The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

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

  “Spend your money wisely,” he advised.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who can say what the fates will decree?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m coming for you,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Stupid, stupid man!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

  Chapter Three

  Each morning Eskodas paced the deck, moving along the port rail all the way to the prow and then back along the starboard rail, rising the six steps to the tiller deck at the stern, where either the captain or the first mate would be standing alongside the curved oak tiller.

  The bowman feared the sea, gazing with undisguised dread at the rolling waves and feeling the awesome power that lifted the ship like a piece of driftwood. On the first morning of the voyage Eskodas had
climbed to the tiller deck and approached the captain, Milus Bar.

  “No passengers up here,” said the captain sternly.

  “I have questions, sir,” Eskodas told him politely.

  Milus Bar looped a hemp rope over the tiller arm, securing it. “About what?” he asked.

  “The boat.”

  “Ship,” snapped Milus.

  “Yes, the ship. Forgive me, I am not versed in nautical terms.”

  “She’s seaworthy,” said Milus. “Three hundred and fifty feet of seasoned timber. She leaks no more than a man can sweat, and she’ll ride any storm the gods can throw our way. She’s sleek. She’s fast. What else do you need to know?”

  “You talk of the… ship… as a woman.”

  “Better than any woman I ever knew,” said Milus, grinning. “She’s never let me down.”

  “She seems so small against the immensity of the ocean,” observed Eskodas.

  “We are all small against the ocean, lad. But there are few storms at this time of year. Our danger is pirates, and that’s why you are here.” He stared at the young bowman, his grey eyes narrowing under heavy brows. “If you don’t mind me saying so, lad, you seem a little out of place among these killers and villains.”

  “I don’t object to you saying it, sir,” Eskodas told him. “They might object to hearing it, however. Thank you for your time and your courtesy.”

  The bowman climbed down to the main deck. Men were lounging everywhere, some dicing, others talking. By the port rail several others were engaged in an arm-wrestling tourney. Eskodas moved through them towards the prow.

  The sun was bright in a blue sky, and there was a good following breeze. Gulls circled high above the ship, and to the north he could just make out the coast of Lentria. At this distance the land seemed misty and unreal, a place of ghosts and legends.

  There were two men sitting by the prow. One was the slim young man who had boarded the ship so spectacularly. Blond and handsome, long hair held in place by a silver headband, his clothes were expensive - a pale blue shirt of fine silk, dark blue leggings of lambswool seamed with soft leather. The other man was huge; he had lifted Kelva as if the warrior weighed no more than a few ounces, and hurled him into the sea like a spear. Eskodas approached them. The giant was younger than he had first thought, but the beginnings of a dark beard gave him the look of someone older. Eskodas met his gaze. Cold blue eyes, flint-hard and unwelcoming. The bowman smiled. “Good morning,” he said. The giant grunted something, but the blond dandy rose and extended his hand.

  “Hello, there. My name is Sieben. This is Druss.”

  “Ay, yes. He defeated Grassin at the tournament - broke his jaw, I believe.”

  “In several places,” said Sieben.

  “I am Eskodas.” The bowman sat down on a coiled rope and leaned his back against a cloth-bound bale. Closing his eyes, he felt the sun warm on his face. The silence lasted for several moments, then the two men resumed their conversation.

  Eskodas didn’t listen too intently… something about a woman and assassins.

  He thought of the journey ahead. He had never seen Ventria, which according to the story books was a land of fabled wealth, dragons, centaurs and many wild beasts. He tended to disbelieve the part about the dragons; he was widely travelled, and in every country there were stories of them, but never had Eskodas seen one. In Chiatze there was a museum where the bones of a dragon had been re-assembled. The skeleton was colossal, but it had no wings, and a neck that was at least eight feet long. No fire could have issued from such a throat, he thought.

  But dragons or not, Eskodas looked forward with real pleasure to seeing Ventria.

  “You don’t say much, do you?” observed Sieben.

  Eskodas opened his eyes and smiled. “When I have something to say, I will speak,” he said.

  “You’ll never get the chance,” grunted Druss. “Sieben talks enough for ten men.”

  Eskodas smiled politely. “You are the saga-master,” he said.

  “Yes. How gratifying to be recognised.”

  “I saw you in Corteswain. You gave a performance of The Song of Karnak. It was very good; I particularly enjoyed the tale of Dros Purdol and the siege, though I was less impressed by the arrival of the gods of war, and the mysterious princess with the power to hurl lightning.”

  “Dramatic licence,” said Sieben, with a tight smile.

  “The courage of men needs no such licence,” said Eskodas. “It lessens the heroism of the defenders to suggest that they had divine help.”

  “It was not a history lesson,” Sieben pointed out, his smile fading. “It was a poem - a song. The arrival of the gods was merely an artistic device to highlight that courage will sometimes bring about good fortune.”

  “Hmmm,” said Eskodas, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  “What does that mean?” demanded Sieben. “Are you disagreeing?”

  Eskodas sighed. “It is not my wish to provoke an argument, sir poet, but I think the device was a poor one. You maintain it was inserted to supply dramatic effect. There is no point in further discussion; I have no desire to increase your anger.”

  “I am not angry, damn you!” stormed Sieben.

  “He doesn’t take well to criticism,” said Druss.

  “That’s very droll,” snapped Sieben, “coming as it does from the man who tosses shipmates over the side at the first angry word. Now why was it a poor device?”

  Eskodas leaned forward. “I have been in many sieges. The point of greatest courage comes at the end, when all seems lost; that is when weak men break and run, or beg for their lives. You had the gods arrive just before that moment, and offer divine assistance to thwart the Vagrians. Therefore the truly climactic moment was lost, for as soon as the gods appeared we knew victory was assured.”

  “I would have lost some of my best lines. Especially the end, where the warriors wonder if they will ever see the gods again.”

  “Yes, I remember… the eldritch rhymes, the wizard spells, the ringing of sweet Elven bells. That one.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I prefer the grit and the reality of your earlier pieces: But came the day, when youth was worn away, and locks once thought of steel and fire, proved both ephemeral and unreal against the onslaught of the years. How wrong are the young to believe in secrets or enchanted woods.” He lapsed into silence.

  “Do you know all my work?” asked Sieben, clearly astonished. Eskodas smiled. “After you performed at Corteswain I sought out your books of poetry. There were five, I think. I have two still - the earliest works.”

  “I am at a loss for words.”

  “That’ll be the day,” grunted Druss.

  “Oh, be quiet. At last we meet a man of discernment on a ship full of rascals. Perhaps this voyage will not be so dreadful. So, tell me, Eskodas, what made you sign on for Ventria?”

  “I like killing people,” answered Eskodas. Druss’s laughter bellowed out.

  For the first few days the novelty of being at sea kept most of the mercenaries amused. They sat up on the deck during daylight hours, playing dice or telling stories. At night they slept under a tarpaulin that was looped and tied to the port and starboard rails. Druss was fascinated by the sea and the seemingly endless horizons. Berthed at Mashrapur The Thunderchild had looked colossal, unsinkable. But here on the open sea she seemed fragile as a flower stem in a river torrent. Sieben had grown bored with the voyage very swiftly. Not so Druss. The sighing of the wind, the plunging and the rising of the ship, the call of the gulls high above - all these fired the young axeman’s blood.

  One morning he climbed the rigging to the giant cross-beam that held the mainsail. Sitting astride it he could see no sign of land, only the endless blue of the sea. A sailor walked along the beam towards him, barefooted, and using no hand-holds. He stood in delicate balance with hands on hips and looked down at Druss.

  “No passengers should be up here,” he said.

  Druss grinned at the
young man. “How can you just stand there, as if you were on a wide road? A puff of breeze could blow you away.”

  “Like this?” asked the sailor, stepping from the beam. He twisted in mid-air, his hands fastening to a sail rope. For a moment he hung there, then lithely pulled himself up alongside the axeman.

  “Very good,” said Druss. His eye was caught by a silver-blue flash in the water below and the sailor chuckled.

  “The gods of the sea,”he told the passenger. “Dolphins. If they are in the mood, you should see some wonderful sights.” A gleaming shape rose out of the water, spinning into the air before entering the sea again with scarcely a splash. Druss clambered down the rigging, determined to get a closer look at the sleek and beautiful animals performing in the water. High-pitched cries echoed around the ship as the creatures bobbed their heads above the surface.

  Suddenly an arrow sped from the ship, plunging into one of the dolphins as it soared out of the water.

  Within an instant the creatures had disappeared.

  Druss glared at the archer while other men shouted at him, their anger sudden, their mood ugly.

  “It was just a fish!” said the archer.

  Milus Bar pushed his way through the crowd. “You fool!” he said, his face almost grey beneath his tan. “They are the gods of the sea; they come for us to pay homage. Sometimes they will even lead us through treacherous waters. Why did you have to shoot?”

  “It was a good target,” said the man. “And why not? It was my choice.”

  “Aye, it was, lad,” Milus told him, “but if our luck turns bad now it will be my choice to cut out your innards and feed them to the sharks.” The burly skipper stalked back to the tiller deck. The earlier good mood had evaporated now and the men drifted back to their pursuits with little pleasure.

  Sieben approached Druss. “By the gods, they were wondrous,” said the poet. “According to legend, Asia’s chariot is drawn by six white dolphins.”

  Druss sighed. “Who would have thought that anyone would consider killing one of them? Do they make good food, do you know?”