Drenai Saga 01 - Legend by David Gemmell Page B

its hunt for food and gazed warily at the old man as he marched past. A fox crouched in the undergrowth, and a snake slithered beneath a fallen trunk as he approached. Overhead birds sang, a chorus full of the sounds of life.
    Throughout the long afternoon Druss marched on, occasionally bursting into song, full-bodied and lusty versions of battle hymns from a score of nations.
    Toward dusk he became aware that he was being watched.
    How he was aware he could never explain. A tightening of the skin on his neck, a growing awareness that his back made a broad target. Whatever it was, he had learned to trust his senses in the matter. He loosened Snaga in its sheath.
    Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, which were slender and wandlike against a background of oak.
    At the center of the clearing, on a fallen trunk, sat a young man, dressed in homespun garments of green tunic and brown leather leggings. Upon his legs lay a longsword, and by his side was a longbow and a quiver of goose-feathered arrows.
    “Good day, old man,” he said as Druss appeared. Lithe and strong, thought Druss, noting with a warrior’s eye the catlike grace of the man as he stood, sword in hand.
    “Good day, laddie,” said Druss, spotting a movement to his left in the undergrowth. Another whisper of branch on cloth came from his right.
    “And what brings you to our charming forest?” asked the young man. Druss casually walked to a nearby beech and sat, leaning his back against the bark.
    “A desire for solitude,” he said.
    “Ah, yes. Solitude! And now you have company. Perhaps this is not a lucky time for you.”
    “One time is as lucky as another,” said Druss, returning the other’s smile. “Why don’t you ask your friends to join us? It must be damp skulking in the bushes.”
    “How rude of me, to be sure. Eldred, Ring, come forward and meet our guest.” Sheepishly two other young men pushed their way through the greenery to stand beside the first. Both were dressed in identical clothing of green tunic and leather leggings. “Now we are all here,” said the first.
    “All except the bearded one with the longbow,” said Druss.
    The young man laughed. “Come out, Jorak. Old father here misses nothing, it seems.” The fourth man came into the open. He was large—a head taller than Druss and built like an ox, his massive hands dwarfing the longbow.
    “Now, dear sir, we are all here. Be so kind as to divest yourself of all your valuables, for we are in a hurry. There is a stag roasting at camp, and sweet new potatoes garnished with mint. I don’t want to be late.” He smiled almost apologetically.
    Druss bunched his powerful legs beneath him, rising to his feet, his blue eyes glinting with battle joy.
    “If you want my purse, you will have to earn it,” he said.
    “Oh, damn!” said the young man, smiling and reseating himself. “I told you, Jorak, that this old fellow had a warrior look about him.”
    “And I told you that we should have merely shot him down and then taken his purse,” said Jorak.
    “Unsporting,” said the first. He turned to Druss. “Listen, old man, it would be churlish of us to shoot you down from a distance, and that sets us a pretty problem. We must have your purse, don’t you see? No point in being a robber else.” He paused, deep in thought, then spoke once more. “You’re obviously not a rich man, so whatever we get will not be worth a great deal of effort. How about spinning a coin? You win, you keep your money; we win, we take it. And I’ll throw in a free meal. Roast stag! How does that sound?”
    “How about if I win, I get your purses
and
a meal?” asked Druss.
    “Now, now, old horse! No point in taking liberties when we’re trying to be friendly. All right! How about this? Honor needs to be satisfied. How about a little skirmish with Jorak here? You look quite strong, and he’s a dab hand at bare-knuckle squabbles.”
    “Done!” said Druss.