The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Two

Sieben lay awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. Beside him the woman slept, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his side and legs. There was a painting on the ceiling, a hunting scene showing men armed with spears and bows pursuing a red-maned lion. What kind of man would have such a composition above the marital bed, he thought? Sieben smiled. The First Minister of Mashrapur must have an enormous ego since, whenever he and his wife made love, she would be gazing up at a group of men more handsome than her husband.

Rolling to his side, he looked down at the sleeping woman. Her back was turned towards him, her arm thrust under the pillow, her legs drawn up. Her hair was dark, almost black against the creamy-white of the pillow. He could not see her face, but he pictured again the full lips and the long, beautiful neck. When first he had seen her she was standing beside Mapek in the marketplace. The minister was surrounded by underlings and sycophants, Evejorda looking bored and out of place.

Sieben had stood very still, waiting for her eyes to glance in his direction. When they did, he sent her a smile. One of his best - a swift, flashing grin that said, “I am bored too. I understand you. I am a linked soul.” She raised an eyebrow at him, signifying her distaste for his impertinence, and then turned away. He waited, knowing she would look again. She moved to a nearby stall and began to examine a set of ceramic bowls. He angled himself through the crowd and she looked up, startled to see him so close.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said. She ignored him. “You are very beautiful.”

“And you are presumptuous, sir.” Her voice had a northern burr, which he normally found irritating. Not so now.

“Beauty demands presumption. Just as it demands adoration.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” she said, moving in close to disconcert him.

She was wearing a simple gown of radiant blue and a Lentrian shawl of white silk. But it was her perfume that filled his senses - a rich, scented musk he recognised as Moserche, a Ventrian import costing five gold raq an ounce.

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

“What a ridiculous question! Who could answer it?”

“Someone who is happy,” he told her.

She smiled. “And you, sir, are you happy?”

“I am now.”

“I think you are an accomplished womaniser, and there is no truth to your words.”

“Then judge me by my deeds, my lady. My name is Sieben.” He whispered the address of the house he shared with Druss and then, taking her hand, he kissed it.

Her messenger arrived at the house two days later.

She moved in her sleep. Sieben’s hand slid under the satin sheet, cupping her breast. At first she did not stir, but he gently continued to caress her skin, squeezing her nipple until it swelled erect. She moaned and stretched. “Do you never sleep?” she asked him.

He did not reply.

Later, as Evejorda slept again, he lay silently beside her, his passion gone, his thoughts sorrowful. She was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever enjoyed. She was bright, intelligent, dynamic and full of passion.

And he was bored….

As a poet he had sung of love, but never known it, and he envied the lovers of legend who looked into each other’s eyes and saw eternity beckoning. He sighed and slipped from the bed, dressing swiftly and leaving the room, padding softly down the back stairs to the garden before pulling on his boots. The servants were not yet awake, and dawn was only just breaking in the eastern sky. A cockerel crowed in the distance.

Sieben walked through the garden and out on to the avenue beyond. As he walked he could smell the fresh bread baking, and he stopped at a bakery to buy some cheese bread which he ate as he strolled home.

Druss was not there, and he remembered the labouring work the young man had undertaken. God, how could a man spend his days digging in the dirt, he wondered? Moving through to the kitchen, he stoked up the iron stove and set a copper pan filled with water atop it.

Making a tisane of mint and herbs, he stirred the brew and carried it to the main sitting room where he found Shadak asleep on a couch. The hunter’s black jerkin and trews were travel-stained, his boots encrusted with mud. He awoke as Sieben entered, and swung his long legs from the couch.

“I was wondering where you were,” said Shadak, yawning. “I arrived last night.”

“I stayed with a friend,” said Sieben, sitting opposite the hunter and sipping his tisane.

Shadak nodded. “Mapek is due in Mashrapur later today. He cut short his visit to Vagria.”

“Why would that concern me?”

“I’m sure that it does not. But now you know it anyway.”

“Did you come to give me a sermon, Shadak?”

“Do I look like a priest? I came to see Druss. But when I got here he was in the garden, sparring with a bald giant. From the way he moved I concluded his wounds are healed.”

“Only the physical wounds,” said Sieben.

“I know,” responded the hunter. “I spoke to him. He still intends to sail for Ventria. Will you go with him?”

Sieben laughed. “Why should I? I don’t know his wife. Gods, I hardly know him.”

“It might be good for you, poet.”

“The sea air, you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” said Shadak gravely. “You have chosen to make an enemy of one of the most powerful men in Mashrapur. His enemies die, Sieben. Poison, or the blade, or a knotted rope around your throat as you sleep.”

“Is my business known all over the city??

“Of course. There are thirty servants in that house. You think to keep secrets from them when her ecstatic cries reverberate around the building in the middle of the afternoon, or the morning, or in the dead of night?”

“Or indeed all three,” said Sieben, smiling.

“I see no humour in this,” snapped Shadak. “You are no more than a rutting dog and you will undoubtedly ruin her life as you have ruined others. Yet I would sooner you lived than died - only the gods know why!”

“I gave her a little pleasure, that’s all. Which is more than that dry stick of a husband could do. But I will think on your advice.”

“Do not think too long. When Mapek returns he will soon find out about his wife’s… little pleasure. Do not be surprised if he has her killed also.”

Sieben paled. “He wouldn’t…”

“He is a proud man, poet. And you have made a profound error.”

“If he touches her I’ll kill him.”

“Ah, how noble. The dog bares its fangs. You should never have wooed her. You do not even have the defence of being in love; you merely wanted to rut.”

“Is that not what love is?” countered Sieben.

“For you, yes.” Shadak shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ll ever understand it, Sieben. To love means giving, not receiving. Sharing your soul. But this argument is wasted on you, like teaching algebra to a chicken.”

“Oh, please, don’t try to spare my feelings with pretty words. Just come right out with it!”

Shadak rose. “Bodasen is hiring warriors, mercenaries to fight in the Ventrian war. He has chartered a ship which will sail in twelve days. Lie low until then, and do not seek to see Evejorda again - not if you want her to live.”

The hunter moved towards the door, but Sieben called out, “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

Shadak half turned. “I think more of you than you think of yourself.”

“I am too tired for riddles.”

“You can’t forget Gulgothir.”

Sieben jerked as if struck, then lunged to his feet. “That is all past. It means nothing to me. You understand? Nothing!”

“If you say so. I’ll see you in twelve days. The ship is called The Thunderchild. She will sail from Quay 12.”

“I may be on it. I may not.”

“A man always has two choices, my friend.”

“No! No! No!” roared Borcha. “You are still thrusting out that chin, and leading with your head.” Stepping back from his opponent, Borcha swept up a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and head. “Try to understand, Druss, that if Grassin gets the opportunity he will take out one - or both - of your eyes. He will step in close, and as you charge he will strike with a sudden thrust, his thumb like a dagger.”

“Let’s go again,” said Druss.

“No. You are too angry and it swamps your thoughts. Come and sit for a while.”

“The light is fading,” Druss pointed out.

“Then let it fade. You are four days from the competition. Four days, Druss. In that time you must learn to control your temper. Winning is everything. It means nothing if an opponent sneers at you, or mocks you, or claims your mother sold herself to sailors. You understand? These insults are merely weapons in a fighter’s armoury. You will be goaded - because every fighter knows that his enemy’s rage is his greatest weakness.”

“I can control it,” snapped Druss.

“A few moments ago you were fighting well - your balance was good, the punches crisp. Then I slapped you with a straight left… then another. The blows were too fast for your defences and they began to irritate you. Then the curve came back to your punches and you exposed your chin, your face.”

Druss sat beside the fighter and nodded. “You are right. But I do not like this sparring, this holding back. It does not feel real.”

“It isn’t real, my friend, but it prepares the body for genuine combat.” He slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Do not despair; you are almost ready. I think your digging in the dirt has brought back your strength. How goes it at the clearing site?”

“We finished today,” said Druss. “Tomorrow the stonemasons and builders move in.”

“On time. The Overseer must have been pleased - I know I am.”

“Why should it please you?”

“I own a third of the land. The value will rise sharply when the houses are completed.” The bald fighter chuckled. “Were you happy with your bonus?”

“Was that your doing?” asked Druss suspiciously.

“It is standard practice, Druss. The Overseer received fifty raq for completing within the time allocated. The charge-hand is usually offered one tenth of this sum.”

“He gave me ten raq - in gold.”

“Well, well, you must have impressed him.”

“He asked me to stay on and supervise the digging of the footings.”

“But you declined?”

“Yes. There is a ship bound for Ventria. I told him my assistant, Togrin, could take my place. He agreed.”

Borcha was silent for a moment. He knew of Druss’s fight with Togrin on the first day, and how he had welcomed the defeated charge-hand back on the site, training him and giving him responsibility. And the Overseer had told him at their progress meetings how well the men responded to Druss.

“He is a natural leader who inspires by example. No work is too menial, nor too hard. He’s a real find, Borcha; I intend to promote him. There is a new site planned to the north, with difficult terrain. I shall make him Overseer.”

“He won’t take it.”

“Of course he will. He could become rich.”

Borcha pulled his thoughts back to the present. “You know you may never find her,” he said softly.

Druss shook his head. “I’ll find her, Borcha - if I have to walk across Ventria and search every house.”

“You are a woodman, Druss, so answer me this: If I marked a single fallen leaf in a forest, how would you begin to search for it?”

“I hear you - but it is not that difficult. I know who bought her: Kabuchek. He is a rich man, an important man; I will find him.” Reaching behind the bench seat, Druss drew forth Snaga. “This was my grandfather’s axe,” he said. “He was an evil man, they say. But when he was young a great army came out of the north, led by a Gothir King named Pasia. Everywhere there was panic. How could the Drenai stand against such an army? Towns emptied, people piled their possessions on to carts, wagons, coaches, the backs of horses, ponies. Bardan - my grandfather - led a small raiding party deep into the mountains, to where the enemy was camped. He and twenty men walked into the camp, found the King’s tent and slew him in the night. In the morning they found Pasia’s head stuck atop a lance. The army went home.”

“An interesting story, and one I have heard before,” said Borcha. “What do you think we learn from it?”

“There is nothing a man cannot achieve if he has the will, the strength and the courage to attempt it,” answered Druss.

Borcha rose and stretched the massive muscles of his shoulders and back. “Then let’s see if it is true,” he said, with a smile. “Let’s see if you have the will, the strength and the courage to keep your chin tucked in.”

Druss chuckled and placed the axe beside the seat as he stood. “I like you, Borcha. How in the name of Chaos did you ever come to serve a man like Collan?”

“He had a good side, Druss.”

“He did?”

“Aye, he paid well.” As he spoke his hand snaked out, the open palm lashing across Druss’s cheek. The younger man snarled and leapt at him but Borcha swayed left, his fist glancing from Druss’s cheek. “The chin, you ox! Keep it in!” he bellowed.

“I was hoping for men with more quality,” said Bodasen, as he scanned the crowds milling in the Celebration Field.

Borcha chuckled. “Do not be misled by appearances. Some of these men are quality. It really depends on what you are seeking.”

Bodasen stared moodily at the rabble - some in rags, most filthy. More than two hundred had assembled so far, and a quick glance to the gate showed others moving along the access road. “I think we have different views on what constitutes quality,” he said gloomily.

“Look over there,” said Borcha, pointing to a man sitting on a fence rail. “That is Eskodas the Bowman. He can hit a mark no larger than your thumbnail from fifty paces. A man to walk the mountains with, as they say in my home country. And there, the swordsman Kelva - fearless and highly skilled. A natural killer.”

“But do they understand the concept of honour?”

Borcha’s laughter rang out. “You have listened to too many tales of glory and wonder, my friend. These men are fighters; they fight for pay.”

Bodasen sighed. “I am trapped in this… this blemish of a city. My emperor is beset on all sides by a terrible enemy, and I cannot join him. No ship will sail unless it is manned by seasoned troops, and I must choose them from among the gutter scum of Mashrapur. I had hoped for more.”

“Choose wisely, and they may yet surprise you,” advised Borcha.

“Let us see the archers first,” Bodasen ordered.

For more than an hour Bodasen watched the bowmen sending their shafts at targets stuffed with straw. When they had finished he selected five men, the youthful Eskodas among them. Each man was given a single gold raq, and told to report to The Thunderchild at dawn on the day of departure.

The swordsmen were more difficult to judge. At first he ordered them to fence with one another, but the warriors set about their task with mindless ferocity and soon several men were down with cuts, gashes, and one with a smashed collar-bone. Bodasen called a halt to the proceedings and, with Borcha’s help, chose ten. The injured men were each given five silver pieces.

The day wore on, and by noon Bodasen had chosen thirty of the fifty men he required to man The Thunderchild. Dismissing the remainder of the would-be mercenaries, he strode from the field with Borcha beside him.

“Will you leave a place for Druss?” asked the fighter.

“No. I will have room only for men who will fight for Ventria. His quest is a personal one.”

“According to Shadak he is the best fighting man in the city.”

“I am not best disposed towards Shadak. Were it not for him the pirates would not be fighting Ventria’s cause.”

“Sweet Heaven!” snorted Borcha. “How can you believe that? Collan would merely have taken your money and given nothing in return.”

“He gave me his word,” said Bodasen.

“How on earth did you Ventrians ever build an empire?” enquired Borcha. “Collan was a liar, a thief, a raider. Why would you believe him? Did he not tell you he was going to give back Druss’s wife? Did he not lie to you in order for you to lure Druss into a trap? What kind of man did you believe you were dealing with?”

“A nobleman,” snapped Bodasen. “Obviously I was wrong.”

“Indeed you were. You have just paid a gold raq to Eskodas, the son of a goat-breeder and a Lentrian whore. His father was hanged for stealing two horses and his mother abandoned him. He was raised in an orphanage run by two Source priests.”

“Is there some point to this sordid tale?” asked the Ventrian.

“Aye, there is. Eskodas will fight to the death for you; he’ll not run. Ask him his opinion, and he’ll give an honest answer. Hand him a bag of diamonds and tell him to deliver it to a man a thousand leagues distant, and he will do so - and never once will he consider stealing a single gem.”

“So I should hope,” observed Bodasen. “I would expect no less from any Ventrian servant I employed. Why do you make honesty sound like a grand virtue?”

“I have known rocks with more common sense than you,” said Borcha, struggling to hold his temper.

Bodasen chuckled. “Ah, the ways of you barbarians are mystifying. But you are quite right about Druss - I was instrumental in causing him grievous wounds. Therefore I shall leave a place for him on The Thunderchild. Now let us find somewhere that serves good food and passable wine.”

Shadak, Sieben and Borcha stood with Druss on the quayside as dock-workers moved by them, climbing the gangplank, carrying the last of the ship’s stores to the single deck. The Thunderchild was riding low in the water, her deck crammed with mercenaries who leaned on the rail, waving goodbyes to the women who thronged the quay. Most were whores, but there were a few wives with small children, and many were the tears.

Shadak gripped Druss’s hand. “I wish you fair sailing, laddie,” the hunter told him. “And I hope the Source leads you to Rowena.”

“He will,” said Druss. The axeman’s eyes were swollen, the lids discoloured - a mixture of dull yellow and faded purple - and there was a lump under his left eye, where the skin was split and badly stitched.

Shadak grinned at him. “It was a good fight. Grassin will long remember it.”

“And me,” grunted Druss.

Shadak nodded, and his smile faded. “You are a rare man, Druss. Try not to change. Remember the code.”

“I will,” promised Druss. The two men shook hands again, and Shadak strolled away.

“What code?” Sieben asked.

Druss watched as the black-garbed hunter vanished into the crowd. “He once told me that all true warriors live by a code: Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.”

“Very true, I’m sure,” said Sieben, with a dry, mocking laugh. “Ah well, Druss, I can hear the call of the fleshpots and the taverns. And with the money I won on you, I can live like a lord for several months.” He thrust out his slender hand and Druss clasped it.

“Spend your money wisely,” he advised.

“I shall… on women and wine and gambling.” Laughing, he swung away.

Druss turned to Borcha. “I thank you for your training, and your kindness.”

“The time was well spent, and it was gratifying to see Grassin humbled. But he still almost took out your eye. I don’t think you’ll ever learn to keep that chin protected.”

“Hey, Druss! Are you coming aboard?” yelled Bodasen from the deck and Druss waved.

“I’m on my way,” he shouted. The two men clasped hands in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “I hope we meet again,” said Druss.

“Who can say what the fates will decree?”

Druss hefted his axe and turned for the gangplank. “Tell me now why you helped me?” he asked suddenly.

Borcha shrugged. “You frightened me, Druss. I wanted to see just how good you could be. Now I know. You could be the best. It makes what you did to me more palatable. Tell me, how does it feel to leave as champion?”

Druss chuckled. “It hurts,” he said, rubbing his swollen jaw.

“Move yourself, dog-face!” yelled a warrior, leaning over the rail.

The axeman glanced up at the speaker, then turned back to Borcha. “Be lucky, my friend,” he said, then strode up the gangplank. With the ropes loosed, The Thunderchild eased away from the quayside.

Warriors were lounging on the deck, or leaning over the rail waving goodbye to friends and loved ones. Druss found a space by the port rail and sat, laying his axe on the deck beside him. Bodasen was standing beside the mate at the tiller; he waved and smiled at the axeman.

Druss leaned back, feeling curiously at peace. The months trapped in Mashrapur had been hard on the young man. He pictured Rowena.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered.

Sieben strolled away from the quay, and off into the maze of alleys leading to the park. Ignoring the whores who pressed close around him, his thoughts were many. There was sadness at the departure of Druss. He had come to like the young axeman; there were no hidden sides to him, no cunning, no guile. And much as he laughed at the axeman’s rigid morality, he secretly admired the strength that gave birth to it. Druss had even sought out the surgeon Calvar Syn, and settled his debt. Sieben had gone with him and would long remember the surprise that registered on the young doctor’s face.

But Ventria? Sieben had no wish to visit a land torn by war.

He thought of Evejorda and regret washed over him. He’d like to have seen her just one more time, - to have felt those slim thighs sliding up over his hips. But Shadak was right; it was too dangerous for both of them.

Sieben turned left and started to climb the Hundred Steps to the park gateway. Shadak was wrong about Gulgothir. He remembered the filth-strewn streets, the limbless beggars and the cries of the dispossessed. But he remembered them without bitterness. And was it his fault that his father had made such a fool of himself with the Duchess? Anger flared briefly. Stupid fool, he thought. Stupid, stupid man!

She had stripped him first of his wealth, then his dignity, and finally his manhood. They called her the Vampire Queen and it was a good description, save that she didn’t drink blood. No, she drank the very life force from a man, sucked him dry and left him thanking her for doing it, begging her to do it again.

Sieben’s father had been thrown aside - a useless husk, an empty, discarded shell of a man. While Sieben and his mother had almost starved, his father was sitting like a beggar outside the home of the Duchess. He sat there for a month, and finally cut his own throat with a rusty blade.

Stupid, stupid man!

But I am not stupid, thought Sieben as he climbed the steps. I am not like my father.

He glanced up to see two men walking down the steps towards him. They wore long cloaks that were drawn tightly across their bodies. Sieben paused in his climb. It was a hot morning, so why would they be dressed in such a manner? Hearing a sound, he turned to see another man climbing behind him. He also wore a long cloak.

Fear flared suddenly in the poet’s heart and, spinning on his heel, he descended towards the single man. As he neared the climber the cloak flashed back, a long knife appearing in the man’s hand. Sieben leapt feet first, his right boot cracking into the man’s chin and sending him tumbling down the steps. Sieben landed heavily but rose swiftly and began to run, taking the steps three at a time. He could hear the men behind him also running.

Reaching the bottom, he set off through the alleyways. A hunting horn sounded and a tall warrior leapt into his path with a sword in hand. Sieben, at full run, turned his shoulder into the man, barging him aside. He swerved right, then left. A knife sliced past his head to clatter against a wall.

Increasing his speed, he raced across a small square and into a side street. He could see the docks ahead. It was more crowded here and he pushed his way through. Several men shouted abuse, and a young woman fell behind him. He glanced back - there were at least half a dozen pursuers.”

Close to panic now, he emerged on to the quay. To his left he saw a group of men emerge from a side street; they were all carrying weapons and Sieben swore.

The Thunderchild was slipping away from the quayside as Sieben ran across the cobbles and launched himself through the air, reaching out to grab at a trailing rope. His fingers curled around it, and his body cracked against the ship’s timbers. Almost losing his grip, he clung to the rope as a knife thudded into the wood beside his head. Fear gave him strength and he began to climb.

A familiar face loomed above him and Druss leaned over, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him on to the deck.

“Changed your mind, I see,” said the axeman. Sieben gave a weak smile and glanced back at the quay. There were at least a dozen armed men there now.

“I thought the sea air would be good for me,” said Sieben.

The captain, a bearded man in his fifties, pushed his way through to them. “What’s going on?” he said. “I can only carry fifty men. That’s the limit.”

“He doesn’t weigh much,” said Druss goodnaturedly.

Another man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a dented breastplate, two short swords and a baldric boasting four knives. “First you keep us waiting, dogface, and now you bring your boyfriend aboard. Well, Kelva the Swordsman won’t sail with the likes of you.”

“Then don’t!” Druss’s left hand snaked out, his fingers locking to the man’s throat, his right slamming home into the warrior’s groin. With one surging heave Druss lifted the struggling man into the air and tossed him over the side. He hit with a great splash and came up struggling under the weight of his armour.

The Thunderchild pulled away and Druss turned to the captain. “Now we are fifty again,” he said, with a smile.

“Can’t argue with that,” the captain agreed. He swung to the sailors standing by the mast. “Let loose the mainsail!” he bellowed.

Sieben walked to the rail and saw that people on the quayside had thrown a rope to the struggling warrior in the water. “He might have friends aboard the ship,” observed the poet.

“They’re welcome to join him,” answered Druss.