Legend

Zusatztext David Gemmell tells a tale of very real adventure! the stuff of true epic fantasy. R. A. Salvatore Informationen zum Autor David Gemmell Klappentext "David Gemmell tells a tale of very real adventure, the stuff of true epic fantasy."-R. A. Salvatore Druss, Captain of the Ax, is the stuff of legends. Tales of his battles are told throughout the land, and the stories expand with each telling. But Druss himself grows older, until finally, the warrior turns his back on glory and retreats to his mountain lair. There he awaits his old enemy: death. But far below, the barbarian Nadir hordes are on the march. All that stands between them and the Drenai people is a mighty six-walled fortress, Dros Delnoch-a great citadel that seems destined to fall. If it does, the Nadir will sweep inexorably across the land, killing all who oppose them. Reluctantly Druss agrees to come down from his mountaintop to lead this last, hopeless fight. Lost causes mean nothing to him-he has fought in such battles a thousand times in a thousand lands. And he is a hero to inspire a new generation of warriors. He is Druss the Legend. Thus begins David Gemmell's most celebrated novel-an unrivaled classic of mythic heroism and magnificent adventure. . . .1 Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter but not enough not to matter, he thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odor of unwashed bodies, forgotten meals, and musty, damp clothing. A lantern flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door, muttering his apologies to the crowded inn. Conversation, which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air, now resumed, a dozen voices from different groups merging into a babble of meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as someone laughed; the sound was as cold as the winter beating against the wooden walls. Like someone walking over your grave, he thought. He pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation: It had been the same for days. War. Such a little word, such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest, starvation, plague, and horror. More laughter burst upon the room. Barbarians! roared a voice above the rabble. Easy meat for Drenai lances. More laughter. Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Crafted with care, even love, multifaceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there. And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am not a fool, he told himself. Not yet. Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in with a word and a smile before the snarl and a fist became necessary. War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkersmost, in factwere well known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers, traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate, trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The Nadireven the name spoke of contempt. But they'll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they'll learn! Horeb's eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters, who were cleaning tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to marry the baker's appren...

Auteur

David Gemmell

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"David Gemmell tells a tale of very real adventure, the stuff of true epic fantasy."-R. A. Salvatore

Druss, Captain of the Ax, is the stuff of legends. Tales of his battles are told throughout the land, and the stories expand with each telling. But Druss himself grows older, until finally, the warrior turns his back on glory and retreats to his mountain lair. There he awaits his old enemy: death.

But far below, the barbarian Nadir hordes are on the march. All that stands between them and the Drenai people is a mighty six-walled fortress, Dros Delnoch-a great citadel that seems destined to fall. If it does, the Nadir will sweep inexorably across the land, killing all who oppose them.

Reluctantly Druss agrees to come down from his mountaintop to lead this last, hopeless fight. Lost causes mean nothing to him-he has fought in such battles a thousand times in a thousand lands. And he is a hero to inspire a new generation of warriors. He is Druss the Legend.

Thus begins David Gemmell's most celebrated novel-an unrivaled classic of mythic heroism and magnificent adventure. . . .

Échantillon de lecture
1
Rek was drunk. Not enough to matter but not enough not to matter, he thought, staring at the ruby wine casting blood shadows in the lead crystal glass. A log fire in the hearth warmed his back, the smoke stinging his eyes, the acrid smell of it mixing with the odor of unwashed bodies, forgotten meals, and musty, damp clothing. A lantern flame danced briefly in the icy wind as a shaft of cold air brushed the room. Then it was gone as a newcomer slammed shut the wooden door, muttering his apologies to the crowded inn.
Conversation, which had died in the sudden blast of frosty air, now resumed, a dozen voices from different groups merging into a babble of meaningless sounds. Rek sipped his wine. He shivered as someone laughed; the sound was as cold as the winter beating against the wooden walls. Like someone walking over your grave, he thought. He pulled his blue cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He did not need to hear the words to know the topic of every conversation: It had been the same for days.
War.
Such a little word, such a depth of agony. Blood, death, conquest, starvation, plague, and horror.
More laughter burst upon the room. “Barbarians!” roared a voice above the rabble. “Easy meat for Drenai lances.” More laughter.
Rek stared at the crystal goblet. So beautiful. So fragile. Crafted with care, even love, multifaceted like a gossamer diamond. He lifted the crystal close to his face, seeing a dozen eyes reflected there.
And each accused. For a second he wanted to crush the glass into fragments, destroy the eyes and the accusation. But he did not. I am not a fool, he told himself. Not yet.
Horeb, the innkeeper, wiped his thick fingers on a towel and cast a tired yet wary eye over the crowd, alert for trouble, ready to step in with a word and a smile before the snarl and a fist became necessary. War. What was it about the prospect of such bloody enterprises that reduced men to the level of animals? Some of the drinkers–most, in fact–were well known to Horeb. Many were family men: farmers, traders, artisans. All were friendly; most were compassionate, trustworthy, even kindly. And here they were talking of death and glory and ready to thrash or slay any suspected of Nadir sympathies. The Nadir–even the name spoke of contempt.
But they’ll learn, he thought sadly. Oh, how they’ll learn! Horeb’s eyes scanned the large room, warming as they lighted upon his daughters, who were cleaning tables and delivering tankards. Tiny Dori blushing beneath her freckles at some ribald jest; Besa, the image of her mother, tall and fair; Nessa, fat and plain and loved by all, soon to marry the baker’s apprentice Norvas. Good girls. Gifts of joy. Then his gaze fell on the tall figure in the blue cloak seated by the window.
“Damn you, Rek, snap out of it,&#…