daughters. Comradeship. Warmth. Food and shelter. But above all these things, he needs to be able to know that he is a man.
"And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop - and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.
"That man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf, or dispossessed. But he is unconquerable.
"And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strife and fear.
"I have fought in many battles. I have seen many men die. And women too. In the main, they died proud. Bear this in mind, as you decide your future." The old man's fierce blue eyes scanned the faces in the crowd, gauging reaction. He knew he had them. It was time to leave.
He bade his farewells to Pinar and the rest, settled his bill despite the protestations of the innkeeper and set off for Skultik.
He was angry as he walked, feeling the stares on his back as the inn emptied to watch him go. He was angry because he knew his speech had been a falsehood, and he was a man who liked the truth. Life, he knew, breaks many men. Some as strong as oak wither as their wives die, or leave them, as their children suffer or starve. Other strong men break if they lose a limb; or worse, the use of their legs or their eyesight. Each man has a breaking point, no matter how strong his spirit. Somewhere, deep inside him, there is a flaw that only the fickle cruelty of fate can find. A man's strength is ultimately born of his knowledge of his own weakness, Druss knew.
His own fear was of dotage and senility. The thought of it set him to trembling. Did he really hear a voice at Skoda, or was it merely his own terror booming inside him?
Druss the Legend. Mightiest man of his era. A killing machine, a warrior. And why?
Because I never had the courage to be a farmer, Druss told himself.
Then he laughed, dismissing all sombre thoughts and self doubt. It was a talent he had.
Today had a good feel about it. He felt lucky. If he kept to known trails he would certainly meet outlaws. One old man alone was a package not to be missed. They would be a sorely inefficient lot if he were to pass through the forest unnoticed - and unattended.
The woods were becoming thicker now, as he reached the outskirts of Skultik. Huge, gnarled oaks, graceful willows and slender elm interlinked their branches for as far as the eye could see - and greatly beyond, Druss knew.
The noon sun made shafts of shimmering light through the branches and the breeze carried the sounds of miniature waterfalls from hidden streams. It was a place of enchantment and beauty.
To his left a squirrel ceased 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.
Towards 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 her sheath.
Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, slender and wand-like against a background of oak.
At the centre 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 cat-like grace of the man as
"And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop - and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.
"That man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf, or dispossessed. But he is unconquerable.
"And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strife and fear.
"I have fought in many battles. I have seen many men die. And women too. In the main, they died proud. Bear this in mind, as you decide your future." The old man's fierce blue eyes scanned the faces in the crowd, gauging reaction. He knew he had them. It was time to leave.
He bade his farewells to Pinar and the rest, settled his bill despite the protestations of the innkeeper and set off for Skultik.
He was angry as he walked, feeling the stares on his back as the inn emptied to watch him go. He was angry because he knew his speech had been a falsehood, and he was a man who liked the truth. Life, he knew, breaks many men. Some as strong as oak wither as their wives die, or leave them, as their children suffer or starve. Other strong men break if they lose a limb; or worse, the use of their legs or their eyesight. Each man has a breaking point, no matter how strong his spirit. Somewhere, deep inside him, there is a flaw that only the fickle cruelty of fate can find. A man's strength is ultimately born of his knowledge of his own weakness, Druss knew.
His own fear was of dotage and senility. The thought of it set him to trembling. Did he really hear a voice at Skoda, or was it merely his own terror booming inside him?
Druss the Legend. Mightiest man of his era. A killing machine, a warrior. And why?
Because I never had the courage to be a farmer, Druss told himself.
Then he laughed, dismissing all sombre thoughts and self doubt. It was a talent he had.
Today had a good feel about it. He felt lucky. If he kept to known trails he would certainly meet outlaws. One old man alone was a package not to be missed. They would be a sorely inefficient lot if he were to pass through the forest unnoticed - and unattended.
The woods were becoming thicker now, as he reached the outskirts of Skultik. Huge, gnarled oaks, graceful willows and slender elm interlinked their branches for as far as the eye could see - and greatly beyond, Druss knew.
The noon sun made shafts of shimmering light through the branches and the breeze carried the sounds of miniature waterfalls from hidden streams. It was a place of enchantment and beauty.
To his left a squirrel ceased 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.
Towards 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 her sheath.
Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, slender and wand-like against a background of oak.
At the centre 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 cat-like grace of the man as
Similar Books
