“No,” said Sieben. “In the north they sometimes become entangled in the nets and drown. I have known men who cooked the meat; they say it tastes foul, and is impossible to digest.”
“Even worse then,” Druss grunted.
“It is no different from any other kind of hunting for sport, Druss. Is not a doe as beautiful as a dolphin?”
“You can eat a doe. Venison is fine meat.”
“But most of them don’t hunt for food, do they? Not the nobles. They hunt for pleasure. They enjoy the chase, the terror of the prey, the final moment of the kill. Do not blame this man alone for his stupidity. He comes, as do we all, from a cruel world.”
Eskodas joined them. “Not very inspiring, was he?” said the bowman.
“Who?”
“The man who shot the fish.”
“We were just talking about it.”
“I didn’t know you understood the skills of archery,” said Eskodas, surprised.
“Archery? What are you talking about?”
“The bowman. He drew and loosed in a single movement. No hesitation. It is vital to pause and sight your target; he was overanxious for the kill.”
“Be that as it may,” said Sieben, his irritation rising, “we were talking about the morality of hunting.”
“Man is a killer by nature,” said Eskodas amiably. “A natural hunter. Like him there!” Sieben and Druss both turned to see a silver-white fin cutting through the water. “That’s a shark. He scented the blood from the wounded dolphin. Now he’ll hunt him down, following the trail as well as a Sathuli scout.”
Druss leaned over the side and watched the shimmering form slide by. “Big fellow,” he said.
“They come bigger than that,” said Eskodas. “I was on a ship once that sank in a storm off the Lentrian coast. Forty of us survived the wreck, and struck out for shore. Then the sharks arrived. Only three of us made it - and one of those had his right leg ripped away. He died three days later.”
“A storm, you say?” ventured Druss.
“Aye.”
“Like that one?” asked Druss, pointing to the east, where massive dark clouds were bunching. A flash of lightning speared across the sky, followed by a tremendous roll of thunder.
“Yes, like that. Let’s hope it is not blowing our way.”
Within minutes the sky darkened, the sea surging and rising. The Thunderchild rolled and rose on the crests of giant waves, sliding into ever larger valleys of water. Then the rain began, faster and faster, icy needles that came from the sky like arrows.
Crouching by the port rail Sieben glanced to where the unfortunate archer was huddled. The man who had shot the dophin was alone, and holding fast to a rope. Lightning flashed above the ship.
“I would say our luck has changed,” observed Sieben.
But neither Druss nor Eskodas could hear him above the screaming of the wind.
Eskodas hooked his arms around the port rail and clung on as the storm raged. A huge wave crashed over the side of the ship, dislodging several men from their precarious holds on ropes and bales, sweeping them across the deck to crash into the dipping starboard rail. A post cracked, but no one heard it above the ominous roll of thunder booming from the night-dark sky. The Thunderchild rode high on the crest of an enormous wave, then slid down into a valley of raging water. A sailor carrying a coiled rope ran along the deck trying to reach the warriors at the starboard rail. A second wave crashed over him, hurling him into the struggling men. The port rail gave way, and within the space of a heartbeat some twenty men were swept from the deck. The ship reared like a frightened horse. Eskodas felt his grip on the rail post weaken. He tried to readjust his hold, but the ship lurched again.
Torn from his position of relative safety, he slid headlong towards the yawning gap in the starboard rail.
A huge hand clamped down around his ankle, then he was hauled back. The axeman grinned at him, then handed him a length of rope. Swiftly Eskodas slipped it around his waist, fastening the other end to the mast. He glanced at Druss. The big man was enjoying the storm. Secure now, Eskodas scanned the deck. The poet was clinging to a section of the starboard rail that seemed none too secure, and high on the tiller deck the bowman could see Milus Bar wrestling with the tiller, trying to keep The Thunderchild ahead of the storm.
Another massive wave swept over the deck. The starboard rail cracked and Sieben slid over the edge of the deck. Druss untied his rope and rose. Eskodas shouted at him, but the axeman either did not hear, or ignored him. Druss ran across the heaving deck, fell once, then righted himself until he came alongside the shattered rail. Dropping to his knees Druss leaned over, dragging Sieben back to the deck.
Just behind them the man who had shot the dolphin was reaching for a rope with which to tie himself to a hauling ring set in the deck. The ship reared once more. The man tumbled to the deck, then slid on his back, cannoning into Druss who fell heavily. Still holding Seiben with one hand, the axeman tried to reach the doomed archer, but the man vanished into the raging sea.
Almost at that instant the sun appeared through broken clouds and the rain lessened, the sea settling. Druss rose and gazed into the water. Eskodas untied the rope that held him to the mast and stood, his legs unsteady. He walked to where Druss stood with Sieben.
The poet’s face was white with shock. “I’ll never sail again,” he said. “Never!”
Eskodas thrust out his hand. “Thank you, Druss. You saved my life.”
The axeman chuckled. “Had to, laddie. You’re the only one on this boat who can leave our saga-master speechless.”
Bodasen appeared from the tiller deck. “That was a reckless move, my friend,” he told Druss, “but it was well done. I like to see bravery in the men who fight alongside me.”
As the Ventrian moved on, counting the men who were left, Eskodas shivered. “I think we lost nearly thirty men,” he said.
“Twenty-seven,” said Druss.
Sieben crawled back to the edge of the deck and vomited into the sea. “Make that twenty-seven and a half,” Eskodas added.
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter Four
The young Emperor climbed down from the battlement walls and strode along the quayside, his staff officers following; his aide, Nebuchad, beside him. “We can hold for months, Lord,” said Nebuchad, squinting his eyes against the glare from the Emperor’s gilded breastplate. “The walls are thick and high, and the catapults will prevent any attempt to storm the harbour mouth from the sea.”
Gorben shook his head. “The walls will not protect us,” he told the young man. “We have fewer than three thousand men here. The Naashanites have twenty times that number. Have you ever seen tiger ants attack a scorpion?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“They swarm all over it - that is how the enemy will storm Capalis.”
“We will fight to the death,” promised an officer.
Gorben halted and turned. “I know that,” he said, his dark eyes angry now. “But dying will not bring us victory, will it, Jasua?”
“No, Lord.”
Gorben strode on, along near-empty streets, past boarded, deserted shops and empty taverns. At last he reached the entrance to the Magisters’ Hall. The City Elders had long since departed and the ancient building had become the headquarters of the Capalis militia. Gorben entered the hallway and stalked to his chambers, waving away his officers and the two servants who ran towards him - one bearing wine in a golden goblet, the second carrying a towel soaked with warm, scented water.
Once inside, the young Emperor kicked off his boots and hurled his white cloak across a nearby chair. There was one large window facing east, and before it was a desk of oak upon which were laid many maps, and reports from scouts and spies. Gorben sat down and stared at the largest map; it was of the Ventrian Empire and. had been commissioned by his father six years ago.
He smoothed out the hide and gazed with undisguised fury at the map. Two-thirds of
the Empire had been overrun. Leaning back in his chair, he remembered the palace at Nusa where he had been born and raised. Built on a hill overlooking a verdant valley, and a glistening city of white marble, the palace had taken twelve years to construct, and at one time more than eight thousand workers had laboured on the task, bringing in blocks of granite and marble and towering trunks of cedar, oak and elm to be fashioned by the Royal masons and carpenters.
Nusa - the first of the cities to fall. “By all the gods of Hell, Father, I curse thee!” hissed Gorben. His father had reduced the size of the national army, relying on the wealth and power of his Satraps to protect the borders. But four of the nine Satraps had betrayed him, opening a path for the Naashanites to invade. His father had gathered an army to confront them, but his military skills were non-existent. He had fought bravely, so Gorben had been informed - but then they would say that to the new Emperor.
The new Emperor! Gorben rose now and walked to the silvered mirror on the far wall. What he saw was a young, handsome man, with black hair that gleamed with scented oils, and deep-set dark eyes. It was a strong face - but was it the face of an Emperor? Can you overcome the enemy, he asked himself silently, aware that any spoken word could be heard by servants and repeated. The gilded breastplate had been worn by warrior Emperors for two hundred years, and the cloak of purple was the mark of ultimate royalty. But these were merely adornments. What mattered was the man who wore them. Are you man enough? He gazed hard at his reflection, taking in the broad shoulders and the narrow waist, the muscular legs and powerful arms. But these too were merely adornments, he knew. The cloak of the soul.
Are you man enough?
The thought haunted him and he returned to his studies. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Gorben stared down at the map once more. Scrawled across it in charcoal was the new line of defence: Capalis to the west, Larian and Ectanis to the east. Gorben hurled the map aside. Beneath it lay a second map of the port city of Capalis. Four gates, sixteen towers and a single wall which stretched from the sea in the south in a curving half-circle to the cliffs of the north. Two miles of wall, forty feet high, guarded by three thousand men, many of them raw recruits with no shields nor breastplates.
Rising, Gorben moved to the window and the balcony beyond. The harbour and the open sea met his gaze. “Ah, Bodasen, my brother, where are you?” he whispered. The sea seemed so peaceful under the clear blue sky and the young Emperor sank into a padded seat and lifted his feet to rest on the balcony rail.
On this warm, tranquil day it seemed inconceivable that so much death and destruction had been visited upon the Empire in so short a time. He closed his eyes and recalled the Summer Banquet at Nusa last year. His father had been celebrating his forty-fourth birthday, and the seventeenth anniversary of his accession to the throne. The banquet had lasted eight days and there had been circuses, plays, knightly combat, displays of archery, running, wrestling and riding. The nine Satraps were all present, smiling and offering toasts to the Emperor. Shabag, tall and slim, hawk-eyed, and cruel of mouth. Gorben pictured him. He always wore black gloves, even in the hottest weather, and tunics of silk buttoned to the neck. Berish, fat and greedy, but a wonderful raconteur with his tales of orgies and humorous calamities. Darishan, the Fox of the North, the cavalryman, the Lancer, with his long silver hair braided like a woman. And Ashac, the Peacock, the lizard-eyed lover of boys. They had been given pride of place on either side of the Emperor, while his eldest son was forced to sit on the lower table, gazing up at these men of power!
Shabag, Berish, Darishan, and Ashac! Names and faces that burned Gorben’s heart and soul. Traitors! Men who swore allegiance to his father, then saw him done to death, his lands overrun and his people slaughtered.
Gorben opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I will seek you out - each one of you,” he promised, “and I will pay you back for your treachery.”
The threat was as empty as the treasury coffers, and Gorben knew it.
A soft tapping came at the outer door. “Enter!” he called.
Nebuchad stepped inside and bowed low. “The scouts are in, Lord. The enemy is less than two days’ march from the walls.”
“What news from the east?”
“None, Lord. Perhaps our riders did not get through.”
“What of the supplies?”
Nebuchad reached inside his tunic and produced a parchment scroll which he unrolled. “We have sixteen thousand loaves of unleavened bread, a thousand barrels of flour, eight hundred beef cattle, one hundred and forty goats. The sheep have not been counted yet. There is little cheese left, but a great quantity of oats and dried fruit.”
“What about salt?”
“Salt, Lord?”
“When we kill the cattle, how will we keep the meat fresh?”
“We could kill them only when we need them,” offered Nebuchad, reddening.
“To keep the cattle we must feed them, but there is no food to spare. Therefore they must be slaughtered, and the meat salted. Scour the city. And, Nebuchad?”
“Lord?”
“You did not mention water?”
“But, Lord, the river flows through the city.”
“Indeed it does. But what will we drink when the enemy dam it, or fill it with poisons?”
“There are artesian wells, I believe.”
“Locate them.”
The young man’s head dropped. “I fear, Lord, that I am not serving you well. I should have anticipated these requirements.”
Gorben smiled. “You have much to think of and I am well pleased with you. But you do need help. Take Jasua.”
“As you wish, Lord,” said Nebuchad doubtfully.
“You do not like him?”
Nebuchad swallowed hard. “It is not a question of “like”, Lord. But he treats me with… contempt.”
Gorben’s eyes narrowed, but he held the anger from his voice. “Tell him it is my wish that he assist you. Now go.”
As the door closed, Gorben slumped down on to a satin-covered couch. “Sweet Lords of Heaven,” he whispered, “does my future depend on men of such little substance?” He sighed, then gazed once more out to sea. “I need you, Bodasen,” he said. “By all that is sacred, I need you!”
Bodasen stood on the tiller deck, his right hand shading his eyes, his vision focusing on the far horizon. On the main deck sailors were busy repairing the rail, while others were aloft in the rigging, or refastening bales that had slipped during the storm.
“You’ll see pirates soon enough if they are near,” said Milus Bar.
Bodasen nodded and swung back to the skipper. “With a mere twenty-four warriors, I am hoping not to see them at all,” he said softly.
The captain chuckled. “In life we do not always get what we want, my Ventrian friend. I did not want a storm. I did not want my first wife to leave me - nor my second wife to stay.” He shrugged. “Such is life, eh?”
“You do not seem unduly concerned.”
“I am a fatalist, Bodasen. What will be will be.”
“Could we outrun them?”
Milus Bar shrugged once more. “It depends on which direction they are coming from.” He waved his hand in the air. “The wind. Behind us? Yes. There is not a swifter ship on the ocean than my Thunderchild. Ahead and to the west - probably. Ahead and to the east - no. They would ram us. They have a great advantage, for many of their vessels are triremes with three banks of oars. You would be amazed, my friend, at the speed with which they can turn and ram.”
“How long now to Capalis?”
“Two days - maybe three if the wind drops.”
Bodasen moved across the tiller deck, climbing down the six steps to the main deck. He saw Druss, Sieben and Eskodas by the prow and walked towards them. Druss saw him and glanced up.
“Just the man we need,” said the axeman. “We are talking about Ventria. Sieben maintains there are mountains there which brush the moon. Is it so?”
“I have not seen all o
f the Empire,” Bodasen told him, “but according to our astronomers the moon is more than a quarter of a million miles from the surface of the earth. Therefore I would doubt it.”
“Such eastern nonsense,” mocked Sieben. “There was a Drenai archer once, who fired a shaft into the moon. He had a great bow called Akansin, twelve feet long and woven with spells. He fired a black arrow, which he named Paka. Attached to the arrow was a thread of silver, which he used to climb to the moon. He sat upon it as it sailed around the great plate of the earth.”
“Mere fable,” insisted Bodasen.
“It is recorded in the library at Drenan - in the Historic section.”
“All that tells me is how limited is your understanding of the universe,” said Bodasen. “Do you still believe the sun is a golden chariot drawn by six white, winged horses?” He sat down upon a coiled rope. “Or perhaps that the earth sits upon the shoulders of an elephant, or some such beast?”
Sieben smiled. “No, we do not. But would it not be better if we did? Is there not a certain beauty in the tale? One day I shall craft a bow and shoot at the moon.”
“Never mind the moon,” said Druss. “I want to know about Ventria.”
“According to the census ordered by the Emperor fifteen years ago, and concluded only last year, the Greater Ventrian empire is 214,969 square miles. It has an estimated population of fifteen and a half million people. On a succession of fast horses, a rider galloping along the borders would return to where he started in just under four years.”
Druss looked crestfallen. He swallowed hard. “So large?”
“So large,” agreed Bodasen.
Druss’s eyes narrowed. “I will find her,” he said at last.
“Of course you will,” said Bodasen. “She left with Kabuchek and he will have headed for his home in Ectanis, which means he will have docked at Capalis. Kabuchek is a famous man, senior advisor to the Satrap, Shabag. He will not be hard to find. Unless…”
“Unless what?” queried Druss.
“Unless Ectanis has already fallen.”
“Sail! Sail!” came a cry from the rigging. Bodasen leapt up, eyes scanning the glittering water. Then he saw the ship in the east with sails furled, three banks of oars glistening like wings. Swinging back towards the main deck, he drew his sabre.
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 17