The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  “Why tell me?”

  The priest said nothing for a moment, averting his eyes from Druss’s direct gaze. “I have watched you,” he said at last. “Not just in the present, but through the past, from your birth through your childhood, to your marriage to Rowena and your quest to find her. You are a rare man, Druss. You have iron control over those areas of your soul which have a capacity for evil. And you have a dread of becoming like Bardan. Well, Cajivak is Bardan reborn. Who else can stop him?”

  “I don’t have time to waste, priest. My wife is somewhere in these lands.”

  The priest reddened and hung his head. His voice was a whisper, and there was shame in the words. “Recover the axe and I will tell you where she is,” he said.

  Druss leaned back and stared long and hard at the slender man before him. “This is unworthy of you,” he observed.

  The priest looked up. “I know.” He spread his hands. “I have no other… payment… to offer.”

  “I could take hold of your scrawny neck and wring the truth from you,” Druss pointed out.

  “But you will not. I know you, Druss.”

  The warrior stood. “I’ll find the axe,” he promised. “Where shall we meet?”

  “You find the axe - and I’ll find you,” the priest told him.

  Alone in the dark, Druss remembered with bitterness the confidence he had felt. Find Cajivak, recover the axe, then find Rowena. So simple!

  What a fool you are, he thought. His face itched and he scratched at the skin of his cheek, his grimy finger breaking a scab upon his cheek. A rat ran across his leg and Druss lunged for it, but missed. Struggling to his knees, he felt his head touch the cold stone of the ceiling.

  Torchlight flickered as the guard moved down the corridor. Druss scrambled to the grille, the light burning his eyes. The jailer, whose face Druss could not see, bent and thrust a clay cup into the door-stone cavity. There was no bread. Druss lifted the cup and drained the water. “Still alive, I see,” said the jailer, his voice deep and cold. “I think the Lord Cajivak has forgotten about you. By the gods, that makes you a lucky man - you’ll be able to live down here with the rats for the rest of your life.” Druss said nothing and the voice went on, “The last man who lived in that cell was there for five years. When we dragged him out his hair was white and all his teeth were rotten. He was blind, and bent like a crippled old man. You’ll be the same.”

  Druss focused on the light, watching the shadows on the dark wall. The jailer stood, and the light receded. Druss sank back.

  No bread…

  You’ll be able to live down here with the rats for the rest of your life. Despair struck him like a hammer blow.

  Pahtai felt the pain recede as she floated clear of her plague-racked body. I am dying, she thought, but there was no fear, no surging panic, merely a peaceful sense of harmony as she rose into the air.

  It was night, and the lanterns were lit. Hovering just below the ceiling, she gazed down on Michanek as he sat beside the frail woman in the bed, holding to her hand, stroking the fever-dry skin and whispering words of love. That is me, thought Pahtai, staring down at the woman.

  “I love you, I love you,” whispered Michanek. “Please don’t die!”

  He looked so tired, and Pahtai wanted to reach out to him. He was all the security and love she had ever known, and she recalled the first morning when she had woken in his home in Resha. She remembered the bright sunshine and the smell of jasmine from the gardens, and she knew that the bearded man sitting beside her should have been known to her. But when she reached into her mind she could find no trace of him. It was so embarrassing. “How are you feeling?” he had asked, the voice familiar but doing nothing to unlock her memory. She tried to think of where she might have met him. That was when the second shock struck, with infinitely more power than the first.

  She had no memory! Nothing! Her face must have reacted to the shock, for he leaned in close and took her hand. “Do not concern yourself, Pahtai. You have been ill, very ill. But you are getting better now. I know that you do not remember me, but as time passes you will.” He turned his head and called to another man, tiny, slender and dark-skinned. “Look, here is Pudri,” said Michanek. “He has been worried about you.”

  She had sat up then, and seen the tears in the little man’s eyes. “Are you my father?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I am your servant and your friend, Pahtai.”

  “And you, sir,” she said, turning her gaze on Michanek. “Are you my… brother?”

  He had smiled. “If that is what you wish, that is what I will be. But no, I am not your brother. Nor am I your master. You are a free woman, Pahtai.” Taking her hand, he kissed the palm, his beard soft as fur against her skin.

  “You are my husband, then?”

  “No, I am merely a man who loves you. Take my hand and tell me what you feel.”

  She did so. “It is a good hand, strong. And it is warm.”

  “You see nothing? No… visions?”

  “No. Should I?”

  He shook his head. “Of course not. It is only… that you were hallucinating when the fever was high. It just shows how much better you are.” He kissed her hand again.

  Just as he was doing now. “I love you,” she thought, suddenly sad that she was about to die. She rose through the ceiling and out into the night, gazing up at the stars. Through spirit eyes they no longer twinkled, but sat perfect and round in the vast bowl of the night. The city was peaceful, and even the camp-fires of the enemy seemed merely a glowing necklace around Resha.

  She had never fully discovered the secrets of her past. It seemed she was a prophet of some kind, and had belonged to a merchant named Kabuchek, but he had fled the city long before the siege began. Pahtai remembered walking to his house, hoping that the sight of it would stir her lost memories. Instead she had seen a powerful man, dressed in black and carrying a double-headed axe. He was talking to a servant. Instinctively she had ducked back into an alley, her heart hammering. He looked like Michanek but harder, more deadly. Unable to take her eyes from him, she found the oddest sensations stirring within her.

  Swiftly she turned and ran back the way she had come.

  And had never since sought to find out her background.

  But sometimes as she and Michanek were making love, usually in the garden beneath the flowering trees, she would find herself suddenly thinking of the man with the axe, and then fear would come and with it a sense of betrayal. Michanek loved her, and it seemed disloyal that another man - a man she didn’t even know - could intrude into her thoughts at such a time.

  Pahtai soared higher, her spirit drawn across the war-torn land, above gutted houses, ruined villages and ghostly, deserted towns. She wondered if this was the route to Paradise? Coming to a range of mountains, she saw an ugly fortress of grey stone. She was thinking of the man with the axe, and found herself drawn into the citadel. There was a hall and within it sat a huge man, his face scarred, his eyes malevolent. Beside him was the axe she had seen carried by the man in black.

  Down she journeyed, to a dungeon deep and dark, cold and filthy, the haunt of rats and lice. The axeman lay there, his skin covered in sores. He was asleep and his spirit was gone from the body. Reaching out she tried to touch his face, but her spectral hand flowed beneath the skin. In that moment she saw a slender line of pulsing light radiating around the body. Her hand stroked the light and instantly she found him.

  He was alone and in terrible despair. She spoke with him, trying to give him strength, but he reached for her and his words were shocking and filled her with fear. He disappeared then, and she guessed that he had been woken from sleep.

  Back in the citadel she floated through the corridors and rooms, the antechambers and halls. An old man was sitting in a deserted kitchen. He too was dreaming, and it was the dream that drew her to him. He was in the same dungeon; he had lived there for years. Pahtai entered his mind and spoke with his dream spirit. Then she returned to
the night sky. “I am not dying,” she thought. “I am merely free.”

  In an instant she returned to Resha and her body. Pain flooded through her, and the weight of flesh sank down like a prison around her spirit. She felt the touch of Michanek’s hand, and all thoughts of the axeman dispersed like mist under the sun. She was suddenly happy, despite the pain. He had been so good to her, and yet…

  “Are you awake?” he asked, his voice low. She opened her eyes.

  “Yes. I love you.”

  “And I you. More than life.”

  “Why did we never wed?” she said, her throat dry, the words rasping clear. She saw him pale.

  “Is that what you wish for? Would it make you well?”

  “It would… make me… happy,” she told him.

  “I will send for a priest,” he promised.

  She found him on a grim mountainside where winter winds were howling through the peaks. He was frozen and weak, his limbs trembling, his eyes dull. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Waiting to die,” he told her.

  “That is no way for you to behave. You are a warrior, and a warrior never gives up.”

  “I have no strength left.”

  Rowena sat beside him and he felt the warmth of her arms around his shoulders, smelt the sweetness of her breath. “Be strong,” she said, stroking his hair. “In despair there is only defeat.”

  “I cannot overcome cold stone. I cannot shine a light through the darkness. My limbs are rotting, my teeth shake in their sockets.”

  “Is there nothing you would live for?”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching for her. I live for you! I always have. But I can’t find you.”

  He awoke in the darkness amidst the stench of the dungeon and crawled to the door-stone grille, finding it by touch. Cool air drifted down the corridor and he breathed deeply. Torchlight flickered, burning his eyes. He squinted against it and watched as the jailer tramped down the corridor. Then the darkness returned. Druss’s stomach cramped and he groaned. Dizziness swamped him, and nausea rose in his throat.

  A faint light showed and, rolling painfully to his knees, he pushed his face against the narrow opening. An old man with a wispy white beard knelt outside the dungeon stone. The light from the tiny clay oil lamp was torturously bright, and Druss’s eyes stung.

  “Ah, you are alive! Good,” whispered the old man. “I have brought you this lamp and an old tinder-box. Use it carefully. It will help accustom your eyes to light. Also I have some food.” He thrust a linen package through the door-stone and Druss took it, his mouth too dry for speech. “I’ll come back when I can,” said the old man. “Remember, only use the light once the jailer has gone.”

  Druss listened to the man slowly make his way down the corridor. He thought he heard a door shut, but could not be sure. With unsteady hands he drew the lamp into the dungeon, placing it on the floor beside him. Then he hauled in the package and the small iron tinder-box.

  Eyes streaming from the light, he opened the package to find there were two apples, a hunk of cheese and some dried meat. When he bit into one of the apples it was unbearably delicious, the juices stinging his bleeding gums. Swallowing was almost painful, but the minor irritation was swamped by the coolness. He almost vomited, but held it down, and slowly finished the fruit. His shrunken stomach rebelled after the second apple, and he sat holding the cheese and the meat as if they were treasures of gems and gold.

  While waiting for his stomach to settle he stared around at his tiny cell, seeing the filth and decay for the first time. Looking at his hands, he saw the skin was split and ugly sores showed on his wrists and arms. His leather jerkin had been taken from him and the woollen shirt was alive with lice. He saw the small hole in the corner of the wall from which the rats emerged.

  And despair was replaced by anger.

  Unaccustomed to the light, his eyes continued to stream. Removing his shirt, he gazed down at his wasted body. The arms were no longer huge, the wrists and elbows jutting. But I am alive, he told himself. And I will survive.

  He finished the cheese and half of the meat. Desperate as he was to consume it all, he did not know if the old man would come back, and he rewrapped the meat and pushed it into his belt. Examining the workings of the tinder-box he saw that it was an old design, a sharp piece of flint that could be struck against the serrated interior, igniting the powdered tinder in the well of the box. Satisfied he could use it in the dark, he reluctantly blew out the lamp.

  The old man did return - but not for two days. This time he brought some dried peaches, a hunk of ham and a small sack of tinder. “It is important that you keep supple,” he told Druss. “Stretch out on the floor and exercise.”

  “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “I sat in that cell for years, I know what it is like. You must build your strength. There are two ways to do this, or so I found. Lie on your stomach with your hands beneath your shoulders and then, keeping the legs straight, push yourself up using only your arms. Repeat this as many times as you can manage. Keep count. Each day try for one more. Also you can lie on your back and raise your legs, keeping them straight. This will strengthen the belly.”

  “How long have I been here?” asked Druss.

  “It is best not to think of that,” the old man advised. “Concentrate on building your body. I will bring some ointments next time for those sores, and some lice powder.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Best you don’t know - in case they find the lamp.”

  “I owe you a debt, my friend. And I always pay my debts.”

  “You’ll have no chance of that - unless you become strong again.”

  “I shall,” promised Druss.

  When the old man had gone Druss lit the lamp and lay down on his belly. With his hands beneath his shoulders he forced his body up. He managed eight before collapsing to the filthy floor.

  A week later it was thirty. And by the end of a month he could manage one hundred.

  Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

  Chapter Three

  The guard at the main gate narrowed his eyes and stared at the three-riders. None was known to him, but they rode with casual confidence, chatting to one another and laughing. The guard stepped out to meet them. “Who are you?” he asked.

  The first of the men, a slim blond-haired warrior wearing a baldric from which hung four knives, dismounted from his bay mare. “We are travellers seeking lodging for the night,” he said. “Is there a problem? Is there plague in the city?”

  “Plague? Of course there’s no plague,” answered the guard, hastily making the sign of the Protective Horn. “Where are you from?”

  “We’ve ridden from Lania, and we’re heading for Capalis and the coast. All we seek is an inn.”

  “There are no inns here. This is the fortress of Lord Cajivak.”

  The other two horsemen remained mounted. The guard looked up at them. One was slim and dark-haired, a bow slung across his shoulder and a quiver hanging from the pommel of his saddle. The third man wore a wide leather hat and sported no weapons save an enormous hunting-knife almost as long as a short sword.

  “We can pay for our lodgings,” said the blond man with an easy smile. The guard licked his lips. The man dipped his hand into the pouch by his side and produced a thick silver coin which he dropped into the guard’s hand.

  “Well… it would be churlish to turn you away,” said the guard, pocketing the coin. “All right. Ride through the main square, bearing left. You’ll see a domed building, with a narrow lane running down its eastern side. There is a tavern there. It’s a rough place, mind, with much fighting. But the keeper - Ackae - keeps rooms at the back. Tell him that Ratsin sent you.”

  “You are most kind,” said the blond man, stepping back into the saddle.

  As they rode in to the city the guard shook his head. Be unlikely to see them again, he thought, not with that much silver on them and not a sword between them. />
  The old man came almost every day, and Druss grew to treasure the moments. He never stayed long, but his conversation was brief, wise and to the point. “The biggest danger when you get out is to the eyes, boy. They get too used to the dark, and the sun can blind them - permanently. I lost my sight for almost a month after they dragged me out. Stare into the lamp flame, close as you can, force the pupils to contract.”

  Druss was now as strong as he would ever be in such a place, and last night he had told the man, “Do not come tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m thinking of leaving,” answered the Drenai. The old man had laughed. I’m serious, my friend. Don’t come for two days.”

  “There’s no way out. The door-stone alone requires two men to move it, and there are two bolts holding it in place.”

  “If you are correct,” Druss told him, “then I will see you here in three days.”

  Now he sat quietly in the dark. The ointments his friend had supplied had healed most of his sores, and the lice powder - while itching like the devil’s touch - had convinced all but the most hardy of the parasites to seek alternative accommodation. The food over the last months had rebuilt Druss’s strength, and his teeth no longer rattled in their sockets. Now was the time, he thought. There’ll never be a better.

  Silently he waited through the long day.

  At last he heard the jailer outside. A clay cup was pushed into the opening, with a hunk of stale bread by it. Druss sat in the dark, unmoving.

  “Here is it, my black-bearded rat,” the jailer called.

  Silence. “Ah well, suit yourself. You’ll change your mind before long.”

  The hours drifted by. Torchlight flickered in the corridor and he heard the jailer halt. Then the man walked on. Druss waited for an hour, then he lit his lamp and chewed on the last of the meat the old man had left the night before. Lifting the lamp to his face he stared hard into the tiny flame, passing it back and forth before his eyes. The light didn’t sting as once it had. Blowing out the light he turned over on to his stomach, pushing himself through one hundred and fifty press raises. He slept…