The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Five

Bodasen threaded his way through the crowds milling on the dock, past the gaudily dressed women with their painted faces and insincere smiles, past the stallholders bellowing their bargains, past the beggars with their deformed limbs and their pleading eyes. Bodasen hated Mashrapur, loathed the smell of the teeming multitudes who gathered here seeking instant wealth. The streets were narrow and choked with the detritus of humanity, the houses built high - three-, four - and five-storey - all linked by alleyways and tunnels and shadowed pathways where robbers could plunge their blades into unsuspecting victims and flee through the labyrinthine back streets before the undermanned city guards could apprehend them.

What a city, thought Bodasen. A place of filth and painted women, a haven for thieves, smugglers, slavers and renegades.

A woman approached him. “You look lonely, my love,” she said, flashing a gold-toothed smile. He gazed down at her and her smile faded. She backed away swiftly and Bodasen rode on.

He came to a narrow alleyway and paused to push his black cloak above his left shoulder. The hilt of his sabre shone in the fading sunlight. As Bodasen walked on, three men stood in the shadows. He felt their eyes upon him and turned his face towards them, his stare challenging; they looked away, and he continued along the alley until it broadened out to a small square with a fountain at the centre, constructed around a bronze statue of a boy riding a dolphin. Several whores were sitting beside the fountain, chatting to one another. They saw him, and instantly their postures changed. Leaning back to thrust out their breasts, they assumed their customary smiles. As he passed he heard their chatter begin again.

The inn was almost empty. An old man sat at the bar, nursing a jug of ale, and two maids were cleaning tables, while a third prepared the night’s fire in the stone hearth. Bodasen moved to a window table and sat, facing the door. A maid approached him.

“Good evening, my lord. Are you ready for your usual supper?”

“No. Bring me a goblet of good red wine and a flagon of fresh water.”

“Yes, my lord.” She curtsied prettily and walked away. Her greeting eased his irritation. Some, even in this disgusting city, could recognise nobility. The wine was of an average quality, no more than four years old and harsh on the tongue, and Bodasen drank sparingly.

The inn door opened and two men entered. Bodasen leaned back in his chair and watched them approach. The first was a handsome man, tall and wide-shouldered; he wore a crimson cloak over a red tunic, and a sabre was scabbarded at his hip. The second was a huge, bald warrior, heavily muscled and grim of feature.

The first man sat opposite Bodasen, the second standing alongside the table. “Where is Harib Ka?” Bodasen asked.

“Your countryman will not be joining us,” replied Collan.

“He said he would be here; that is the reason I agreed to this meeting.”

Collan shrugged. “He had an urgent appointment elsewhere.”

“He said nothing of it to me.”

“I think it was unexpected. You wish to do business, or not?”

“I do not do business, Collan. I seek to negotiate a treaty with the… free traders of the Ventrian Sea. My understanding is that you have… shall we say, contacts, among them?”

Collan chuckled. “Interesting. You can’t bring yourself to say pirates, can you? No, that would be too much for a Ventrian nobleman. Well, let us think the situation through. The Ventrian fleet has been scattered or sunk. On land your armies are crushed, and the Emperor slain. Now you pin your hopes on the pirate fleet; only they can ensure that the armies of Naashan do not march all the way to the capital. Am I in error on any of these points?”

Bodasen cleared his throat. “The Empire is seeking friends. The Free Traders are in a position to aid us in our struggle against the forces of evil. We always treat our friends with great generosity.”

“I see,” said Collan, his eyes mocking. “We are fighting the forces of evil now? And there I was believing that Naashan and Ventria were merely two warring empires. How naive of me. However, you speak of generosity. How generous is the Prince?”

“The Emperor is noted for his largess.”

Collan smiled. “Emperor at nineteen - a rapid rise to power. But he has lost eleven cities to the invader, and his treasury is severely depleted. Can he find two hundred thousand gold raq?”

“Two… surely you are not serious?”

“The Free Traders have fifty warships. With them we could protect the coastline and prevent invasion from the sea; we could also shepherd the convoys that carry Ventrian silk to the Drenai and the Lentrians and countless others. Without us you are doomed, Bodasen. Two hundred thousand is a small price to pay.”

“I am authorised to offer fifty. No more.”

“The Naashanites have offered one hundred.”

Bodasen fell silent, his mouth dry. “Perhaps we could pay the difference in silks and trade goods?” he offered at last.

“Gold,” said Collan. “That is all that interests us. We are not merchants.”

No, thought Bodasen bitterly, you are thieves and killers, and it burns my soul to sit in the same room with such as you. “I will need to seek counsel of the ambassador,” he said. “He can communicate your request to the Emperor. I will need five days.”

“That is agreeable,” said Collan, rising. “You know where to find me?”

Under a flat rock, thought Bodasen, with the other slugs and lice. “Yes,” he said, softly, “I know where to find you. Tell me, when will Harib be back in Mashrapur?”

“He won’t.”

“Where is this appointment then?”

“In Hell,” answered Collan.

“You must have patience,” said Sieben, as Druss stalked around the small room on the upper floor of the Tree of Bone Inn. The poet had stretched out his long, lean frame on the first of the two narrow beds, while Druss strode to the window and stood staring out over the dock and the sea beyond the harbour.

“Patience?” stormed the axeman. “She’s here somewhere, maybe close.”

“And we’ll find her,” promised Sieben, “but it will take a little time. First there are the established slave traders. This evening I will ask around, and find out where Collan has placed her. Then we can plan her rescue.”

Druss swung round. “Why not go to the White Bear Inn and find Collan? He knows.”

“I expect he does, old horse.” Sieben swung his legs from the bed and stood. “And he’ll have any number of rascals ready to plunge knives in our backs. Foremost among them will be Borcha. I want you to picture a man who looks as if he was carved from granite, with muscles that dwarf even yours. Borcha is a killer. He has beaten men to death in fist fights, snapped necks in wrestling bouts; he doesn’t need a weapon. I have seen him crush a pewter goblet in one hand, and watched him lift a barrel of ale above his head. And he is just one of Collan’s men.”

“Frightened, are you, poet?”

“Of course I’m frightened, you young fool! Fear is sensible. Never make the mistake of equating it with cowardice. But it is senseless to go after Collan; he is known here and has friends in very high places. Attack him and you will be arrested, tried and sentenced. Then there will be no one to rescue Rowena.”

Druss slumped down, his elbows resting on the warped table. “I hate sitting here doing nothing,” he said.

“Then let’s walk around the city for a while,” offered Sieben. “We can gather some information. How much did you get for your horse?”

“Twenty in silver.”

“Almost fair. You did well. Come on, I’ll show you the sights.” Druss stood and gathered his axe. “I don’t think you’ll need that,” Sieben told him. “It’s one thing to wear a sword or carry a knife, but the City Watch will not take kindly to that monstrosity. In a crowded street you’re likely to cut off someone’s arm by mistake. Here, I’ll loan you one of my knives.”

“I won’t need it,” said Druss, leaving the axe on the table and striding out of the room.

Together they walked down into the main room of the inn, then out into the narrow street beyond.

Druss sniffed loudly. “This city stinks,” he said.

“Most cities do - at least in the poorest areas. No sewers. Refuse is thrown from windows. So walk warily.”

They moved towards the docks where several ships were being unloaded, bales of silk from Ventria and Naashan and other eastern nations, herbs and spices, dried fruit and barrels of wine. The dock was alive with activity.

“I’ve never seen so many people in one place,” said Druss.

“It’s not even busy yet,” Sieben pointed out. They strolled around the harbour wall, past temples and large municipal buildings, through a small park with a statue-lined walkway and a central fountain. Young couples were walking hand in hand and to the left an orator was addressing a small crowd. He was speaking of the essential selfishness of the pursuit of altruism. Sieben stopped to listen for a few minutes, then walked on.

“Interesting, don’t you think?” he asked his companion. “He was suggesting that good works are ultimately selfish because they make the man who undertakes them feel good. Therefore he has not been unselfish at all, but has merely acted for his own pleasure.”

Druss shook his head and glowered at the poet. “His mother should have told him the mouth is not for breaking wind with.”

“I take it this is your subtle way of saying you disagree with his comments?” snapped Sieben.

“The man’s a fool.”

“How would you set about proving that?”

“I don’t need to prove it. If a man serves up a plate of cow dung, I don’t need to taste it to know it’s not steak.”

“Explain it,” Sieben urged him. “Share some of that vaunted frontier philosophy.”

“No,” said Druss, walking on.

“Why not?” asked Sieben, moving alongside him.

“I am a woodsman. I know about trees. Once I worked in an orchard. Did you know you can take cuttings from any variety and graft them to another apple tree? One tree can have twenty varieties. It’s the same with pears. My father always said men were like that with knowledge. So much can be grafted on, but it must match what the heart feels. You can’t graft apple to pear. It’s a waste of time - and I don’t like wasting my time.”

“You think I could not understand your arguments?” asked Sieben with a sneering smile.

“Some things you either know or you don’t. And I can’t graft that knowledge on to you. Back in the mountains I watched fanners plant tree lines across the fields; they did it because the winds can blow away the top-soil. But the trees would take a hundred years to form a real windbreak, so those farmers were building for the future, for others they will never know. They did it because it was right to do it - and not one of them would be able to debate with that pompous windbag back there. Or with you. Nor is it necessary that they should.”

“That pompous windbag is the first minister of Mashrapur, a brilliant politician and a poet of some repute. I’m sure he would be mortally humiliated to know that a young uneducated peasant from the frontier disagrees with his philosophy.”

“Then we won’t tell him,” said Druss. “We’ll just leave him here serving up his cow-pats to people who will believe they’re steaks. Now I’m thirsty, poet. Do you know of a decent tavern?”

“It depends what you’re looking for. The taverns on the docks are rough, and usually filled with thieves and whores. If we walk on for another half-mile we’ll come to a more civilised area. There we can have a quiet drink.”

“What about those places over there?” asked Druss, pointing to a row of buildings alongside the wharf.

“Your judgement is unerring, Druss. That is East Wharf, better known to the residents here as Thieves Row. Every night there are a score of fights - and murders. Almost no one of quality would go there - which makes it perfect for you. You go on. I’ll visit some old friends who might have news of recent slave movements.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Druss.

“No, you won’t. You’d be out of place. Most of my friends, you see, are pompous windbags. I’ll meet you back at the Tree of Bone by midnight.” Druss chuckled, which only increased Sieben’s annoyance as the poet swung away and strode through the park.

The room was furnished with a large bed with satin sheets, two comfort chairs padded with horsehair and covered with velvet, and a table upon which sat a jug of wine and two silver goblets. There were rugs upon the floor, woven with great skill and soft beneath her bare feet. Rowena sat upon the edge of the bed, her right hand clasping the brooch Druss had fashioned for her. She could see him walking beside Sieben. Sadness overwhelmed her and her hand dropped to her lap. Harib Ka was dead - as she had known he would be - and Druss was now closer to his dread destiny.

She felt powerless and alone in Collan’s house. There were no locks upon the door, but there were guards in the corridor beyond. Yet there was no escape.

On the first night, when Collan had taken her from the camp, he had raped her twice. On the second occasion she had tried to empty her mind, losing herself in dreams of the past. In doing so she had unlocked the doors to her Talent. Rowena had floated free of her abused body and hurtled through darkness and Time. She saw great cities, huge armies, mountains that breached the clouds. Lost, she sought for Druss and could not find him.

Then a voice came to her, a gentle voice, warm and reassuring. “Be calm, sister. I will help you.”

She paused in her flight, floating above a night-dark ocean. A man appeared alongside her; he was slim of build and young, perhaps twenty. His eyes were dark, his smile friendly. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“I am Vintar of the Thirty.”

“I am lost,” she said.

“Give me your hand.”

Reaching out she felt his spirit fingers, then his thoughts washed over hers. On the verge of panic Rowena felt herself swamped by his memories, seeing a temple of grey stone, a dwelling-place of white-clad monks. He withdrew from her as swiftly as he had entered her thoughts. “Your ordeal is over,” he said. “He has left you and now sleeps beside you. I shall take you home.”

“I cannot bear it. He is a vile man.”

“You will survive, Rowena.”

“Why should I wish to?” she asked him. “My husband is changing, becoming day by day as vicious as the men who took me. What kind of life will I face?”

“I will not answer that, though probably I could,” he told her. “You are very young, and you have experienced great pain. But you are alive, and while living can achieve great good. You have the Talent, not only to Soar but also to Heal, to Know. Few are blessed with this gift. Do not concern yourself with Collan; he raped you only because Harib Ka said that he should not and he will not touch you again.”

“He has defiled me.”

“No,” said Vintar sternly, “he has defiled himself. It is important to understand that.”

“Druss would be ashamed of me, for I did not fight.”

“You fought, Rowena, in your own way. You gave him no pleasure. To have tried to resist would have increased his lust, and his satisfaction. As it was - and you know this to be true - he felt deflated and full of melancholy. And you know his fate.”

“I don’t want any more deaths!”

“We all die. You… me… Druss. The measure of us all is established by how we live.”

He had returned her to her body, taking care to instruct her in the ways of Spirit travel, and the routes by which she could return by herself in the future. “Will I see you again?” she asked him.

“It is possible,” he answered.

Now, as she sat on the satin-covered bed, she wished she could speak with him again.

The door opened and a huge warrior entered. He was bald and heavily muscled. There were scars around his eyes and his nose was flattened against his face. He moved towards the bed but there was no threat, she knew. Silently he laid a gown of white silk upon the bed. “Collan has asked that you wear this for Kabuchek.”

“Who is Kabuchek?” she enquired.

“A Ventrian merchant. If you do well he will buy you. It won’t be a bad life, girl. He has many palaces and treats his slaves with care.”

“Why do you serve Collan?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed. “I serve no one. Collan is a friend. I help him sometimes.”

“You are a better man than he.”

“That is as may be. But several years ago, when I was first champion, I was waylaid in an alley by supporters of the vanquished champion. They had swords and knives. Collan ran to my aid. We survived. I always pay my debts. Now put on the gown, and prepare your skill. You need to impress the Ventrian.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Collan will not be pleased and I don’t think you would like that. Trust me on this, lady. Do your best and you will be clear of this house.”

“My husband is coming for me,” she said softly. “When he does, he will kill any who have harmed me.”

“Why tell me?”

“Do not be here when he comes, Borcha.”

The giant shrugged. “The Fates will decide,” he said.

Druss strolled across to the wharf buildings. They were old, a series of taverns created from derelict warehouses and there were recesses and alley entrances everywhere. Garishly dressed women lounged against the walls and ragged men sat close by, playing knucklebones or talking in small groups.

A woman approached him. “All the delights your mind can conjure for just a silver penny,” she said wearily.

“Thank you, but no,” he told her.

“I can get you opiates, if you desire them?”

“No,” he said, more sternly, and moved on. Three bearded men pushed themselves to their feet and walked in front of him. “A gift for the poor, my lord?” asked the first.

Druss was about to reply when he glimpsed the man to his left edge his hand into the folds of a filthy shirt. He chuckled. “If that hand comes out with a knife in it - I’ll make you eat it, little man.” The beggar froze.

“You shouldn’t be coming here with threats,” said the first man. “Not unarmed as you are. It’s not wise, my lord.” Reaching behind his back, he drew a long-bladed dagger.

As the blade appeared Druss stepped forward and casually backhanded the man across the mouth. The robber cartwheeled to the left, scattering a group of watching whores and colliding with a wall of brick. He moaned once, then lay still. Ignoring the other two beggars, Druss strode to the nearest tavern and stepped inside.

The interior was windowless and high-ceilinged, lit by lanterns which hung from the beams. The tavern smelt of burning oil and stale sweat. It was crowded, and Druss eased his way to a long trestle table on which several barrels of ale were set. And old man in a greasy apron approached him. “You don’t want to be drinking before the bouts begin; it’ll fill you with wind,” he warned.

“What bouts?”

The man looked at him appraisingly, and his glittering eyes held no hint of warmth. “You wouldn’t be trying to fool Old Thorn, would you?”

“I’m a stranger here,” said Druss. “Now, what bouts?”

“Follow me, lad,” said Thorn, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the tavern and on through a narrow doorway. Druss followed him and found himself standing in a rectangular warehouse where a wide circle of sand had been roped off at the centre. By the far walls were a group of athletes, moving through a series of exercises to loosen the muscles of shoulders and back.

“You ever fought?”

“Not for money.”

Thorn nodded, then reached out and lifted Druss’s hand. “A good size, and flat knuckles. But are you fast, boy?”

“What is the prize?” countered the young man.

“It won’t work that way - not for you. This is a standard contest and all the entrants are nominated well in advance so that sporting gentlemen can have opportunities to judge the quality of the fighter. But just before the start of the competition there’ll be offers to men in the crowd to earn a few pennies by taking on various champions. A golden raq, for example, to the man who can stay on his feet for one turn of the sandglass. They do it to allow the fighters to warm up against low-quality opposition.”

“How long is one turn?” asked Druss.

“About as long as it’s been since you first walked into the Blind Corsair.”

“And what if a man won?”

“It doesn’t happen, lad. But if it did, then he’d take the loser’s place in the main event. No, the main money is made on wagers among the crowd. How much coin are you carrying?”

“You ask a lot of questions, old man.”

“Pah! I’m not a robber, lad. Used to be, but then I got old and slow. Now I live on my wits. You look like a man who could stand up for himself. At first I mistook you for Grassin the Lentrian - that’s him over there, by the far door.” Druss followed the old man’s pointing finger and saw a powerfully built young man with short-cropped black hair. He was talking to another heavily-muscled man, a blond warrior with a dangling moustache. “The other one is Skatha, he is a Naashanite sailor. And the big fellow at the back is Borcha. He’ll win tonight. No question. Deadly, he is. Most likely someone will be crippled by him before the evening is out.”

Druss gazed at the man and felt the hackles on his neck rise. Borcha was enormous, standing some seven inches above six feet tall. He was bald, his head vaguely pointed as if his skin was stretched over a Vagrian helm. His shoulders were massively muscled, his neck huge with muscles swollen and bulging.

“No good looking at him like that, boy. He’s too good for you. Trust me on that. He’s skilled and very fast. He won’t even step up for the warming bouts. No one would face him - not even for twenty golden raq. But that Grassin now, I think you could stand against him for a turn of the glass. And if you’ve some coin to wager, I’ll find takers.”

“What do you get, old man?”

“Half of what we make.”

“What odds could you bargain for?”

“Two to one. Maybe three.”

“And if I went against Borcha?”

“Put it from your mind, boy. We want to make money - not coffin fuel.”

“How much?” persisted Druss.

“Ten to one - twenty to one. The gods alone know!”

Druss opened the pouch at his side, removing ten silver pieces. Casually he dropped them into the old man’s outstretched hand. “Let it be known that I wish to stand against Borcha for a turn of the glass.”

“Asia’s tits, he’ll kill you.”

“If he doesn’t, you could make a hundred pieces of silver. Maybe more.”

“There is that, of course,” said Old Thorn, with a crooked grin.

Crowds slowly began to fill the warehouse arena. Rich nobles clad in silks and fine leathers, their ladies beside them in lace and satin, were seated on high tiers overlooking the sand circle. On the lower levels were the merchants and traders in their conical caps arid long capes. Druss felt uncomfortable, hemmed in by the mass. The air was growing foul, the temperature rising as more and more people filed in.

Rowena would hate this place, with its noise and its pressing throng. His mood darkened as he thought of her - a prisoner somewhere, a slave to the whims and desires of Collan. He forced such thoughts from his mind, and concentrated instead on his conversation with the poet. He had enjoyed irritating the man; it had eased his own anger, an anger generated by the unwilling acceptance that much of what the speaker in the park had said was true. He loved Rowena, heart and soul. But he needed her also, and he often wondered which was the stronger, love or need. And was he trying to rescue her because he loved her, or because he was lost without her? The question tormented him.

Rowena calmed his turbulent spirit in a way no other living soul ever could. She helped him to see the world through gentle eyes. It was a rare and beautiful experience. If she had been with him now, he thought, he too would have been filled with distaste at the sweating multitude waiting for blood and pain. Instead the young man stood amidst the crowd and felt his heartbeat quicken, his excitement rise at the prospect of combat.

His pale eyes scanned the crowd, picking out the fat figure of Old Thorn talking to a tall man in a red velvet cloak. The man was smiling. He turned from Thorn and approached the colossal figure of Borcha. Druss saw the fighter’s eyes widen, then the man laughed. Druss could not hear the sound above the chatter and noise about him, but he felt his anger grow. This was Borcha, one of Collan’s men - perhaps one of those who had taken Rowena.

Old Thorn returned through the crowd and led Druss to a fairly quiet corner. “I’ve set events in motion,” he said. “Now listen to me - don’t try for the head. Men have broken their hands on that skull. He has a habit of dipping into punches so that the other man’s knuckles strike bone. Go for the lower body. And watch his feet - he’s a skilled kicker, lad… what’s your name, by the way?”

“Druss.”

“Well, Druss, you’ve grabbed a bear by the balls this time. If he hurts you, don’t try to hold on; he’ll use that head on you, and cave in the bones of your face. Try backing away and covering up.”

“Let him try backing away,” snarled Druss.

“Ah, you’re a cocky lad, for sure. But you’ve never faced a man like Borcha. He’s like a living hammer.”

Druss chuckled. “You really know how to lift a man’s spirits. What odds did you find?”

“Fifteen to one. If you hold to your feet, you’ll have seventy-five pieces of silver - plus your original ten.”

“Is that enough to buy a slave?”

“What would you want with a slave?”

“Is it enough?”

“Depends on the slave. Some girls fetch upwards of a hundred. You have someone in mind?”

Druss dipped into his pouch, removing the last four silver pieces. “Wager these also.”

The old man took the money. “I take it this is your entire wealth?”

“It is.”

“She must be a very special slave?”

“She’s my wife. Collan’s men took her.”

“Collan takes lots of women. Your wife’s not a witch, is she?”

“What?” snarled Druss.

“No offence, lad. But Collan sold a witch woman to Kabuchek the Ventrian today. Five thousand silver pieces she brought.”

“No, she is not a witch. Just a mountain girl, sweet and gentle.”

“Ah well, a hundred should be enough,” said Thorn. “But first you have to win it. Have you ever been hit?”

“No. But a tree fell on me once.”

“Knock you out?”

“No. I was dazed for a while.”

“Well, Borcha will feel like a mountain fell on you. I hope you’ve the strength to withstand it.”

“We’ll see, old man.”

“If you go down, roll under the ropes. Otherwise he’ll stomp you.”

Druss smiled. “I like you, old man. You don’t honey the medicine, do you?”

“Does you no good unless it tastes bad,” replied Thorn, with a crooked grin.

Borcha enjoyed the admiring glances from the crowd - fear and respect from the men and healthy lust from the women. He felt he had earned such silent accolades during the past five years. His blue eyes scanned the tiers and he picked out Mapek, the First Minister of Mashrapur, Bodasen the Ventrian envoy, and a dozen more notables from the Emir’s government. He kept his face impassive as he gazed around the converted warehouse. It was well known that he never smiled, save in the sand circle when his opponent began to weaken under his iron fists.

He glanced at Grassin, watching the man move through a series of loosening exercises. He had to hold back his smile then. Others might believe Grassin was merely stretching tight muscles, but Borcha could read fear in the man’s movements. He focused on the other fighters, staring at them. Few looked his way, and those who did cast fleeting glances, avoiding his eyes.

Losers, all of them, he thought.

He took a deep breath, filling his massive lungs. The air was hot and damp. Signalling to one of his aides, Borcha told the man to open the wide windows at either end of the warehouse. A second aide approached him, “There is a yokel who wants to try a turn of the glass with you, Borcha.” The fighter was irritated and he surreptitiously studied the crowd. All eyes were on him. So the word was already out! He threw back his head and forced a laugh,

“Who is this man?”

“A stranger from the mountains. Youngster - around twenty, I’d say.”

“That explains his stupidity,” hissed Borcha. No man who had ever seen him fight would relish the prospect of four minutes in the sand circle with the champion of Mashrapur. But still he was annoyed.

Winning involved far more skills than with fists and feet, he knew. It was a complex mix of courage and heart, allied to the planting of the seeds of doubt in the minds of opponents. A man who believed his enemy was invincible had already lost, and Borcha had spent years building such a reputation.

No one in two years had dared to risk a turn of the glass with the champion.

Until now. Which threw up a second problem. Arena fights were without rules: a fighter could legitimately gouge out an opponent’s eyes or, after downing him, stamp upon his neck. Deaths were rare, but not unknown, and many fighters were crippled for life. But Borcha would not be able to use his more deadly array of skills against an unknown youngster. It would suggest he feared the boy.

“They’re offering fifteen to one against him surviving,” whispered the aide.

“Who is negotiating for him?”

“Old Thorn.”

“How much has he wagered?”

“I’ll find out.” The man moved away into the crowd.

The tournament organiser, a huge, obese merchant named Bilse, stepped into the sand circle. “My friends,” he bellowed, his fat chins wobbling, “welcome to the Blind Corsair. Tonight you will be privileged to witness the finest fist fighters in Mashrapur.”

Borcha closed his mind to the man’s droning voice. He had heard it all before. Five years ago his mood had been different. His wife and son sick from dysentery, the young Borcha had finished his work on the docks and had run all the way to the Corsair to win ten silver pieces in a warm-up contest. To his surprise he had beaten his opponent, and had taken his place in the tournament. That night, after hammering six fighters to defeat, he had taken home sixty golden raq. He had arrived at their rooms triumphant, only to find his son dead and his wife comatose. The best doctor in Mashrapur was summoned. He had insisted Caria be removed to a hospital in the rich northern district - but only after Borcha had parted with all his hard-won gold. There Caria rallied for a while, only to be struck down with consumption.

The treatment over the next two years cost three hundred raq.

And still she died, her body ravaged by sickness.

Borcha’s bitterness was colossal, and he unleashed it in every fight, focusing his hatred and his fury on the men who faced him.

He heard his name called and raised his right arm. The crowd cheered and clapped.

Now he had a house in the northern quarter, built of marble and the finest timber, with terracotta tiles on the roof. Twenty slaves were on hand to do his bidding, and his investments in slaves and silks brought him an income to rival any of the senior merchants. Yet still he fought, the demons of the past driving him on.

Bilse announced that the warm-up contest would begin and Borcha watched as Grassin stepped into the circle to take on a burly dock-worker. The bout lasted barely a few seconds, Grassin lifting the man from his feet with an uppercut. Borcha’s aide approached him. “They have wagered around nine silver pieces. Is it important?”

Borcha shook his head. Had there been large sums involved it would have indicated trickery of some kind, perhaps a foreign fighter drafted in, a tough man from another city, a bruiser unknown in Mashrapur. But no. This was merely stupidity and arrogance combined.

Bilse called his name and Borcha stepped into the circle. He tested the sand beneath his feet. Too thick and it made for clumsy movement, too thin and a fighter could slide and lose balance. It was well raked. Satisfied, Borcha turned his gaze on the young man who had entered the circle from the other side.

He was young and some inches shorter than Borcha, though his shoulders were enormous. His chest was thick, the pectoral muscles well developed, and his biceps were huge. Watching him move, Borcha saw that he was well balanced and lithe. His waist was thick, but carried little fat, and his neck was large and well protected by the powerful, swollen muscles of the trapezius. Borcha transferred his gaze to his opponent’s face. Strong cheekbones and a good chin. The nose was wide and flat, the brows heavy. The champion looked into the challenger’s eyes; they were pale, and they showed no fear. Indeed, thought Borcha, he looks as if he hates me.

Bilse introduced the young man as “Druss from the lands of the Drenai.” The two fighters approached one another. Borcha towered over Druss. The champion held out his hands but Druss merely smiled and walked back to the ropes, turning to wait for the signal to begin.

The casual insult did not concern the champion. Lifting his hands into the orthodox fighting position, left arm extended and right fist held close to the cheek, he advanced on the young man. Druss surged forward, almost taking Borcha by surprise. But the champion was fast and sent a thudding left jab into the young man’s face, following it with a stinging right cross that thundered against Druss’s jaw. Borcha stepped back, allowing room for Druss to fall, but something exploded against the side of the champion. For a moment he thought a large rock had been hurled from the crowd, then he realised it was the fist of his opponent. Far from falling, the young man had taken the two punches and hit back with one of his own.

Borcha reeled from the blow, then counter-attacked with a series of combination strikes that snapped Druss’s head back. Yet still he came on. Borcha feinted a jab to the head, then swept an uppercut into the young man’s belly, whereupon Druss snarled and threw a wild right. Borcha ducked under it, dipping just in time to meet a rising left uppercut. He managed to roll his head, the blow striking his cheek. Surging upright, he crashed an overhand right into Druss’s face, splitting the skin above the man’s left eye; then he hit him with a left.

Druss staggered back, thrown off balance, and Borcha moved in for the kill, but a hammer-blow hit him just under the heart and he felt a rib snap. Anger roared through him and he began to smash punches into the youngster’s face and body - brutal, powerful blows that forced his opponent back towards the ropes. Another cut appeared, this time over Druss’s right eye.

The young man ducked and weaved, but more and more blows hammered home. Sensing victory, Borcha increased the ferocity of his attack and the pace of his punches. But Druss refused to go down and, ducking his head, he charged at Borcha. The champion sidestepped and threw a left that glanced from Druss’s shoulder. The young man recovered his balance and Borcha stepped in. Druss wiped the blood from his eyes and advanced to meet him.

The champion feinted with a left, but Druss ignored it and sent a right that swept under Borcha’s guard and smashed into his injured ribs. The champion winced as pain lanced his side. A huge fist crashed against his chin and he felt a tooth snap; he responded with a left uppercut that lifted Druss to his toes and a right hook that almost felled the youngster.

Druss hit him with another right to the ribs and Borcha was forced back. The two men began to circle one another, and only now did Borcha hear the baying of the crowd. They were cheering for Druss, just as five years before they had cheered for Borcha.

Druss attacked. Borcha threw a left that missed and a right that didn’t. Druss rocked back on his heels, but advanced again. Borcha hit him three times, further opening the cuts that saw blood streaming into the young man’s face. Almost blinded, Druss lashed out, one punch catching Borcha on the right bicep, numbing his arm, a second cracking against his brow. Blood seeped from the champion’s face now, and a tremendous roar went up from the crowd.

Oblivious to the noise Borcha counter-attacked, driving Druss back across the circle, hitting him time and again with brutal hooks and jabs.

Then the horn sounded. The sandglass had run out. Borcha stepped back, but Druss attacked. Borcha grabbed him around the waist, pinning his arms and hauling him in close. “It is over, boy,” he hissed. “You won your wager.”

Druss jerked himself loose and shook his head, spraying blood to the sand. Then he lifted his hand and pointed at Borcha. “You go to Collan,” he snarled, “and you tell him that if anyone has harmed my wife I’ll tear his head from his neck.”

Then the young man swung away and stalked from the circle.

Borcha turned and saw the other fighters watching him.

They were all willing to meet his eyes now… and Grassin was smiling.

Sieben entered the Tree of Bone just after midnight. There were still some hardened drinkers present, and the serving maids moved wearily among them. Sieben mounted the stairs to the gallery above and made his way to the room he shared with Druss. Just as he was about to open the door, he heard voices from within.

Drawing his dagger, he threw open the door and leapt inside. Druss was sitting on one of the beds, his face bruised and swollen, the marks of rough stitches over both eyes. A dirt-streaked fat man was sitting on Sieben’s bed and a slim, black-cloaked nobleman with a trident beard was standing by the window. As the poet entered the nobleman swung, a shining sabre hissing from its scabbard. The fat man screamed and dived from the bed, landing with a dull thud behind the seated Druss.

“You took your time, poet,” said the axeman.

Sieben gazed down at the point of the sabre which was motionless in the air some two inches from his throat. “It didn’t take you long to make new friends,” he said, with a forced smile.

With great care he slipped the knife back into its sheath, and was relieved to see the nobleman return his sabre to its scabbard.

“This is Bodasen; he’s a Ventrian,” said Druss. “And the man on his knees behind me is Thorn.”

The fat man rose, grinning sheepishly. “Good to meet you, my lord,” he said, bowing.

“Who the Devil gave you those black eyes?” asked Sieben, moving forward to examine Dross’s wounds.

“Nobody gave them to me. I had to fight for them.”

“He fought Borcha,” said Bodasen, with the faintest trace of an eastern accent. “And a fine bout it was. Lasted a full turn of the glass.”

“Aye, it was something to see,” added Thorn. “Borcha didn’t look none too pleased - especially when Dross cracked his rib! We all heard it. Wonderful, it was.”

“You fought Borcha?” whispered Sieben.

“To a standstill,” said the Ventrian. “There were no surgeons present, so I assisted with the stitching. You are the poet Sieben, are you not?”

“Yes. Do I know you, my friend?”

“I saw you perform once in Drenan, and in Ventria I read your saga of Waylander. Wonderfully inventive.”

“Thank you. Much needed to be invention since little is known of him. I did not know that the book had travelled so far. Only fifty copies were made.”

“My Emperor acquired one on his travels, bound in leather and embossed with gold leaf. The script is very fine.”

“There were five of those,” said Sieben. “Twenty raq each. Beautiful works.”

Bodasen chuckled. “My Emperor paid six hundred for it.”

Sieben sighed and sat down on the bed. “Ah well, better the fame than gold, eh? So tell me, Dross, what made you fight Borcha?”

“I earned a hundred silver pieces. Now I shall buy Rowena. Did you find out where she is held?”

“No, my friend. Collan has sold only one woman recently. A Seer. He must be keeping Rowena for himself.”

“Then I shall kill him and take her - and to Hell with the law of Mashrapur.”

“If I may,” said Bodasen, “I think I can help. I am acquainted with this Collan. It may be that I can secure the release of your lady - without bloodshed.”

Sieben said nothing, but he noted the concern in the Ventrian’s dark eyes.

“I’ll not wait much longer,” said Druss. “Can you see him tomorrow?”

“Of course. You will be here?”

“I’ll wait for your word,” promised Dross.

“Very well. I bid you all good night,” said Bodasen, with a short bow.

After he had left Old Thorn also made for the door. “Well, lad, it were quite a night. If you decide to fight again I’d be honoured to make the arrangements.”

“No more for me,” said Druss. “I’d sooner have trees fall on me than that man again.”

Thorn shook his head. “I wish that I’d had more faith,” he said. “I only bet one silver piece of my share.” He chuckled and spread his hands. “Ah well, that is life, I suppose.” His smile faded. “A word of warning, Druss. Collan has many friends here. And there are those who will slit a man’s throat for the price of a jug of ale. Walk with care.” He turned and left the room.

There was a jug of wine on the small table and Sieben filled a clay goblet and sat. “You are a curious fellow, to be sure,” he said, grinning. “But at least Borcha has improved your looks. I think your nose is broken.”

“I think you are right,” said Druss. “So tell me of your day.”

“I visited four well-known slave traders. Collan brought no women with him to the slave markets. The story of your attack on Harib Ka is known everywhere. Some of the men who survived have now joined Collan, and they speak of you as a demon. But it is a mystery, Druss. I don’t know where she could be - unless at his home.”

The wound above Druss’s right eye began to seep blood. Sieben found a cloth and offered it to the axeman. Dross waved it away. “It will seal. Forget about it.”

“By the gods, Dross, you must be in agony. Your face is swollen, your eyes black.”

“Pain lets you know you’re alive,” said Dross. “Did you spend your silver pennies on the whore?”

Sieben chuckled. “Yes. She was very good - told me I was the best love-maker she had ever known.”

“There’s a surprise,” said Druss and Sieben laughed.

“Yes - but it’s nice to hear.” He sipped his wine, then stood and gathered his belongings.

“Where are you going?” asked Druss.

“Not I…we. We’ll move rooms.”

“I like it here.”

“Yes, it is quaint. But we need to sleep and - convivial as they both were - I see no reason to trust men I do not know. Collan will send killers after you, Druss. Bodasen may be in his employ, and as for the walking lice-sack who just left I think he’d sell his mother for a copper farthing. So trust me, and let’s move.”

“I liked them both - but you are right. I do need sleep.”

Sieben stepped outside and called to a tavern maid, slipping her a silver piece and asking for their move to be kept secret - even from the landlord. She slipped the coin into the pocket of her leather apron and took the two men to the far end of the gallery. The new room was larger than the first, boasting three beds and two lanterns. A fire had been laid in the hearth, but it was unlit and the room was cold.

When the maid had departed Sieben lit the fire and sat beside it, watching the flames lick at the tinder. Druss pulled off his boots and jerkin and stretched out on the widest of the beds. Within moments he was asleep, his axe on the floor beside the bed.

Sieben lifted the baldric of knives from his shoulder and hooked it over the back of the chair. The fire blazed more brightly and he added several thick chunks of wood from the log basket beside the hearth. As the hours passed, all sounds from the inn below faded, and only the crackling of burning wood disturbed the silence. Sieben was tired, but he did not sleep.

Then he heard the sounds of men upon the stairs, stealthy footfalls. Drawing one of his knives he moved to the door, opening it a fraction and peering out. At the other end of the gallery some seven men were crowding around the door of their previous quarters; the landlord was with them. The door was wrenched open and the men surged inside, but moments later they returned. One of the newcomers took hold of the landlord by his shirt and pushed him against the wall. The frightened man’s voice rose, and Sieben could just make out some of his words: “They were… honestly… lives of my children… they… without paying…” Sieben watched as the man was hurled to the floor. The would-be assassins then trooped down the gallery stairs and out into the night.

Pushing shut the door, Sieben returned to the fire.

And slept.