The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter One

Sieben sat in an outer room, sunlight slanting through the shuttered window at his back. He could hear low voices from the room beyond - a man’s deep, pleading tones, and the harsh responses from the Old Woman. Muffled by the thick walls of stone and the oak door, the words were lost - which was just as well, since Sieben had no wish to hear the conversation. The Old Woman had many clients; most seeking the murder of rivals - at least, according to the whispered gossip he had heard.

He closed his ears to the voices and concentrated instead on the shafts of light and the gleaming dust motes dancing within them. The room was bare of ornament save for the three seats of plain, unfinished wood. They were not even well made and Sieben guessed they had been bought in the southern quarter, where the poor spent what little money they had.

Idly he swept his hand through a shaft of light. The dust scattered and swirled.

The oak door opened and a middle-aged man emerged. Seeing Sieben, he swiftly turned his face away and hurried from the house. The poet rose and moved towards the open door. The room beyond was scarcely better furnished than the waiting area. There was a broad table with ill-fitting joints, two hard wood chairs and a single shutter window. No light shone through the slats and Sieben saw that old cloths had been wedged between them.

“A curtain would have been sufficient to block the light,” he said, forcing a lightness of tone he did not feel.

The Old Woman did not smile, her face impassive in the light of the red-glassed lantern on the table before her.

“Sit,” she said.

He did so, and tried to stop himself from considering her awesome ugliness. Her teeth were multi-coloured - green, grey and the brown of rotting vegetation. Her eyes were rheumy, and a cataract had formed in the left. She was wearing a loose-fitting gown of faded red, and a gold talisman was partially hidden in the wrinkled folds of her neck.

“Put the gold upon the table,” she said. He lifted a single gold raq from the pouch at his side and slid it towards her. Making no move to pick up the coin, she looked into his face. “What do you require of me?” she asked him.

“I have a friend who is dying.”

“The young axeman.”

“Yes. The surgeons have done all they can, but there is poison within his lungs, and the knife wound in his lower back will not heal.”

“You have something of his with you?”

Sieben nodded and pulled the silver-knuckled gauntlet from his belt. She took it from his hand and sat in silence, running the calloused skin of her thumb across the leather and metal. “The surgeon is Calvar Syn,” she said. “What does he say?”

“Only that Druss should already be dead. The poison in his system is spreading; they are forcing liquids into him, but his weight is falling away and he has not opened his eyes in four days.”

“What would you have me do?”

Sieben shrugged. “It is said you are very skilled in herbs. I thought you might save him.”

She laughed suddenly, the sound dry and harsh. “My herbs do not usually prolong life, Sieben.” Laying the gauntlet upon the table, she leaned back in her chair. “He suffers,” she said. “He has lost his lady, and his will to live is fading. Without the will, there is no hope.”

“There is nothing you can do?”

“About his will? No. But his lady is on board a ship bound for Ventria and she is safe - for the moment. But the war sweeps on and who can say what will become of a slave-girl if she reaches that battle-torn continent? Go back to the hospital. Take your friend to the house Shadak is preparing for you.”

“He will die, then?”

She smiled, and Sieben tore his eyes from the sudden show of rotting teeth. “Perhaps… Place him in a room where the sunlight enters in the morning, and lay his axe upon his bed, his fingers upon the hilt.” Her hand snaked across the table, and the gold raq vanished into her palm.

“That is all you can tell me for an ounce of gold?”

“It is all you need to know. Place his hand upon the hilt.”

Sieben rose. “I had expected more.”

“Life is full of disappointments, Sieben.”

He moved to the door, but her voice stopped him. “Do not touch the blades,” she warned.

“What?”

“Carry the weapon with care.”

Shaking his head, he left the house. The sun was hidden now behind dark clouds, and rain began to fall.

Druss was sitting alone and exhausted upon a grim mountainside, the sky above him grey and forlorn, the earth around him arid and dry. He gazed up at the towering peaks so far above him and levered himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and he had been climbing for so long that all sense of time had vanished. All he knew was that Rowena waited on the topmost peak, and he must find her. Some twenty paces ahead was a jutting finger of rock and Druss set off towards it, forcing his aching limbs to push his weary body on and up. Blood was gushing from the wounds in his back, making the ground treacherous around his feet. He fell. Then he crawled.

It seemed that hours had passed.

He looked up. The jutting finger of rock was now forty paces from him.

Despair came fleetingly, but was washed away on a tidal wave of rage. He crawled on. Ever on.

“I won’t give up,” he hissed. “Ever.”

Something cold touched his hand, his fingers closing around an object of steel. And he heard a voice. I am back, my brother.”

Something in the words chilled him. He gazed down at the silver axe - and felt his wounds heal, his strength flooding back into his frame.

Rising smoothly, he looked up at the mountain.

It was merely a hill.

Swiftly he strode to the top. And woke.

Calvar Syn patted Druss’s back. “Put on your shirt, young man,” he said. “The wounds have finally healed. There is a little pus, but the blood is fresh and the scab contains no corruption. I congratulate you on your strength.”

Druss nodded, but did not reply. Slowly and with care he pulled on his shirt of grey wool, then leaned back exhausted on the bed. Calvar Syn reached out, gently pressing his index finger to the pulse point on the young man’s throat. The beat was erratic and fast, but this was to be expected after such a long infection. “Take a deep breath,” ordered the surgeon and Druss obeyed. “The right lung is still not operating at full efficiency; but it will. I want you to move out into the garden. Enjoy the sunshine and the sea air.”

The surgeon rose and left the room, walking down the long hallways and out into the gardens beyond. He saw the poet, Sieben, sitting beneath a spreading elm and tossing pebbles into a man-made pond. Calvar Syn wandered to the poolside.

“Your friend is improving, but not as swiftly as I had hoped,” he said.

“Did you bleed him?”

“No. There is no longer a fever. He is very silent… withdrawn.”

Sieben nodded. “His wife was taken from him.”

“Very sad, I’m sure. But there are other women in the world,” observed the surgeon.

“Not for him. He loves her, he’s going after her.”

“He’ll waste his life,” said Calvar. “Has he any idea of the size of the Ventrian continent? There are thousands upon thousands of small towns and villages, and more than three hundred major cities. Then there is the war. All shipping has ceased. How will he get there?”

“Of course he understands. But he’s Druss - he’s not like you or me, surgeon.” The poet chuckled and threw another pebble. “He’s an old-fashioned hero. You don’t see many these days. He’ll find a way.”

Calvar cleared his throat. “Hmmm. Well, your old-fashioned hero is currently as strong as a three-day lamb. He is deep in a melancholic state, and until he recovers from it I cannot see him improving. Feed him red meat and dark green vegetables. He needs food for the blood.” He cleared his throat again, and stood silently.

“Was there something else?” asked the poet.

Calvar cursed inwardly. People were always the same. As soon as they were sick, they sent at speed for the doctor. But when it came to the time for settling accounts… No one expected a baker to part with bread without coin. Not so a surgeon. There is the question of my fee,” he said coldly.

“Ah, yes. How much is it?”

“Thirty raq.”

“Shema’s balls! No wonder you surgeons live in palaces.”

Calvar sighed, but kept his temper. “I do not live in a palace; I have a small house to the north. And the reason why surgeons must charge such fees is that a great number of patients renege. Your friend has been ill now for two months. During this time I have made more than thirty visits to this house, and I have had to purchase many expensive herbs. Three times now you have promised to settle the account. On each occasion you ask me how much is it. So you have the money?”

“No,” admitted Sieben.

“How much do you have?”

“Five raq.”

Calvar held out his hand and Sieben handed him the coins. “You have until this time next week to find the rest of the money. After that I shall I inform the Watch. In Mashrapur the law is simple: if you do not honour your debts your property will be sequestered. Since this house does not belong to you and, as far as I know, you have no source of income, you are likely to be imprisoned until sold as a slave. Until next week then.”

Calvar turned away and strode through the garden, his anger mounting.

Another bad debt. One day I really will go to the Watch, he promised himself. He strolled on through the narrow streets, his medicine bag swinging from his narrow shoulders.

“Doctor! Doctor!” came a woman’s voice and he swung to see a young woman running towards him. Sighing he waited. “Could you come with me? It’s my son, he has a fever.” Calvar looked down at the woman. Her dress was of poor quality, and old. She wore no shoes.

“And how will you pay me?” he asked, the question springing from the residue of his anger.

She stood silent for a moment. “You can take everything I have,” she said simply.

He shook his head, his anger finally disappearing. “That will not be necessary,” he told her, with a professional smile.

He arrived home a little after midnight. His servant had left him a cold meal of meat and cheese. Calvar stretched out on a leather-covered couch and sipped a goblet of wine.

Untying his money-pouch, he tipped the contents to the table. Three raq tumbled to the wooden surface. “You will never be rich, Calvar,” he said, with a wry smile.

He had sat with the boy while the mother was out buying food. She had returned with eggs, and meat, and milk, and bread, her face glowing. It was worth two raq just to see her expression, he thought.

Druss made his way slowly out into the garden. The moon was high, the stars bright. He remembered a poem of Sieben’s: Glitter dust in the lair of night. Yes, that’s how the stars looked. He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the circular seat constructed around the bole of the elm. Take a deep breath, the surgeon had ordered. Deep? If felt as if a huge lump of stone had been wedged into his lungs, blocking all air.

The crossbow bolt had pierced cleanly, but it had also driven a tiny portion of his shirt into the wound, and this had caused the poison that drained his strength.

The wind was cool, and bats circled above the trees. Strength. Druss realised now just how much he had undervalued the awesome power of his body. One small bolt and a hastily thrust knife had reduced him to this shambling, weak shell. How, in this state, could he rescue Rowena?

Despair struck him like a fist under the heart. Rescue her? He did not even know where she was, save that thousands of miles now separated them. No Ventrian ships sailed, and even if they did he had no gold with which to purchase passage.

He gazed back at the house where golden light gleamed from Sieben’s window. It was a fine house, better than any Druss had ever visited. Shadak had arranged for them to rent the property, the owner being trapped in Ventria. But the rent was due. The surgeon had told him it would be two months before his strength began to return.

We’ll starve before then, thought Druss. Levering himself to his feet, he walked on to the high wall at the rear of the garden. By the time he reached it his legs felt boneless, his breath was coming in ragged gasps. The house seemed an infinite distance away. Druss struck out for it, but had to stop by the pond and sit at the water’s edge. Splashing his face, he waited until his feeble strength returned, then rose and stumbled to the rear doors. The iron gate at the far end of the garden was lost in shadow now. He wanted to walk there once more, but his will was gone.

As he was about to enter the building he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He swung, ponderously, and a man moved from the shadows.

“Good to see you alive, lad,” said Old Thorn.

Druss smiled. “There is an ornate door-knocker at the front of the house,” he said.

“Didn’t know as I’d be welcome,” the old man replied.

Druss led the way into the house, turning left into the large meeting room with its four couches and six padded chairs. Thorn moved to the hearth, lighting a taper from the dying flames of the fire, then touching it to the wick of a lantern set on the wall. “Help yourself to a drink,” offered Druss. Old Thorn poured a goblet of red wine, then a second which he passed to the young man.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight, lad, and you look like an old man,” said Thorn cheerfully.

“I’ve felt better.”

“I see Shadak spoke up for you with the magistrates. No action to be taken over the fight at the quay. Good to have friends, eh? And don’t worry about Calvar Syn.”

“Why should I worry about him?”

“Unpaid debt. He could have you sold into slavery - but he won’t. Soft, he is.”

“I thought Sieben had paid him. I’ll not be beholden to any man.”

“Good words, lad. For good words and a copper farthing you can buy a loaf of bread.”

“I’ll get the money to pay him,” promised Druss.

“Of course you will, lad. The best way - in the sand circle. But we’ve got to get your strength up first. You need to work - though my tongue should turn black for saying it.”

“I need time,” said Druss.

“You’ve little time, lad. Borcha is looking for you. You took away his reputation and he says he’ll beat you to death when he finds you.”

“Does he indeed?” hissed Druss, his pale eyes gleaming.

“That’s more like it, my bonny lad! Anger, that’s what you need! Right, well I’ll leave you now. By the way, they’re felling trees to the west of the city, clearing the ground for some new buildings. They’re looking for workers. Two silver pennies a day. It ain’t much, but it’s work.”

“I’ll think on it.”

“I’ll leave you to your rest, lad. You look like you need it.”

Druss watched the old man leave, then walked out into the garden once more. His muscles ached, and his heart was beating to a ragged drum. But Borcha’s face was fixed before his mind’s eye and he forced himself to walk to the gate and back.

Three times….

Vintar rose from his bed, moving quietly so as not to wake the four priests who shared the small room in the southern wing. Dressing himself in a long white habit of rough wool, he padded barefoot along the cold stone of the corridor and up the winding steps to the ancient battlements.

From here he could see the mountain range that separated Lentria from the lands of the Drenai. The moon was high, half full, the sky cloudless. Beyond the temple the trees of the forest shimmered in the spectral light.

“The night is a good time for meditation, my son,” said the Abbot, stepping from the shadows. “But you will need your strength for the day. You are falling behind in your sword work.” The Abbot was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who had once been a mercenary. His face bore a jagged scar from his right cheekbone down to his rugged jaw.

“I am not meditating, Father. I cannot stop thinking about the woman.”

“The one taken by slavers?”

“Yes. She haunts me.”

“You are here because your parents gave you into my custody, but you remain of your own free will. Should you desire to leave and find this girl you may do so. The Thirty will survive, Vintar.”

The young man sighed. “I do not wish to leave, Father. And it is not that I desire her.” He smiled wistfully. “I have never desired a woman. But there was something about her that I cannot shake from my thoughts.”

“Come with me, my boy. It is cold here, and I have a fire. We will talk.”

Vintar followed the burly Abbot into the western wing and the two men sat in the Abbot’s study as the sky paled towards dawn. “Sometimes,” said the Abbot, as he hung a copper kettle over the flames, “it is hard to define the will of the Source. I have known men who wished to travel to far lands. They prayed for guidance. Amazingly they found that the Source was guiding them to do just what they wished for. I say amazingly because, in my experience, the Source rarely sends a man where he wants to go. That is part of the sacrifice we make when we serve Him. I do not say it never happens, you understand, for that would be arrogance. No, but when one prays for guidance it should be with an open mind, all thoughts of one’s own desires put aside.”

The kettle began to hiss, clouds of vapour puffing from the curved spout. Shielding his hands with a cloth, the Abbot poured the water into a second pot, in which he had spooned dried herbs. Placing the kettle in the hearth, he sat back in an old leather chair.

“Now the Source very rarely speaks to us directly, and the question is: How do we know what is required? These matters are very complex. You chose to absent yourself from study, and soar across the Heavens. In doing so you rescued the spirit of a young girl and led her home to her abused body. Coincidence? I distrust coincidence. Therefore it is my belief, though I may be wrong, that the Source led you to her. And that is why she now haunts your mind. Your dealings with her are not yet concluded.”

“You think I should seek her out?”

“I do. Take yourself to the south wing library. There is a small cell beyond it. I will excuse you from all studies tomorrow.”

“But how shall I find her again, Lord Abbot? She was a slave. She could be anywhere.”

“Start with the man who was abusing her. You know his name - Collan. You know where he was planning to take her - Mashrapur. Let your spirit search begin there.”

The Abbot poured tea into two clay cups. The aroma was sweet and heady. “I am the least talented of all the priests,” said Vintar sorrowfully. “Surely it would be better to pray for the Source to send someone stronger?”

The Abbot chuckled. “It is so strange, my boy. Many people say they wish to serve the Lord of All Peace. But in an advisory capacity: ‘Ah, my God, you are most wondrous, having created all the planets and the stars. However, you are quite wrong to choose me. I know this, for I am Vintar, and I am weak.’”

“You mock me, father.”

“Of course I mock you. But I do so with at least a modicum of love in my heart. I was a soldier, a killer, a drunkard, a womaniser. How do you think I felt when He chose me to become a member of the Thirty? And when my brother priests stood facing death, can you imagine my despair at being told I was the one who must survive? I was to be the new Abbot. I was to gather the new Thirty. Oh Vintar, you have much to learn. Find this girl. I rather believe that in doing so you will find something for yourself.”

The young priest finished his tea and stood. “Thank you, Father, for your kindness.”

“You told me she has a husband who was searching for her,” said the Abbot.

“Yes. A man named Druss.”

“Perhaps he will still be in Mashrapur.”

An hour later, in the bright sky above the city, the spirit of the young priest hovered. From here, despite the distance that made the buildings and palaces seem tiny, like the building bricks of an infant, he could feel the pulsing heart of Mashrapur, like a beast upon wakening; ravenous, filled with greed and lust. Dark emotions radiated from the city, filling his thoughts and swamping the purity he fought so hard to maintain. He dropped closer, closer still.

Now he could see the dock-workers strolling to work, and the whores plying the early-morning trade and the merchants opening their shops and stalls.

Where to begin? He had no idea.

For hours he flew aimlessly, touching a mind here, a thought there, seeking knowledge of Collan, Rowena or Druss. He found nothing save greed, or want, hunger or dissipation, lust or, so rarely, love.

Tired and defeated, he was ready to return to the Temple when he felt a sudden pull on his spirit, as if a rope had attached itself to him. In panic he tried to pull away, but though he used all his strength he was drawn inexorably down into a room where all the windows had been barred. An elderly woman was sitting before a red lantern. She gazed up at him as he floated just below the ceiling.

“Ah, but you are a treat to these old eyes, my pretty,” she said. Suddenly shocked, Vintar realised that his form was naked and he clothed himself in an instant in robes of white. She gave a dry laugh. “And modest too.” The smile faded, and with it her good humour. “What are you doing here? Hmmm? This is my city, child.”

“I am a priest, lady,” he said. “I am seeking knowledge of a woman called Rowena, the wife of Druss, the slave of Collan.”

“Why?”

“My Abbot instructed me to find her. He believes the Source may want her protected.”

“By you?” Her good humour returned. “Boy, you can’t even protect yourself from an old witch. Were I to desire it, I could send your soul flaming into Hell.”

“Why would you desire such a terrible thing?”

She paused for a moment. “It might be a whim, or a fancy. What will you give me for your life?”

“I don’t have anything to give.”

“Of course you do,” she said. Her old eyes closed and he watched her spirit rise from her body. She took the form of a beautiful woman, young and shapely, with golden hair and large blue eyes. “Does this form please you?”

“Of course. It is flawless. Is that how you looked when younger?”

“No, I was always ugly. But this is how I choose for you to see me.” She glided in close to him and stroked his face. Her touch was warm, and he felt a ripple of arousal.

“Please do not continue,” he said.

“Why? Is it not pleasurable?” Her hand touched his robes and they disappeared.

“Yes, it is. Very. But my vows… do not allow for the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Silly boy,” she whispered into his ear. “We are not flesh. We are spirit.”

“No,” he said sternly. Instantly he transformed himself into the image of the old woman sitting at the table.

“Clever boy,” said the beautiful vision. “Yes, very clever. And virtuous too. I don’t know if I like that, but it does have the charm of being novel. Very well. I will help you.”

He felt the invisible chains holding him disappear, as did the vision. The old woman opened her eyes.

“She was at sea, heading for Ventria when the ship came under attack. She leapt into the water, and the sharks took her.”

Vintar reeled back and cried out, “It’s my fault! I should have sought her sooner.”

“Go back to your Temple, boy. My time is precious, and I have clients waiting.”

Her laughter rang out and she waved her hand dismissively. Once more he felt the pull on his spirit. It dragged him out, hurling him high into the sky over Mashrapur.

Vintar returned to the tiny cell at the Temple, merging once more with his body. As always he felt nauseous and dizzy and lay still for a few moments, experiencing the weight of his flesh, feeling the rough blanket beneath his skin. A great sadness fell upon him. His talents were far beyond those of normal men, yet they had brought him no pleasure. His parents had treated him with cold reverence, frightened by his uncanny skills. They had been both delighted and relieved when the Abbot came to them one autumn evening, offering to take the boy into his custody. It mattered nothing to them that the Abbot represented a Temple of the Thirty, where men with awesome talents trained and studied with one purpose only - to die in some battle, some distant war, and thus become one with the Source. The prospect of his death could not grieve his parents, for they had never treated him as a human being, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood. They saw him as a changeling, a demonic presence. He had no friends. Who wants to be around a boy who can read minds, who can peek into the darkest corners of your soul and know all your secrets? Even in the Temple he was alone, unable to share in the simple camaraderie of others with talents the equal of his.

And now he had missed an opportunity to help a young woman, indeed to save her life.

He sat up and sighed. The old woman had been a witch, and he had felt the malevolence of her personality. Even so the vision she created had aroused him. He could not even withstand such a petty evil.

And then the thought struck him, like a blow between the eyes. Evil! Malice and deceit walked hand in hand beneath the darkness of evil. Perhaps she lied!

He lay back and forced his mind to relax, loosening the spirit once more. Soaring from the Temple, he sped across the ocean, seeking the ship and praying that he was not too late.

Clouds were gathering in the east, promising a storm. Vintar swooped low over the water, spirit eyes scanning the horizon.

Forty miles from the coast of Ventria he saw the ships, a trireme with a huge black sail and a slender merchant vessel seeking to avoid capture.

The merchant ship swung away, but the trireme ploughed on, its bronze-covered ram striking the prey amidships, smashing the timbers and ripping into the heart of the vessel. Armed men swarmed over the trireme’s prow. On the rear deck Vintar saw a young woman dressed in white, with two men - one tall and dark-skinned, the other small and slightly built. The trio leapt into the waves. Sharks glided through the water towards them.

Vintar flew to Rowena, his spirit hand touching her shoulder as she bobbed in the water, clinging to a length of timber, the two men on either side of her. “Stay calm, Rowena,” he pulsed.

A shark lunged up at the struggling trio and Vintar entered its mind, tasting the bleakness of its non-thoughts, the coldness of its emotions, the hunger that consumed it. He felt himself becoming the shark, seeing the world through black, unblinking eyes, tasting the environment through a sense of smell a hundred, perhaps a thousand times more powerful than Man’s. Another shark glided below the three people, its jaws opening as it swept up towards them.

With a flick of his tail Vintar rammed the beast, which turned and snapped at his side, barely missing his dorsal fin.

Then came a scent in the water, sweet and beguiling, promising infinite pleasure and a cessation of hunger. Almost without thinking Vintar swam for it, sensing and seeing the other sharks racing towards it.

And then he knew, and his soaring lust was quelled as swiftly as it had risen.

Blood. The victims of the pirates were being thrown to the sharks.

Releasing control of the sea beast, he flew back to where Rowena and the others were clinging to the beam. “Get your friends to kick out. You must swim away from here,”, he told her. He heard her tell the others, and slowly the three of them began to move away from the carnage.

Vintar soared high into the sky and scanned the horizon. Another ship was just in sight, a merchant vessel, and the young priest sped towards it. Dropping to where the captain stood by the tiller Vintar entered the man’s mind, screening out his thoughts of wife, family, pirates and bad winds. The ship was manned by two hundred rowers and thirty seamen; it was carrying wine from Lentria to the Naashanite port of Virinis.

Vintar flowed through the captain’s body, seeking control. In the lungs he found a small, malignant cancer. Swiftly Vintar neutralised it, accelerating the body’s healing mechanism to carry away the corrupt cell. Moving up once more into the brain, he made the captain swing the ship towards the north-west.

The captain was a kindly man, his thoughts mellow. He had seven children, and one of them - the youngest daughter - had been sick with yellow fever when he set sail. He was praying for her recovery.

Vintar imprinted the new course on the man’s unsuspecting mind and flew back to Rowena, telling her of the ship that would soon arrive. Then he moved to the pirate trireme. Already they had sacked the merchant vessel and were backing oars, pulling clear the ram and allowing the looted ship to sink.

Vintar entered the captain’s mind - and reeled with the horror of his thoughts. Swiftly he made the man see the distant merchant ship and filled his mind with nameless fears. The approaching ship, he made the captain believe, was filled with soldiers. It was an ill omen, it would be the death of him. Then Vintar left him, and listened with satisfaction as Earin Shad bellowed orders to his men to turn about and make for the north-west.

Vintar floated above Rowena and the two men until the merchant ship arrived and hauled them aboard. Then he departed for the Lentrian port of Chupianin, where he healed the captain’s daughter.

Only then did he return to the Temple, where he found the Abbot sitting beside his bed.

“How are you feeling, my boy?” he asked.

“Better than I have in years, Father. The girl is safe now. And I have enhanced two lives.”

“Three,” said the Abbot. “You have enhanced your own.”

“That is true,” admitted Vintar, “and it is good to be home.”

Druss could hardly believe the chaos at the clearing site. Hundreds of men scurried here and there without apparent direction, felling trees, digging out roots, hacking at the dense, overgrown vegetation. There was no order to the destruction. Trees were hacked down, falling across paths used by men with wheelbarrows who were trying to clear the debris. Even while he waited to see the Overseer he watched a tall pine topple on to a group of men digging out tree roots. No one was killed, but one worker suffered a broken arm and several others showed bloody gashes to face or arm.

The Overseer, a slender yet pot-bellied man, called him over. “Well, what are your skills?” he asked.

“Woodsman,” answered Druss.

“Everyone here claims to be a woodsman,” said the man wearily. “I’m looking for men with skill.”

“You certainly need them,” observed Druss.

“I have twenty days to clear this area, then another twenty to prepare footings for the new buildings. The pay is two silver pennies a day.” The man pointed to a burly, bearded man sitting on a tree-stump. “That’s Togrin, the charge-hand. He organises the work-force and hires the men.”

“He’s a fool,” said Druss, “and he’ll get someone killed.”

“Fool he may be,” admitted the Overseer, “but he’s also a very tough man. No one shirks when he’s around.”

Druss gazed at the site. “That may be true; but you’ll never finish on time. And I’ll not work for any man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“You’re a little young to making such sweeping comments,” observed the Overseer. “So tell me, how would you re-organise the work?”

“I’d move the axemen further west and allow the rest of the men to clear behind them. If it carries on like this, all movement will cease. Look there,” said Druss, pointing to the right. Trees had been felled in a rough circle, at the centre of which were men digging out huge roots. “Where will they take the roots?” asked the axeman. “There is no longer a path. They will have to wait while the trees are hauled away. Yet how will you move horses and trace chains through to them?”

The Overseer smiled. “You have a point, young man. Very well. The charge-hand earns four pennies a day. Take his place and show me what you can do.”

Druss took a deep breath. His muscles were already tired from the long walk to the site, and the wounds in his back were aching. He was in no condition to fight, and had been hoping to ease himself in to the work. “How do you signal a break in the work?” he asked.

“We ring the bell for the noon break. But that’s three hours away.”

“Have it rung now,” said Druss.

The Overseer chuckled. “This should break the monotony,” he said. “Do you want me to tell Togrin he has lost his job?”

Druss looked into the man’s brown eyes. “No. I’ll tell him myself,” he said.

“Good. Then I’ll see to the bell.”

The Overseer strolled away and Druss picked his way through the chaos until he was standing close to the seated Togrin. The man glanced up. He was large and round-shouldered, heavy of arm and sturdy of chin. His eyes were dark, almost black under heavy brows. “Looking for work?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then get off my site. I don’t like idlers.”

The clanging of a bell sounded through the wood. Togrin swore and rose as everywhere men stopped working. “What the… ?” He swung around. “Who rang that bell?” he bellowed.

Men began to gather around the charge-hand and Druss approached the man. “I ordered the bell rung,” he said.

Togrin’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?” he asked.

“The new charge-hand,” replied Druss.

“Well, well,” said Togrin, with a wide grin. “Now there are two charge-hands. I think that’s one too many.”

“I agree,” Druss told him. Stepping in swiftly, he delivered a thundering blow to the man’s belly. The air left Togrin’s lungs with a great whoosh and he doubled up, his head dropping. Druss’s left fist chopped down the man’s jaw and Togrin hit the ground face first. The charge-hand twitched, then lay still.

Druss sucked in a great gulp of air. He felt unsteady and white lights danced before his eyes as he looked around at the waiting men. “Now we are going to make some changes,” he said.

Day by day Druss’s strength grew, the muscles of his arms and shoulders swelling with each sweeping blow of the axe, each shovelful of hard clay, each wrenching lift that tore a stubborn tree root clear of the earth. For the first five days Druss slept at the site in a small canvas tent supplied by the Overseer. He had not the energy to walk the three miles back to the rented house. And each lonely night two faces hovered in his mind as he drifted to sleep: Rowena, whom he loved more than life, and Borcha, the fist-fighter he knew he had to face.

In the quiet of the tent his thoughts were many. He saw his father differently now and wished he had known him better. It took courage to live down a father like Bardan the Slayer, and to raise a child and build a life on the frontier. He remembered the day when the wandering mercenary had stopped at the village. Druss had been impressed by the man’s weapons, knife, short sword and hand-axe, and by his, battered breastplate and helm. “He lives a life of real courage,” he had observed to his father, putting emphasis on the word real. Bress had merely nodded. Several days later, as they were walking across the high meadow, Bress had pointed towards the house of Egan the farmer. “You want to see courage, boy,” he said. “Look at him working in that field. Ten years ago he had a farm on the Sentran Plain, but Sathuli raiders came in the night, burning him out. Then he moved to the Ventrian border, where locusts destroyed his crops for three years. He had borrowed money to finance his farm and he lost everything. Now he is back on the land, working from first light to last. That’s real courage. It doesn’t take much for a man to abandon a life of toil for a sword. The real heroes are those who battle on.”

The boy had known better. You couldn’t be a hero and a farmer.

“If he was so brave, why didn’t he fight off the Sathuli?”

“He had a wife and three children to protect.”

“So he ran away?”

“He ran away,” agreed Bress.

“I’ll never run from a fight,” said Druss.

“Then you’ll die young,” Bress told him.

Druss sat up and thought back to the raid. What would he have done if the choice had been to fight the slavers - or run with Rowena?

His sleep that night was troubled.

On the sixth night as he walked from the site a tall, burly figure stepped into his path. It was Togrin, the former charge-hand. Druss had not seen him since the fight. The young axeman scanned the darkness, seeking other assailants, but there were none.

“Can we talk?” asked Togrin.

“Why not?” countered Druss.

The man took a deep breath. “I need work,” he said. “My wife’s sick. The children have not eaten in two days.”

Druss looked hard into the man’s face, seeing the hurt pride and instantly sensing what it had cost him to ask for help. “Be on site at dawn,” he said, and strolled on. He felt uncomfortable as he made his way home, telling himself he would never have allowed his own dignity to be lost in such a way. But even as he thought the words, a seed of doubt came to him. Mashrapur was a harsh, unforgiving city. A man was valued only so long as he contributed to the general well-being of the community. And how dreadful it must be, he thought, to watch your children starve.

It was dusk when he arrived at the house. He was tired, but the bone-weariness he had experienced for so long had faded. Sieben was not home. Druss lit a lantern and opened the rear door to the garden allowing the cool sea breeze to penetrate the house.

Removing his money-pouch; he counted out the twenty-four silver pennies he had earned thus far. Twenty was the equivalent of a single raq, and that was one month’s rent on the property. At this rate he would never earn enough to settle his debts. Old Thorn was right: he could make far more in the sand circle.

He recalled the bout with Borcha, the terrible pounding he had received. The memory of the punches he had taken was strong within him - but so too was the memory of those he had thundered into his opponent.

He heard the iron gate creak at the far end of the garden and saw a shadowly figure making his way towards the house. Moonlight glinted from the man’s bald pate, and he seemed colossal as he strode through the shadowed trees. Druss rose from his seat, his pale eyes narrowing.

Borcha halted just before the door. “Well,” he asked, “are you going to invite me in?”

Druss stepped into the garden. “You can take your beating out here,” he hissed. “I’ve not the money to pay for broken furniture.”

“You’re a cocky lad,” said Borcha amiably, stepping into the house and draping his green cloak across the back of a couch. Nonplussed, Druss followed him inside. The big man stretched out in a padded chair, crossing his legs and leaning his head back against the high back. “A good chair,” he said. “Now how about a drink?”

“What do you want here?” demanded Druss, fighting to control his rising temper.

“A little hospitality, farm boy. I don’t know about you, but where I come from we normally offer a guest a goblet of wine when he takes the trouble to call.”

“Where I’m from,” responded Druss, “uninvited guests are rarely welcome.”

“Why such hostility? You won your wager and you fought well. Collan did not take my advice - which was to return your wife - and now he is dead. I had no part in the raid.”

“And I suppose you haven’t been looking for me, seeking your revenge?”

Borcha laughed. “Revenge? For what? You stole nothing from me. You certainly did not beat me - nor could you. You have the strength but not the skill. If that had been a genuine bout I would have broken you, boy - eventually. However, you are quite right - I have been looking for you.”

Druss sat opposite the giant. “So Old Thorn told me. He said you were seeking to destroy me.”

Borcha shook his head and grinned. “The drunken fool misunderstood, boy. Now tell me, how old do you think I am?”

“What? How in the name of Hell should I know?” stormed Druss.

“I’m thirty-eight, thirty-nine in two months. And yes, I could still beat Grassin, and probably all the others. But you showed me the mirror of time, Druss. No one lasts for ever - not in the sand circle. My day is over; my few minutes with you taught me that. Your day is beginning. But it won’t last long unless you learn how to fight.”

“I need no instruction in that,” said Druss.

“You think not? Every time you throw a right-hand blow, you drop your left shoulder. All of your punches travel in a curve. And your strongest defence is your chin which, though it may appear to be made of granite, is in fact merely bone. Your footwork is adequate, though it could be improved, but your weaknesses are many. Grassin will exploit them; he will wear you down.”

“That’s one opinion,” argued Druss.

“Don’t misunderstand me, lad. You are good. You have heart and great strength. But you also know how you felt after four minutes with me. Most bouts last ten times that long.”

“Mine won’t.”

Borcha chuckled. “It will with Grassin. Do not let arrogance blind you to the obvious, Druss. They say you were a woodsman. When you first picked up an axe, did it strike with every blow?”

“No,” admitted the younger man.

“It is the same with combat. I can teach you many styles of punch, and even more defences. I can show you how to feint, and lure an opponent in to your blows.”

“Perhaps you can - but why would you?”

“Pride,” said Borcha.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it - after you beat Grassin.”

“I won’t be here long enough,” said Druss. “As soon as a ship bound for Ventria docks in Mashrapur, I shall sail on her.”

“Before the war such a journey would cost ten raq. Now… ? Who knows? But in one month there is a small tournament at Visha, with a first prize of one hundred raq. The rich have palaces in Visha, and a great deal of money can be made on side wagers. Grassin will be taking part, and several of the other notable figures. Agree to let me train you and I will enter your name in my place.”

Druss stood and poured a goblet of wine, which he passed to the bald fighter. “I have taken employment, and I promised the Overseer I would see the work done. It will take a full month.”

“Then I will train you in the evenings.”

“On one condition,” said Druss.

“Name it!”

“The same one I gave the Overseer. If a ship bound for Ventria docks and I can get passage, then I will up and go.”

“Agreed.” Borcha thrust out his hand. Druss clasped it and Borcha stood. “I’ll leave you to your rest. By the way, warn your poet friend that he is taking fruit from the wrong tree.”

“He is his own man,” said Druss.

Borcha shrugged. “Warn him anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”