The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  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.

  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 lo
udly. “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.”