The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Two

Shadak’s horses were skittish, the smell of death unnerving the beasts. He had bought his own three-year-old from a farmer south of Corialis and the gelding had not been trained for war. The four mounts he had taken from the raiders were less nervous, but still their ears were back and their nostrils flaring. He spoke soothingly to them and rode on.

Shadak had been a soldier for most of his adult life. He had seen death - and he thanked the gods that it still had the power to stir his emotions. Sorrow and anger vied in his heart as he gazed upon the still corpses, the children and the old women.

None of the houses had been put to the torch - the smoke would be seen for miles, and could have brought a troop of lancers. He gently tugged on the reins. A golden-haired child lay against the wall of a building, a doll beside it. Slavers had no time for children, for they had no market in Mashrapur. Young Drenai women between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five were still popular in the eastern kingdoms of Ventria, Sherak, Dospilis and Naashan. Shadak touched heels to the gelding. There was no point in remaining in this place; the trail led south.

A young warrior stepped from one of the buildings, startling his horse which reared and whinnied. Shadak calmed it and gazed upon the man. Although of average height he was powerfully built, his huge shoulders and mighty arms giving the impression of a giant. He wore a black leather jerkin and helm and carried a fearful axe. Shadak glanced swiftly around the corpse-strewn settlement. But there was no sign of a horse.

Lifting his leg, Shadak slid from the saddle. “Your friends leave you behind, laddie?” he asked the axeman. The young man did not speak but stepped out into the open. Shadak looked into the man’s pale eyes and felt the unaccustomed thrill of fear.

The face beneath the helm was flat and expressionless, but power emanated from the young warrior. Shadak moved warily to his right, hands resting on the hilts of his short swords. “Proud of your handiwork, are you?” he asked, trying to force the man into conversation. “Killed many babes today, did you?”

The young man’s brow furrowed. “This was my… my home,” he said, his voice deep. “You are not one of the raiders?”

“I am hunting them,” said Shadak, surprised at the relief he felt.

“They attacked Corialis looking for slaves, but the young women escaped them. The villagers fought hard. Seventeen of them died, but the attack was beaten off. My name is Shadak. Who are you?”

“I am Druss. They took my wife. I’ll find them.” Shadak glanced at the sky. “It’s getting dark. Best to start in the morning, we could lose their trail in the night.”

“I’ll not wait,” said the young man. “I need one of your horses.” Shadak smiled grimly. “It is difficult to refuse when you ask so politely. But I think we should talk before you ride out.”

“Why?”

“Because there are many of them, laddie, and they do have a tendency to leave rearguards behind them, watching the road.” Shadak pointed to the horses. “Four lay in wait for me.”

“I’ll kill any I find.”

“I take it they took all the young women, since I see no corpses here?”

“Yes.”

Shadak hitched his horses to a rail and stepped past the young man into the home of Bress. “You’ll lose nothing by listening for a few minutes,” he said.

Inside the building he righted the chairs and stopped. On the table was an old glove, made of lace and edged with pearls. “What’s this?” he asked the cold-eyed young man.

“It belonged to my mother. My father used to take it out now and again, and sit by the fire holding it. What did you want to talk about?”

Shadak sat down at the table. “The raiders are led by two men - Collan, a renegade Drenai officer, and Harib Ka, a Ventrian. They will be making for Mashrapur and the slave markets there. With all the captives they will not be able to move at speed and we will have little difficult catching them. But if we follow now, we will come upon them in the open. Two against forty - these are not odds to inspire confidence. They will push on through most of tonight, crossing the plain and reaching the long valley trails to Mashrapur late tomorrow. Then they will relax.”

“They have my wife,” said the young man. “I’ll not let them keep her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.”

Shadak shook his head and sighed. “Nor would I, laddie. But you know the country to the south. What chance would we have of rescuing her on the plains? They would see us coming from a mile away.”

For the first time the young man looked uncertain. Then he shrugged and sat, laying the great axe on the table-top, where it covered the tiny glove. “You are a soldier?” he asked.

“I was. Now I am a hunter - a hunter of men. Trust me. Now, how many women did they take?”

The young man thought for a moment. “Perhaps around thirty. They killed Berys in the woods. Tailia escaped. But I have not seen all the bodies. Maybe others were killed.”

“Then let us think of thirty. It won’t be easy freeing them.”

A sound from outside made both men turn as a young woman entered the room. Shadak rose. The woman was fair-haired and pretty, and there was blood upon her blue woollen skirt and her shirt of white linen.

“Yorath died,” she told the young man. “They’re all dead, Druss.” Her eyes filled with tears and she stood in the doorway looking lost and forlorn. Druss did not move, but Shadak stepped swiftly towards her, taking her in his arms and stroking her back.

He led her into the room and sat her at the table. “Is there any food here?” he asked Druss. The young man nodded and moved through to the back room, returning with a pitcher of water and some bread. Shadak filled a clay cup with water and told the girl to drink. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The blood is Yorath’s,” she whispered. Shadak sat beside her and Tailia sagged against him; she was exhausted.

“You need to rest,” he told her gently, helping her to rise and leading her through the building to a small bedroom. Obediently she lay down, and he covered her with a thick blanket. “Sleep, child. I will be here.”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

He took her hand. “You are safe… Tailia. Sleep.” She closed her eyes, but clung to his hand, and Shadak sat with her until the grip eased and her breathing deepened. At last he stood and returned to the outer room.

“You were planning to leave her behind?” he asked the young man.

“She is nothing to me,” he said coldly. “Rowena is everything.”

“I see. Then think on this, my friend: suppose it was you who had died and it was Rowena who survived hiding in the woods. How would your spirit feel if you saw me ride in and leave her alone in this wilderness?”

“I did not die,” said Druss.

“No,” said Shadak, “you didn’t. We’ll take the girl with us.”

“No!”

“Either that or you walk on alone, laddie. And I do mean walk.”

The young man looked up at the hunter, and his eyes gleamed. “I have killed men today,” he said, “and I will not be threatened by you, or anyone. Not ever again. If I choose to leave here on one of your stolen horses, I shall do so. You would be wise not to try to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t try, boy, I’d do it.” The words were spoken softly, and with a quiet confidence. But deep inside Shadak was surprised, for it was a confidence he did not feel. He saw the young man’s hand snake around the haft of the axe. “I know you are angry, lad, and concerned for the safety of… Rowena. But you can do nothing alone - unless of course you are a tracker, and an expert horseman. You could ride off into the dark and lose them. Or you could stumble upon them, and try to kill forty warriors. Then there’ll be no one to rescue her, or the others.”

Slowly the giant’s fingers relaxed, the hand moving away from the axe haft, the gleam fading from his eyes. “It hurts me to sit here while they carry her further away.”

“I understand that. But we will catch them. And they will not harm the women; they are valuable to them.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do. I know the country, and I can guess where they will be camped tomorrow. We will go in at night, deal with the sentries and free the captives.”

Druss nodded. “What then? They’ll be hunting us. How do we escape with thirty women?”

“Their leaders will be dead,” said Shadak softly. “I’ll see to that.”

“Others will take the lead. They will come after us.”

Shadak shrugged, then smiled. “Then we kill as many as we can.”

“I like that part of the plan,” said the young man grimly.

The stars were bright and Shadak sat on the porch of the timber dwelling, watching Druss sitting beside the bodies of his parents.

“You’re getting old,” Shadak told himself, his gaze fixed on Druss. “You make me feel old,” he whispered. Not in twenty years had a man inspired such fear in Shadak. He remembered the moment well - he was a Sathuli tribesman named Jonacin, a man with eyes of ice and fire, a legend among his own people. The Lord’s champion, he had killed seventeen men in single combat, among them the Vagrian champion, Vearl.

Shadak had known the Vagrian - a tall, lean man, lightning-fast and tactically sound. The Sathuli, it was said, had treated him like a novice, first slicing off his right ear before despatching him with a heart thrust.

Shadak smiled as he remembered hoping with all his heart that he would never have to fight the man. But such hopes are akin to magic, he knew now, and all men are ultimately faced with their darkest fears.

It had been a golden morning in the Delnoch mountains. The Drenai were negotiating treaties with a Sathuli Lord and Shadak was present merely as one of the envoy’s guards. Jonacin had been mildly insulting at the dinner the night before, speaking sneeringly of Drenai sword skills. Shadak had been ordered to ignore the man. But on the following morning the white-robed Sathuli stepped in front of him as he walked along the path to the Long Hall.

“It is said you are a fighter,” said Jonacin, the sneer in his voice showing disbelief.

Shadak had remained cool under the other’s baleful stare. “Stand aside, if you please. I am expected at the meeting.”

“I shall stand aside - as soon as you have kissed my feet.”

Shadak had been twenty-two then, in his prime. He looked into Jonacin’s eyes and knew there was no avoiding confrontation. Other Sathuli warriors had gathered close by and Shadak forced a smile. “Kiss your feet? I don’t think so. Kiss this instead!” His right fist lashed into the Sathuli’s chin, spinning him to the ground. Then Shadak walked on and took his place at the table.

As he sat he glanced at the Sathuli Lord, a tall man with dark, cruel eyes. The man saw him, and Shadak thought he glimpsed a look of faint amusement, even triumph, in the Lord’s face. A messenger whispered something in the Lord’s ear and the chieftain stood. “The hospitality of my house has been abused,” he told the envoy. “One of your men struck my champion, Jonacin. The attack was unwarranted. Jonacin demands satisfaction.”

The envoy was speechless. Shadak stood. “He shall have it, my Lord. But let us fight in the cemetery. At least then you will not have far to carry his body!”

Now the hoot of an owl brought Shadak back to the present, and he saw Druss striding towards him. The young man made as if to walk by, then stopped. “I had no words,” he said. “I could think of nothing to say.”

“Sit down for a moment and we will speak of them,” said Shadak. “It is said that our praises follow the dead to their place of rest. Perhaps it is true.”

Druss sat alongside the swordsman. “There is not much to tell. He was a carpenter, and a fashioner of brooches. She was a bought wife.”

“They raised you, helped you to be strong.”

“I needed no help in that.”

“You are wrong, Druss. If your father had been a weak, or a vengeful man, he would have beaten you as a child, robbed you of your spirit. In my experience it takes a strong man to raise strong men. Was the axe his?”

“No. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Bardan the Axeman,” said Shadak softly.

“How could you know?”

“It is an infamous weapon. Snaga. That was the name. Your father had a hard life, trying to live down such a beast as Bardan. What happened to your real mother?”

Druss shrugged. “She died in an accident when I was a babe.”

“Ah yes, I remember the story,” said Shadak. Three men attacked your father; he killed two of them with his bare hands and near crippled the third. Your mother was struck down by a charging horse.”

“He killed two men?” Druss was astonished. “Are you sure?”

“So the story goes.”

“I cannot believe it. He always backed away from any argument. He never stood up for himself at all. He was weak… spineless.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“I saw where his body lay, and I saw the dead men around it. And I know many stories concerning the son of Bardan. None of them speaks of his cowardice. After his own father was killed he tried to settle in many towns, under many names. Always he was discovered and forced to flee. But on at least three occasions he was followed and attacked. Just outside Drenan he was cornered by five soldiers. One of them shot an arrow into your father’s shoulder. Bress was carrying an infant at the time and according to the soldiers he laid the babe behind a boulder, and then charged at them. He had no weapon, and they were all armed with swords. But he tore a limb from a tree and laid into them. Two went down swiftly, the others turned and fled. I know that story is true, Druss, because my brother was one of the soldiers. It was the year before he was killed in the Sathuli campaign. He said that Bardan’s son was a black-bearded giant with the strength of six men.”

“I knew none of this,” said Druss. “Why did he never speak of it?”

“Why should he? Perhaps he took no pleasure for being the son of a monster. Perhaps he did not relish speaking of killing men with his hands, or beating them unconscious with a tree branch.”

“I didn’t know him at all,” whispered Druss. “Not at all.”

“I expect he didn’t know you either,” said Shadak, with a sigh. “It is the curse of parents and children.”

“You have sons?”

“One. He died a week ago at Corialis. He thought he was immortal.”

“What happened?”

“He went up against Collan; he was cut to pieces.” Shadak cleared his throat and stood. “Time for some sleep. It’ll be dawn soon, and I’m not as young as I was.”

“Sleep well,” said Druss.

“I will, laddie. I always do. Go back to your parents and find something to say.”

“Wait!” called Druss.

“Yes,” answered the swordsman, pausing in the doorway.

“You were correct in what you said. I wouldn’t have wanted Rowena left in the mountains alone. I spoke in… anger.”

Shadak nodded. “A man is only as strong as that which makes him angry. Remember that, laddie.”

Shadak could not sleep. He sat in the wide leather chair beside the hearth, his long legs stretched out before him, his head resting on a cushion,.his body relaxed. But his mind was in turmoil - images, memories flashing into thoughts.

He saw again the Sathuli cemetery, Jonacin stripped to the waist, a broad-bladed tulwar in his hands and a small iron buckler strapped to his left forearm.

“Do you feel fear, Drenai?” asked Jonacin. Shadak did not answer. Slowly he unstrapped his baldric, then lifted clear his heavy woollen shirt. The sun was warm on his back, the mountain air fresh in his lungs. You are going to die today, said the voice of his soul.

And then the duel began. Jonacin drew first blood, a narrow cut appearing on Shadak’s chest. More than a thousand Sathuli onlookers, standing around the perimeter of the cemetery, cheered as the blood began to flow. Shadak leapt back.

“Not going to try for the ear?” he asked conversationally. Jonacin gave an angry growl, and launched a new attack. Shadak blocked a thrust, then thundered a punch to the Sathuli’s face. It glanced from his cheekbone, but the man staggered. Shadak followed up with a disembowelling thrust and the Sathuli swayed to his right, the blade slashing the skin of his waist. Now it was Jonacin’s turn to jump backwards. Blood gushed from the shallow wound in his side; he touched the cut with his fingers, staring down amazed. “Yes,” said Shadak, “you bleed too. Come to me. Bleed some more.”

Jonacin screamed and rushed forward but Shadak side-stepped and clove his sabre through the Sathuli’s neck. As the dying man fell to the ground Shadak felt a tremendous sense of relief, and a surging realisation. He was alive!

But his career was ruined. The treaty talks came to nothing, and his commission was revoked upon his return to Drenan.

Then Shadak had found his true vocation: Shadak the Hunter. Shadak the Tracker. Outlaws, killers, renegades - he hunted them all, following like a wolf on the trail.

In all the years since the fight with Jonacin he had never again known such fear. Until today, when the young axeman had stepped into the sunlight.

He is young and untrained. I would have killed him, he told himself.

But then he pictured again the ice-blue eyes and the shining axe.

Druss sat under the stars. He was tired, but he could not sleep. A fox moved out into the open, edging towards a corpse. Druss threw a stone at it and the creature slunk away… but not far.

By tomorrow the crows would be feasting here, and the other carrion beasts would tear at the dead flesh. Only hours ago this had been a living community, full of people enjoying their own hopes and dreams. Druss stood and walked along the main street of the settlement, past the home of the baker, whose body was stretched out in the doorway with his wife beside him. The smithy was open, the fires still glowing faintly. There were three bodies here. Tetrin the Smith had managed to kill two of the raiders, clubbing them down with his forge hammer. Tetrin himself lay beside the long anvil, his throat cut.

Druss swung away from the scene.

What was it for? Slaves and gold. The raiders cared nothing for the dreams of other men. “I will make you pay,” said Druss. He glanced at the body of the smith. “I will avenge you. And your sons. I will avenge you all,” he promised.

And he thought of Rowena and his throat went dry, his heartbeat increasing. Forcing back his fears, he gazed around at the settlement.

In the moonlight the village still seemed strangely alive, its buildings untouched. Druss wondered at this. Why did the raiders not put the settlement to the torch? In all the stories he had heard of such attacks, the plunderers usually fired the buildings. Then he remembered the troop of Drenai cavalry patrolling the wilderness. A column of smoke would alert them, were they close.

Druss knew then what he had to do. Moving to the body of Tetrin he hauled it across the street to the meeting hall, kicking open the door and dragging the corpse inside, laying it at the centre of the hall. Then he returned to the street and began to gather one by one, all the dead of the community. He was tired when he began, and bone-weary by the finish. Forty-four bodies he placed in the long hall, making sure that husbands were beside wives and their children close. He did not know why he did this, but it seemed right.

Lastly he carried the body of Bress into the building, and laid it beside Patica. Then he knelt by the woman and, taking the dead hand in his own, he bowed his head. “I thank you,” he said quietly, “for your years of care, and for the love you gave my father. You deserved better than this, Patica.” With all the bodies accounted for, he began to fetch wood from the winter store, piling it against the walls and across the bodies. At last he carried a large barrel of lantern oil from the main storehouse and poured it over the wood, splashing it to the dry walls.

As dawn streaked the eastern sky, he struck a flame to the pyre and blew it into life. The morning breeze licked at the flames in the doorway, caught at the tinder beyond, then hungrily roared up the first wall.

Druss stepped back into the street. At first the blaze made little smoke, but as the fire grew into an inferno a black column of oily smoke billowed into the morning sky, hanging in the light wind, flattening and spreading like an earth-born storm cloud. “You have been working hard,” said Shadak, moving silently alongside the young axeman.

Druss nodded. “There was no time to bury them,” he said. “Now maybe the smoke will be seen.”

“Perhaps,” agreed the hunter, “but you should have rested. Tonight you will need your strength.” As Shadak moved away, Druss watched him; the man’s movements were sure and smooth, confident and strong.

Druss admired that - as he admired the way that Shadak had comforted Tailia in the doorway. Like a father or a brother might. Druss had known that she needed such consolation, but had been unable to provide it. He had never possessed the easy touch of a Pilan or a Yorath, and had always been uncomfortable in the company of women or girls.

But not Rowena. He remembered the day when she and her father had come to the village, a spring day three seasons ago. They had arrived with several other families, and he had seen Rowena standing beside a wagon helping to unload furniture. She seemed so frail. Druss had approached the wagon.

“I’ll help if you want,” offered the fifteen-year-old Druss, more gruffly than he had intended. She turned and smiled. Such a smile, radiant and friendly. Reaching up, he took hold of the chair her father was lowering and carried it into the half-built dwelling. He helped them unload and arrange the furniture, then made to leave. But Rowena brought him a goblet of water.

“It was kind of you to help us,” she said. “You are very strong.”

He had mumbled some inanity, listened as she told him her name, and left without telling her his own. That evening she had seen him sitting by the southern stream and had sat beside him. So close that he had felt remarkably uncomfortable.

“The land is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

It was. The mountains were huge, like snow-haired giants, the sky the colour of molten copper, the setting sun a dish of gold, the hills bedecked with flowers. But Druss had not seen the beauty until the moment she observed it. He felt a sense of peace, a calm that settled over his turbulent spirit in a blanket of warmth.

“I am Druss.”

“I know. I asked your mother where you were.”

“Why?”

“You are my first friend here.”

“How can we be friends? You do not know me.”

“Of course I do. You are Druss, the son of Bress.”

“That is not knowing. I… I am not popular here,” he said, though he did not know why he should admit it so readily. “I am disliked.”

“Why do they dislike you?” The question was innocently asked, and he turned to look at her. Her face was so close that he blushed. Twisting, he put space between them.

“My ways are rough, I suppose. I don’t… talk easily. And I… sometimes… become angry. I don’t understand their jests and their humour. I like to be… alone.”

“Would you like me to go?”

“No! I just… I don’t know what I am saying.” He shrugged, and blushed a deeper crimson.

“Shall we be friends then?” she asked him, holding out her hand.

“I have never had a friend,” he admitted.

“Then take my hand, and we will start now.” Reaching out, he felt the warmth of her fingers against his calloused palm. “Friends?” she asked with a smile.

“Friends,” he agreed. She made as if to withdraw her hand, but he held it for a moment longer. “Thank you,” he said softly, as he released his hold.

She laughed then. “Why would you thank me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It is just that… you have given me a gift that no one else ever offered. And I do not take it lightly. I will be your friend, Rowena. Until the stars burn out and die.”

“Be careful with such promises, Druss. You do not know where they might lead you.”

One of the roof timbers cracked and crashed into the blaze. Shadak called out to him. “Better choose yourself a mount, axeman. It’s time to go.”

Gathering his axe, Druss turned his gaze towards the south. Somewhere out there was Rowena.

“I’m on my way,” he whispered.

And she heard him.