The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Four

Sieben was enjoying himself. A small crowd had gathered around the barrel, and three men had already lost heavily. The green crystal was small and fitted easily under one of the three walnut shells. “I’ll move a little more slowly,” the young poet told the tall, bearded warrior who had just lost four silver pieces. His slender hands slid the shells around the smooth barrel top, halting them in a line across the centre. “Which one? And take your time, my friend, for that emerald is worth twenty golden raq.”

The man sniffed loudly and scratched at his beard with a dirty finger. “That one,” he said at last, pointing to the centre shell. Sieben flipped the shell. There was nothing beneath it. Moving his hand to the right he covered a second shell, expertly palmed the stone under it and showed it to the audience.

“So close,” he said, with a bright smile. The warrior swore, then turned and thrust his way through the crowd. A short swarthy man was next; he had body odour that could have felled an ox. Sieben was tempted to let him win. The fake emerald was only worth a tenth of what he had already cheated from the crowd. But he was enjoying himself too much. The swarthy man lost three silver pieces.

The crowd parted and a young warrior eased his way to the front as Sieben glanced up. The newcomer was dressed in black, with shoulder guards of shining silver steel. He wore a helm on which was blazoned a motif of two skulls on either side of a silver axe. And he was carrying a double-headed axe. “Try your luck?” asked Sieben, gazing up into the eyes of winter blue.

“Why not?” answered the warrior, his voice deep and cold. He placed a silver piece on the barrel head. The poet’s hands moved with bewildering speed, gliding the shells in elaborate figure eights. At last he stopped.

“I hope you have a keen eye, my friend,” said Sieben.

“Keen enough,” said the axeman, and leaning forward he placed a huge finger on the central shell. “It is here,” he said.

“Let us see,” said the poet, reaching out, but the axeman pushed his hand away.

“Indeed we shall,” he said. Slowly he flipped the shells to the left and right of the centre. Both were empty. “I must be right,” he said, his pale eyes locked to Sieben’s face. You may show us.” Lifting his finger, he gestured to the poet.

Sieben forced a smile and palmed the crystal under the shell as he flipped it. “Well done, my friend. You are indeed hawk-eyed.” The crowd applauded and drifted away.

“Thank you for not exposing me,” said Sieben, rising and gathering his silver.

“Fools and money are like ice and heat,” quoted the young man. “They cannot live together. You are Sieben?”

“I might be,” answered the other cautiously. “Who is asking?”

“Shadak sent me.”

“For what purpose?”

“A favour you owe him.”

“That is between the two of us. What has it to do with you?”

The warrior’s face darkened. “Nothing at all,” he said, then turned away and strode towards the tavern on the other side of the street. As Sieben watched him go, a young woman approached from the shadows.

“Did you earn enough to buy me a fine necklace?” she asked. He swung and smiled. The woman was tall and shapely, raven-haired and full-lipped; her eyes were tawny brown, her smile an enchantment. She stepped into his embrace and winced. “Why do you have to wear so many knives?” she asked, moving back from him and tapping the brown leather baldric from which hung four diamond-shaped throwing-blades.

“Affectation, my love. I’ll not wear them tonight. And as for your necklace - I’ll have it with me.” Taking her hand he kissed it. “However, at the moment, duty calls.”

“Duty, my poet? What would you know of duty?”

He chuckled. “Very little - but I always pay my debts; it is my last finger-hold on the cliff of respectability. I will see you later.” He bowed, then walked across the street.

The tavern was an old, three-storeyed building with a high gallery on the second floor overlooking a long room with open fires at both ends. There was a score of bench tables and seats and a sixty-foot brass-inlaid bar behind which six tavern maids were serving ale, mead and mulled wine. The tavern was crowded, unusually so, but this was market day and fanners and cattle-breeders from all over the region had gathered for the auctions. Sieben stepped to the long bar, where a young tavern maid with honey-blonde hair smiled and approached him. “At last you visit me,” she said.

“Who could stay away from you for long, dear heart?” he said with a smile, straining to remember her name.

“I will be finished here by second watch,” she told him.

“Where’s my ale?” shouted a burly farmer, some way to the left.

“I was before you, goat-face!” came another voice. The girl gave a shy smile to Sieben, then moved down the bar to quell the threatened row.

“Here I am now, sirs, and I’ve only one pair of hands. Give me a moment, won’t you?”

Sieben strolled through the crowds, seeking out the axeman, and found him sitting alone by a narrow, open window. Sieben eased on to the bench alongside him. “Might be a good idea to start again,” said the poet. “Let me buy you a jug of ale.”

“I buy my own ale,” grunted the axeman. “And don’t sit so close.”

Sieben stood and moved to the far side of the table, seating himself opposite the young man. “Is that more to your liking?” he asked, with heavy sarcasm.

“Aye, it is. Are you wearing perfume?”

“Scented oil on the hair. You like it?”

The axeman shook his head, but refrained from comment. He cleared his throat. “My wife has been taken by slavers. She is in Mashrapur.”

Sieben sat back and gazed at the young man. “I take it you weren’t home at the time,” he said.

“No. They took all the women. I freed them. But Rowena wasn’t with them; she was with someone called Collan. He left before I got to the other raiders.”

“Before you got to the other raiders?” repeated Sieben. “Isn’t there a little more to it?”

“To what?”

“How did you free the other women?”

“What in Hell’s name does that matter? I killed a few of them and the rest ran away. But that’s not the point. Rowena wasn’t there - she’s in Mashrapur.”

Sieben raised a slender hand. “Slow down, there’s a good fellow. Firstly, how does Shadak come into this? And secondly, are you saying that you single-handedly attacked Harib Ka and his killers?”

“Not single-handedly. Shadak was there; they were going to torture him. Also I had two girls with me; good archers. Anyway, all that is past. Shadak said you could help me to find Rowena and come up with a plan to rescue her.”

“From Collan?”

“Yes, from Collan,” stormed the axeman. “Are you deaf or stupid?”

Sieben’s dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “You have an appealing way of asking for help, my large and ugly friend. Good luck with your quest!” He rose and moved back through the throng, emerging into the late afternoon sunlight. Two men were lounging close to the entrance, a third was whittling a length of wood with a razor-sharp hunting-knife.

The first of the men moved in front of the poet; it was the warrior who had first lost money at the barrel head. “Get your emerald back, did you?”

“No,” answered Sieben, still angry. “What a bumptious, ill-bred boor!”

“Not a friend, then?”

“Hardly. I don’t even know his name. More to the point, I don’t want to.”

“It’s said you’re crafty with those knives,” said the warrior, pointing to the throwing-blades. “Is it true?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Could be you’ll get the emerald back if you are.”

“You plan to attack him? Why? As far as I could see he carries no wealth.”

“It’s not his wealth!” snapped the second warrior. Sieben stepped back as the man’s body odour reached him. “He’s a madman. He attacked our camp two days ago, stampeded our horses. Never did find my grey. And he killed Harib. Asia’s tits! He must have downed a dozen men with that cursed axe.”

“If he killed a dozen, what makes you think that three of you can deal with him?”

The noxious warrior tapped his nose. “Surprise. When he steps out, Rafin will ask him a question. As he turns, Zhak and I will move in and gut him. But you could help. A knife through the eye would slow him up some, eh?”

“Probably,” agreed Sieben, and he moved away several paces to seat himself on a hitching rail. He drew a knife from its sheath and began to clean his nails.

“You with us?” hissed the first man.

“We’ll see,” said Sieben.

Druss sat at the table and gazed down at the shining blades of the axe. He could see his reflection there, cold-eyed and grim. The features were flat and sullen, the mouth a tight, angry line. He removed the black helm and laid it on the blades, covering the face in the axe.

“Whenever you speak someone gets angry.” The words of his father drifted up from the halls of memory. And it was true. Some men had a knack for friendship, for easy chatter and simple jests. Druss envied them. Until Rowena had walked into his life he had believed such qualities were entirely lacking in him. But with her he felt at ease, he could laugh and joke - and see himself for a moment as others saw him, huge and bear-like, short-tempered and frightening. “It was your childhood, Druss,” Rowena told him one morning, as they sat on the hillside overlooking the village. “Your father moved from place to place, always frightened he would be recognised, never allowing himself to become close to people. It was easier for him, for he was a man. But it must have been hard for a boy who never learned how to make friends.”

“I don’t need friends,” he said.

“I need you.”

The memory of those three softly spoken words made his heart lurch. A tavern maid passed the table and Druss reached out and caught her arm. “Do you have Lentrian Red?” he asked.

“I’ll bring you a goblet, sir.”

“Make it a jug.”

He drank until his senses swam and his thoughts became jumbled and confused. He remembered Alarin, and the punch which broke the man’s jaw, and then, after the raid, hauling Alarm’s body into the meeting hall. He had been stabbed through the back by a lance which had snapped in half in his body. The dead man’s eyes had been open. So many of the dead had open eyes… all accusing.

“Why are you alive and we dead?” they asked him. “We had families, lives, dreams, hopes. Why should you outlive us?”

“More wine!” he bellowed and a young girl with honey-blonde hair leaned over the table.

“I think you’ve had enough, sir. You’ve drunk a quart already.”

“All the eyes were open,” he said. “Old women, children. The children were the worst. What kind of a man kills a child?”

“I think you should go home, sir. Have a little sleep.”

“Home?” He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. “Home to the dead? And what would I tell them? The forge is cold. There is no smell of fresh-baked bread; no laughter among the children. Just eyes. No, not even eyes. Just ashes.”

“We heard there was a raid to the north,” she said. “Was that your home?”

“Bring me more wine, girl. It helps me.”

“It is a false friend, sir,” she whispered.

“It is the only one I have.”

A burly, bearded man in a leather apron moved in close. “What does he want?” he asked the girl.

“More wine, sir.”

“Then fetch it for him - if he can pay.”

Druss reached into the pouch at his side, drawing out one of the six silver pieces Shadak had given him. He flipped it to the innkeeper. “Well, serve him!” the man ordered the maid.

The second jug went the way of the first and, when it was finished, Druss pushed himself ponderously to his feet. He tried to don the helm, but it slipped from his fingers and rolled to the floor. As he bent down, he rammed his brow against the edge of the table. The serving maid appeared alongside him. “Let me help you, sir,” she said, scooping up the helm and gently placing it on his head.

“Thank you,” he said, slowly. He fumbled in his pouch and gave her a silver piece. “For… your… kindness,” he told her, enunciating the words with care.

“I have a small room at the back, sir. Two doors down from the stable. It is unlocked; you may sleep there if you wish.”

He picked up the axe, but it too fell to the floor, the prongs of the blades embedding in a wooden plank. “Go back and sleep, sir. I’ll bring your… weapon with me later.”

“He nodded and weaved his way towards the door.

Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the fading sunlight, his stomach lurching. Someone spoke from his left, asking him a question. Druss tried to turn, but stumbled into the man and they both fell against the wall. He tried to right himself, grabbing the man’s shoulder and heaving himself upright. Through the fog in his mind he heard other men running in. One of them screamed. Druss lurched back and saw a long-bladed dagger clatter to the ground. The former wielder was standing alongside him, his right arm raised unnaturally. Druss blinked. The man’s wrist was pinned to the inn door by a throwing knife.

He heard the rasp of swords being drawn. “Defend yourself, you fool!” came a voice.

A swordsman ran at him and Druss stepped in to meet him, parrying the lunging blade with his forearm and slamming a right cross to the warrior’s chin. The swordsman went down as if poleaxed. Swinging to meet the second attacker, Druss lost his balance and fell heavily. But in mid-swing the swordsman also stumbled and Druss lashed out with his foot, catching his assailant on the heel and catapulting him to the ground. Rolling to his knees, Druss grabbed the fallen man by the hair and hauled him close, delivering a bone-crunching head butt to the warrior’s nose. The man slumped forward, unconscious. Druss released him.

Another man moved alongside him and Druss recognised the handsome young poet. “Gods, you reek of cheap wine,” said Sieben.

“Who… are you?” mumbled Druss, trying to focus on the man with his arm pinned to the door.

“Miscreants,” Sieben told him, moving alongside the stricken warrior and levering his knife clear. The man screamed in pain but Sieben ignored him and returned to the street. “I think you’d better come with me, old horse.”

Druss remembered little of the walk through the town, only that he stopped twice to vomit, and his head began to ache abominably.

He awoke at midnight and found himself lying on a porch under the stars. Beside him was a bucket. He sat up… and groaned as the terrible pounding began in his head. It felt as if an iron band had been riveted to his brow. Hearing sounds from within the house, he stood and moved to the door. Then he halted. The sounds were unmistakable.

“Oh, Sieben… Oh… Oh… !”

Druss swore and returned to the edge of the porch. A breath of wind touched his face, bringing with it an unpleasant smell, and he gazed down at himself. His jerkin was soiled with vomit, and he stank of stale sweat and travel. To his left was a well. Forcing himself upright, he walked to it, and slowly raised the bucket. Somewhere deep within his head a demon began to strike at his skull with a red-hot hammer. Ignoring the pain, Druss stripped to the waist and washed himself with the cold water.

He heard the door open and turned to see a dark-haired young woman emerge from the house. She looked at him, smiled, then ran off through the narrow streets. Lifting the bucket, Druss tipped the last of the contents over his head.

“At the risk of being offensive,” said Sieben from the doorway, “I think you need a little soap. Come inside. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and I’ve heated some water. Gods, it’s freezing out here.”

Gathering his clothes, Druss followed the poet inside. The house was small, only three rooms, all on the ground floor - a cook-room with an iron stove, a bedroom and a square dining-room with a stone-built hearth in which a fire was blazing. There was a table with four wooden chairs and on either side of the hearth were comfort seats of padded leather stuffed with horsehair.

Sieben led him to the cloakroom where he filled a bowl with hot water. Handing Druss a slab of white soap and a towel, he opened a cupboard door and removed a plate of sliced beef and a loaf of bread. “Come in and eat when you’re ready,” said the poet, as he walked back to the dining-room.

Druss scrubbed himself with the soap, which smelled of lavender, then cleaned his jerkin and dressed. He found the poet sitting by the fire with his long legs stretched out, a goblet of wine in one hand. The other slender hand swept through the shoulder-length blond hair, sweeping it back over his head. Holding it in place, he settled a black leather headband over his brow; at the centre of the band was a glittering opal. The poet lifted a small oval mirror and studied himself. “Ah, what a curse it is to be so good-looking,” he said, laying aside the mirror. “Care for a drink?” Druss felt his stomach heave and shook his head. “Eat, my large friend. You may feel as if your stomach will revolt, but it is the best thing for you. Trust me.”

Druss tore off a hunk of bread and sat down, slowly chewing it. It tasted of ashes and bile, but he finished it manfully. The poet was right. His stomach settled. The salted beef was harder to take but, washed down with cool water, he soon began to feel his strength returning. “I drank too much,” he said.

“No, really? Two quarts, I understand.”

“I don’t remember how much. Was there a fight?”

“Not much of one, by your standards.”

“Who were they?”

“Some of the raiders you attacked.”

“I should have killed them.”

“Perhaps - but in the state you were in you should consider yourself lucky to be alive.”

Druss filled a clay cup with water and drained it. “You helped me, I remember that. Why?”

“A passing whim. Don’t let it concern you. Now, tell me again about your wife and the raid.”

“To what purpose? It’s done. All I care about is finding Rowena.”

“But you will need my help - otherwise Shadak wouldn’t have sent you to me. And I like to know the kind of man I’m expected to travel with. You understand? So tell me.”

“There isn’t a great deal to tell. The raiders…”

“How many?”

“Forty or so. They attacked our village, killed all the men, the old women, the children. They took the younger women prisoner. I was in the woods, felling timber. Some killers came to the woods and I dealt with them. Then I met Shadak, who was also following them; they raided a town and killed his son. We freed the women. Shadak was captured. I stampeded their horses and attacked the camp. That’s it.”

Sieben shook his head and smiled. “I think you could tell the entire history of the Drenai in less time than it takes to boil an egg. A story-teller you are not, my friend - which is just as well, since that is my main source of income and I loathe competition.”

Druss rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, resting his head on the high padded leather cushion. The heat from the fire was soothing and his body was weary beyond anything he had known before. The days of the chase had taken their toll. He felt himself drifting on a warm sea. The poet was speaking to him, but his words failed to penetrate.

He awoke with the dawn to find the fire was burned down to a few glowing coals and the house empty. Druss yawned and stretched, then walked to the kitchen, helping himself to stale bread and a hunk of cheese. He drank some more water, then heard the main door creak open. Wandering out, he saw Sieben and a young, blonde woman. The poet was carrying his axe and his gauntlets.

“Someone to see you, old horse,” said Sieben, laying the axe in the doorway and tossing the gauntlets to a chair. The poet smiled and walked back out into the sunlight.

The blonde woman approached Druss, smiling shyly. “I didn’t know where you were. I kept your axe for you.”

“Thank you. You are from the inn.” She was dressed now in a woollen dress of poor quality, that once had been blue but was now a pale grey. Her figure was shapely, her face gentle and pretty, her eyes warm and brown.

“Yes. We spoke yesterday,” she said, moving to a chair and sitting down with her hands on her knees. “You seemed… very sad.”

“I am… myself now,” he told her gently.

“Sieben told me your wife was taken by slavers.”

“I will find her.”

“When I was sixteen raiders attacked our village. They killed my father and wounded my husband. I was taken, with seven other girls, and we were sold in Mashrapur. I was there two years. I escaped one night, with another girl, and we fled into the wilderness. She died there, killed by a bear, but I was found by a company of pilgrims on their way to Lentria. I was almost dead from starvation. They helped me, and I made my way home.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Druss softly, seeing the sadness in her eyes.

“My husband had married someone else. And my brother, Loric, who had lost an arm in the raid, told me I was no longer welcome. He said I was a fallen woman, and if I had any pride I would have taken my own life. So I left.”

Druss reached out and took her hand. “Your husband was a worthless piece of dung, and your brother likewise. But I ask again, why are you telling me this?”

“When Sieben told me you were hunting for your wife… it made me remember. I used to dream Karsk was coming for me. But a slave has no rights, you know, in Mashrapur. Anything the Lord wishes, he can have. You cannot refuse. When you find your… lady… she may well have been roughly used.” She fell silent and sat staring at her hands. “I don’t know how to say what I mean…When I was a slave I was beaten, I was humiliated. I was raped and abused. But nothing was as bad as the look on my husband’s face when he saw me, or the disgust in my brother’s voice when he cast me out.”

Still holding to her hand, Druss leaned in towards her. “What is your name?”

“Sashan.”

“If I had been your husband, Sashan, I would have followed you. I would have found you. And when I did I would have taken you in my arms and brought you home. As I will bring Rowena home.”

“You will not judge her?”

He smiled. “No more than I judge you, save to say that you are a brave woman and any man - any true man - would be proud to have you walk beside him.”

She reddened and rose. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,” she said, then turned away and walked to the doorway. She looked back once, but said nothing; then she stepped from the house.

Sieben entered. “That was well said, old horse. Very well said. You know, despite your awful manners and your lack of conversation, I think I like you. Let’s go to Mashrapur and find your lady.”

Druss looked hard at the slim young man. He was perhaps an inch taller than the axeman and his clothes were of fine cloth, his long hair barber-trimmed, not hacked by a knife nor cut with shears using a basin for a guide. Druss glanced down at the man’s hands; the skin was soft, like that of a child. Only the baldric and the knives gave any evidence Sieben was a fighter.

“Well? Do I pass inspection, old horse?”

“My father once said that fortune makes for strange bedfellows,” said Druss.

“You should see the problem from where I’m standing,” answered Sieben. “You will travel with a man versed in literature and poetry, a story-teller without equal. While I, on the other hand, get to ride beside a peasant in a vomit-flecked jerkin.”

Amazingly Druss found no rising anger, no surging desire to strike out. Instead he laughed, tension flowing from him.

“I like you, little man,” he said.

Within the first day they had left the mountains behind them, and rode now through valleys and vales, and sweeping grassland dotted with hills and ribbon streams. There were many hamlets and villages beside the road, the buildings of whitewashed stone with roofs of timber or slate.

Sieben rode gracefully, straight of back and easy in the saddle, sunlight gleaming from his riding tunic of pale blue silk and the silver edging on his knee-length riding boots. His long blond hair was tied back in a pony-tail, and he also sported a silver headband. “How many headbands do you have?” asked Druss as they set off.

“Pitifully few. Pretty though, isn’t it? I picked it up in Drenan last year. I’ve always like silver.”

“You look like a fop.”

“Just what I needed this morning,” said Sieben, smiling, “hints on sartorial elegance from a man whose hair has apparently been cut with a rusty saw, and whose only shirt carries wine stains, and… no, don’t tell me what the other marks are.”

Druss glanced down. “Dried blood. But it’s not mine.”

“Well, what a relief. I shall sleep more soundly tonight for knowing that.”

For the first hour of the journey the poet tried to give helpful advice to the young axeman. “Don’t grip the horse with your calves, just your thighs. And straighten your back.” Finally he gave up. “You know, Druss, my dear, some men are born to ride. You on the other hand have no feel for it. I’ve seen sacks of carrots with more grace than you.”

The axeman’s reply was short and brutally obscene. Sieben chuckled and gazed up at the sky which was cloudless and gloriously blue. “What a day to set off in search of a kidnapped princess,” he said.

“She’s not a princess.”

“All kidnapped women are princesses,” Sieben told him. “Have you never listened to the stories? Heroes are tall, golden-haired and wondrously handsome. Princesses are demure and beautiful, spending their lives waiting for the handsome prince who will free them. By the gods, Druss, no one would want to hear tales of the truth. Can you imagine? The young hero unable to ride in search of his sweetheart because the large boil on his buttocks prevents him from sitting on a horse?” Sieben’s laughter rippled out.

Even normally grim Druss smiled and Sieben continued. “It’s the romance, you see. A woman in stories is either a goddess or a whore. The princess, being a beautiful virgin, falls into the former category. The hero must also be pure, waiting for the moment of his destiny in the arms of the virginal princess. It’s wonderfully quaint - and quite ridiculous of course. Love-making, like playing the lyre, requires enormous practice. Thankfully the stories always end before we see the young couple fumbling their way through their first coupling.”

“You talk like a man who has never been in love,” said Druss.

“Nonsense. I have been in love scores of times,” snapped the poet.

Druss shook his head. “If that were true, then you would know just how… how fine the fumbling can be. How far is it to Mashrapur?”

“Two days. But the slave markets are always held on Missael or Manien, so we’ve time. Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“No? You don’t like talking about your wife?”

“Not to strangers. Have you ever been wed?”

“No - nor ever desired to be. Look around you, Druss. See all those flowers on the hillsides? Why would a man want to restrict himself to just one bloom? Just one scent? I had a horse once, Shadira, a beautiful beast, faster than the north wind. She could clear a four-bar fence with room to spare. I was ten when my father gave her to me, and Shadira was fifteen. But by the time I was twenty Shadira could no longer run as fast, and she jumped not at all. So I got a new horse. You understand what I am saying?”

“Not a word of it,” grunted Druss. “Women aren’t horses.”

“That’s true,” agreed Sieben. “Most horses you want to ride more than once.”

Druss shook his head. “I don’t know what it is that you call love. And I don’t want to know.”

The trail wound to the south, the hills growing more gentle as the mountain range receded behind them. Ahead on the road they saw an old man shuffling towards them. He wore robes of faded blue and he leaned heavily on a long staff. As they neared, Sieben saw that the man was blind.

The old man halted as they rode closer. “Can we help you, old one?” asked Sieben.

“I need no help,” answered the man, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant. “I am on my way to Drenan.”

“It is a long walk,” said Sieben.

“I am in no hurry. But if you have food, and are willing to entertain a guest at your midday meal, I would be glad to join you.”

“Why not?” said Sieben. “There is a stream some little way to your right; we will see you there.” Swinging his mount Sieben cantered the beast across the grass, leaping lightly from the saddle and looping the reins over the horse’s head as Druss rode up and dismounted.

“Why did you invite him to join us?”

Sieben glanced back. The old man was out of earshot and moving slowly towards them. “He is a seeker, Druss. A mystic. Have you not heard of them?”

“No.”

“Source Priests who blind themselves in order to increase their powers of prophecy. Some of them are quite extraordinary. It’s worth a few oats.”

Swiftly the poet prepared a fire over which he placed a copper pot half filled with water. He added oats and a little salt. The old man sat cross-legged nearby. Druss removed his helm and jerkin and stretched out in the sunshine. After the porridge had cooked, Sieben filled a bowl and passed it to the priest.

“Do you have sugar?” asked the Seeker.

“No. We have a little honey. I will fetch it.”

After the meal was concluded the old man shuffled to the stream and cleaned his bowl, returning it to Sieben. “And now you wish to know the future?” asked the priest, with a crooked smile.

“That would be pleasant,” said Sieben.

“Not necessarily. Would you like to know the day of your death?”

“I take your point, old man. Tell me of the next beautiful woman who will share my bed.”

The old man chuckled. “A talent so large, yet men only require such infinitesimal examples of it. I could tell you of your sons, and of moments of peril. But no, you wish to hear of matters inconsequential. Very well. Give me your hand.”

Sieben sat opposite him and extended his right hand. The old man took it, and sat silently for several minutes. Finally he sighed. “I have walked the paths of your future, Sieben the Poet, Sieben the Saga-master. The road is long. The next woman? A whore in Mashrapur, who will ask for seven silver pennies. You will pay it.”

He released Sieben’s hand and turned his blind eyes towards Druss. “Do you wish your future told?”

“I will make my own future,” answered Druss.

“Ah, a man of strength and independent will. Come. Let me at least see, for my own interest, what tomorrow holds for you.”

“Come on, lad,” pleaded Sieben. “Give him your hand.”

Druss rose and walked to where the old man sat. He squatted down before him and thrust out his hand. The priest’s fingers closed around his own. “A large hand,” he said. “Strong… very strong.” Suddenly he winced, his body stiffening. “Are you yet young, Druss the Legend? Have you stood at the pass?”

“What pass?”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Of course. Seventeen. And searching for Rowena. Yes… Mashrapur. I see it now. Not yet the Deathwalker, the Silver Slayer, the Captain of the Axe. But still mighty.” He released his hold and sighed. “You are quite right, Druss, you will make your own future; you will need no words from me.” The old man rose and took up his staff. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

Sieben stood also. “At least tell us what awaits in Mashrapur,” he said.

“A whore and seven silver pennies,” answered the priest with a dry smile. He turned his blind eyes towards Druss. “Be strong, axeman. The road is long and there are legends to be made. But Death awaits, and he is patient. You will see him as you stand beneath the gates in the fourth Year of the Leopard.”

He walked slowly away. “Incredible,” whispered Sieben.

“Why?” responded Druss. “I could have foretold that the next woman you meet would be a whore.”

“He knew our names, Druss; he knew everything. Now, when is the fourth Year of the Leopard?”

“He told us nothing. Let’s move on.”

“How can you say that it was nothing? He called you Druss the Legend. What legend? How will you build it?”

Ignoring him, Druss walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. “I don’t like horses,” he said. “Once we reach Mashrapur I’ll sell it. Rowena and I will walk back.”

Sieben looked up at the pale-eyed young man. “It meant nothing to you, did it? His prophecy, I mean.”

“They were just words, poet. Noises on the air. Let’s ride.”

After a while Sieben spoke. “The Year of the Leopard is forty-three years away. Gods, Druss, you’ll live to be an old man. I wonder where the gates are.”

Druss ignored him and rode on.