood.'
'Leave me a horse! In the name of Mercy!'
'I am not a merciful man,' said Shadak.
And he rode on towards the south-east, and the distant mountains.
Chapter One
The axe was four feet long, with a ten-pound head, the blade flared, and sharp as any sword. The haft was of elm, beautifully curved, and more than forty years old. For most men it was a heavy tool, unwieldy and imprecise. But in the hands of the dark-haired young man who stood before the towering beech it sang through the iar, seemingly as light as a sabre. Every long swing saw the head bite exactly where the woodsman intended, deeper and deeper into the meat of the trunk.
Druss stepped back, then glanced up. There were several heavy branches jutting towards the north. He moved around the tree, gauging the line where it would fall, then returned to his work. This was the third tree he had tackled today and his muscles ached, sweat gleaming on his naked back. His short-cropped black hair was soaked with perspiration that trickled over his brow, stinging his ice-blue eyes. His mouth was dry, but he was determined to finish the task before allowing himself the reward of a cooling drink.
Some way to his left the brothers Pilan and Yorath were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing and talking, their hatchets beside them. Theirs was the task of stripping the trunks, hacking away smaller branches and limbs that could be used for winter firewood. But they stopped often and Druss could hear them discussing the merits and alleged vices of the village girls. They were handsome youths, blond and tall, sons of the blacksmith, Tetrin. Both were witty and intelligent, and popular among the girls.
Druss disliked them. To his right several of the older boys were sawing through the larger branches of the first tree Druss had felled, while elsewhere young girls were gathering deadwood, kindling for winter fires, and loading them to the wheelbarrows to be pushed downhill to the village.
At the edge of the new clearing stood the four workhorses, hobbled now and grazing, waiting for the trees to be cleaned so that chain traces could be attached to the trunks for the long haul into the valley. Autumn was fading fast, and the village elders were determined that the new perimeter wall would be finished before winter. The frontier mountains of Skoda boasted only one troop of Drenai cavalry, patrolling an area of a thousand square miles. Raiders, cattle thieves, slavers, robbers and outlaws roamed the mountains, and the ruling council in Drenai made it clear they would accept no responsibility for the new settlements on the Vagrian borders.
But thoughts of the perils of frontier life did not discourage the men and women who journeyed to Skoda. They sought a new life, far removed from the more civilised south and east, and built their homes where land was still free and wild, and where strong men did not need to tug the forelock or bow when the nobles rode by.
Freedom was the key word, and no talk of raiders could deter them.
Druss hefted his axe, then thundered the blade into the widening notch. Ten times more he struck, deep into the base of the trunk. Then another ten smooth, powerful strokes. Three more axe-blows and the tree would groan and give, wrenching and tearing as she fell.
Stepping back he scanned the ground along the line of the fall. A movement caught his eye, and he saw a small child with golden hair sitting beneath a bush, a rag doll in her hand. 'Kiris!' bellowed Druss. 'If you are not out of there by the time I count to three I'll tear off your leg and beat you to death with the wet end! One! Two!'
The child's mouth dropped open, her eyes widening. Dropping her rag doll she scrambled clear of the bush and ran crying from the forest. Druss shook his head and walked forward to retrieve the doll, tucking it into his wide belt. He felt the eyes of the others on him, and guessed what they were thinking: Druss the Brute, Druss the Cruel--that's how they saw him. And maybe they were right.
Ignoring them, he walked back to the tree and hefted his axe.
Only two weeks before he had been felling a tall beech, and had been called away with the work almost completed. When he returned it was to find Kiris sitting in the topmost branches with her doll, as always, beside her.
'Come down,' he had coaxed. 'The tree is about to fall.'
'Won't,' said Kiris. 'We like it here. We can see for ever.'
Druss had looked around, for once hoping that some of the village girls were close by. But there was no one. He examined the huge cleft in the trunk, a sudden wind would cause the trunk to topple. 'Come down, there's a good girl. You'll be hurt if the tree falls.'
'Why should it fall?'
'Because I've been hitting it with my axe. Now come down.'
'All right,' she said, then started to climb down. The tree suddenly tilted and Kiris screamed and clung to a branch. Druss's m...
Dalla seconda/terza di copertina:
Screened by the undergrowth he knelt by the trail, dark eyes scanning the boulders ahead of him and the trees beyond. Dressed as he was in a shirt of fringed buckskin, and brown leather leggings and boots, the tall man was virtually invisible, kneeling in the shadows of the trees.
The sun was high in a cloudless summer sky, and the spoor was more than three hours old. Insects had criss-crossed the hoof-marks, but the edges of the prints were still firm.
Forty horsemen, laden with plunder...
Shadak faded back through the undergrowth to where his horse was tethered. He stroked the beast's long neck and lifted his swordbelt from the back of the saddle. Strapping it to his waist he drew the two short swords; they were of the finest Vagrian steel, and double edged. He thought for a moment, then sheathed the blades and reached for the bow and quiver strapped to the saddle pommel. The bow was of Vagrian horn, a hunting weapon capable of launching a two-foot-long arrow across a killing space of sixty paces. The doeskin quiver held twenty shafts that Shadak had crafted himself: the flights of goose feather, stained red and yellow, the heads of pointed iron, not barbed, and easily withdrawn from the bodies of the slain. Swiftly he strung the bow and notched an arrow to the string. Then looping the quiver over his shoulder, he made his way carefully back to the trail.
Would they have left a rearguard? It was unlikely, for there were no Drenai soldiers within fifty miles.
But Shadak was a cautious man. And he knew Collan. Tension rose in him as he pictured the smiling face and the cruel, mocking eyes. 'No anger,' he told himself. But it was hard, bitterly hard. Angry men make mistakes, he reminded himself. The hunter must be cold as iron.
Silently he edged his way forward. A towering boulder jutted from the earth some twenty paces ahead and to his left; to the right was a cluster of smaller rocks, no more than four feet high. Shadak took a deep breath and rose from his hiding-place. From behind the large boulder a man stepped into sight, bowstring bent. Shadak dropped to his knee, the attacker's arrow slashing through the air above his head. The bowman tried to leap back behind the shelter of the boulder, but even as he was dropping Shadak loosed a shaft which plunged into the bowman's throat, punching through the skin at the back of his neck.
Another attacker ran forward, this time from Shadak's right. With no time to notch a second arrow Shadak swung the bow, lashing it across the man's face. As the attacker stumbled, Shadak dropped the bow and drew his two short swords; with one sweeping blow he cut through the neck of the fallen man. Two more attackers ran into view and he leapt up to meet them. Both men wore iron breastplates, their necks and heads protected by chain mail, and they carried sabres.
'You'll not die easily, you bastard!' shouted the first, a tall, wide-shouldered warrior. Then his eyes narrowed as he recognised the swordsman facing him. Fear replaced battle lust--but he was too close to Shadak to withdraw and made a clumsy lunge with his sabre. Shadak parried the blade with ease, his second sword lancing forward into the man's mouth and through the bones of his neck. As the swordsman died, the second warrior backed away.
'We didn't know it was you, I swear!' he said, hands trembling.
'Now you do,' said Shadak softly.
Without a word the man turned and ran back towards the trees as Shadak sheathed his swords and moved to his bow. Notching an arrow, he drew back on the string. The shaft flashed through the air to punch home into the running man's thigh. He screamed and fell. As Shadak loped to where he lay, the man rolled to his back, dropping his sword.
'For pity's sake don't kill me!' he pleaded.
'You had no pity back in Corialis,' said Shadak. 'But tell me where Collan is heading and I'll let you live.' A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely sound. It was answered by another, then another.
'There's a village...twenty miles south-east,' said the man, his eyes fixed on the short sword in Shadak's hand. 'We scouted it. Plenty of young women. Collan and Harib Ka plan to raid it for slaves, then take them to Mashrapur.'
Shadak nodded. 'I believe you,' he said, at last.
'You're going to let me live, yes? You promised,' the wounded man whimpered.
'I always keep my promises,' said Shadak, disgusted at the man's weakness. Blood gushed from the wound, and the injured warrior groaned. Shadak wiped the arrow clean on the man's cloak, then stood and walked to the body of the first man he had killed. Kneeling beside the corpse, he recovered his arrow and then strode to where the raiders had tethered their horses. Mounting the first, he led the others back down the trail to where his gelding waited. Gathering the reins, he led the four mounts back out on to the trail.
'What about me?' shouted the wounded man.
Shadak turned in the saddle. 'Do your best to keep the wolves away,' he advised. 'By dark they will have picked up the scent of blood.'
'Leave me a horse! In the name of Mercy!'
'I am not a merciful man,' said Shadak.
And he rode on towards the south-east, and the distant mountains.
Chapter One
The axe was four feet long, with a ten-pound head, the blade flared, and sharp as any sword. The haft was of elm, beautifully curved, and more than forty years old. For most men it was a heavy tool, unwieldy and imprecise. But in the hands of the dark-haired young man who stood before the towering beech it sang through the iar, seemingly as light as a sabre. Every long swing saw the head bite exactly where the woodsman intended, deeper and deeper into the meat of the trunk.
Druss stepped back, then glanced up. There were several heavy branches jutting towards the north. He moved around the tree, gauging the line where it would fall, then returned to his work. This was the third tree he had tackled today and his muscles ached, sweat gleaming on his naked back. His short-cropped black hair was soaked with perspiration that trickled over his brow, stinging his ice-blue eyes. His mouth was dry, but he was determined to finish the task before allowing himself the reward of a cooling drink.
Some way to his left the brothers Pilan and Yorath were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing and talking, their hatchets beside them. Theirs was the task of stripping the trunks, hacking away smaller branches and limbs that could be used for winter firewood. But they stopped often and Druss could hear them discussing the merits and alleged vices of the village girls. They were handsome youths, blond and tall, sons of the blacksmith, Tetrin. Both were witty and intelligent, and popular among the girls.
Druss disliked them. To his right several of the older boys were sawing through the larger branches of the first tree Druss had felled, while elsewhere young girls were gathering deadwood, kindling for winter fires, and loading them to the wheelbarrows to be pushed downhill to the village.
At the edge of the new clearing stood the four workhorses, hobbled now and grazing, waiting for the trees to be cleaned so that chain traces could be attached to the trunks for the long haul into the valley. Autumn was fading fast, and the village elders were determined that the new perimeter wall would be finished before winter. The frontier mountains of Skoda boasted only one troop of Drenai cavalry, patrolling an area of a thousand square miles. Raiders, cattle thieves, slavers, robbers and outlaws roamed the mountains, and the ruling council in Drenai made it clear they would accept no responsibility for the new settlements on the Vagrian borders.
But thoughts of the perils of frontier life did not discourage the men and women who journeyed to Skoda. They sought a new life, far removed from the more civilised south and east, and built their homes where land was still free and wild, and where strong men did not need to tug the forelock or bow when the nobles rode by.
Freedom was the key word, and no talk of raiders could deter them.
Druss hefted his axe, then thundered the blade into the widening notch. Ten times more he struck, deep into the base of the trunk. Then another ten smooth, powerful strokes. Three more axe-blows and the tree would groan and give, wrenching and tearing as she fell.
Stepping back he scanned the ground along the line of the fall. A movement caught his eye, and he saw a small child with golden hair sitting beneath a bush, a rag doll in her hand. 'Kiris!' bellowed Druss. 'If you are not out of there by the time I count to three I'll tear off your leg and beat you to death with the wet end! One! Two!'
The child's mouth dropped open, her eyes widening. Dropping her rag doll she scrambled clear of the bush and ran crying from the forest. Druss shook his head and walked forward to retrieve the doll, tucking it into his wide belt. He felt the eyes of the others on him, and guessed what they were thinking: Druss the Brute, Druss the Cruel--that's how they saw him. And maybe they were right.
Ignoring them, he walked back to the tree and hefted his axe.
Only two weeks before he had been felling a tall beech, and had been called away with the work almost completed. When he returned it was to find Kiris sitting in the topmost branches with her doll, as always, beside her.
'Come down,' he had coaxed. 'The tree is about to fall.'
'Won't,' said Kiris. 'We like it here. We can see for ever.'
Druss had looked around, for once hoping that some of the village girls were close by. But there was no one. He examined the huge cleft in the trunk, a sudden wind would cause the trunk to topple. 'Come down, there's a good girl. You'll be hurt if the tree falls.'
'Why should it fall?'
'Because I've been hitting it with my axe. Now come down.'
'All right,' she said, then started to climb down. The tree suddenly tilted and Kiris screamed and clung to a branch. Druss's m...
E DEATHWALKER
From the timeless, magical, and merciless Drenai realm--evoked so unforgettably in David Gemmell's international bestseller Legend--comes a new tale of power and passion, of a man born to kill, and destined for greatness . . .
He was called Druss. Captain of the ax. The Deathwalker. Though the blood of merciless butchers coursed through his veins and made him an outcast among men, Druss had finally found a fragile peace through his love for beautiful, mystical Rowena. In their small village on the edge of the Drenai land, the young married couple lived a simple life . . . until the day Druss returned from the forest to find everyone dead, massacred by slavers who had stolen the young women to sell for gold, Rowena among them.
Armed only with his family's deadly heirloom, a darkly powerful double-bladed ax called Snaga, Druss went after Rowena. His journey would carry him to strange kingdoms, from the highest thrones of power to the deepest dungeons
From the timeless, magical, and merciless Drenai realm--evoked so unforgettably in David Gemmell's international bestseller Legend--comes a new tale of power and passion, of a man born to kill, and destined for greatness . . .
He was called Druss. Captain of the ax. The Deathwalker. Though the blood of merciless butchers coursed through his veins and made him an outcast among men, Druss had finally found a fragile peace through his love for beautiful, mystical Rowena. In their small village on the edge of the Drenai land, the young married couple lived a simple life . . . until the day Druss returned from the forest to find everyone dead, massacred by slavers who had stolen the young women to sell for gold, Rowena among them.
Armed only with his family's deadly heirloom, a darkly powerful double-bladed ax called Snaga, Druss went after Rowena. His journey would carry him to strange kingdoms, from the highest thrones of power to the deepest dungeons
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- EditoreDel Rey
- Data di pubblicazione1998
- ISBN 10 0345426231
- ISBN 13 9780345426239
- RilegaturaPaperback
- Numero di pagine346
- Valutazione libreria
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