The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6

by Gemmell, David

  Michanek spread his arms. “Well then, my Lord, what else would you expect this poor Naashanite to do?”

  Gorben’s smile faded and he stepped in close. “I had hoped you would surrender, Michanek. I do not seek your death - I owe you a life. You must see now that even with these supplies, you cannot hold out much longer. Why must I send in my Immortals to see you all cut to pieces? Why not merely march out in good order and return home? You may pass unmolested; you have my word.”

  “That would be contrary to my orders, my Lord.”

  “Might I ask what they are?”

  “To hold until ordered otherwise.”

  “Your Lord is in full flight. I have captured his baggage train, including his three wives and his daughters. Even now one of his messengers is in my tent, negotiating for their safe return. But he asks nothing for you, his most loyal soldier. Do you not find that galling?”

  “Of course,” agreed Michanek, “but it alters nothing.”

  Gorben shook his head and turned to his stallion. Taking hold of rein and pommel, he vaulted to the horse’s back. “You are a fine man, Michanek. I wish you could have served me.”

  “And you, sir, are a gifted general. It has been a pleasure to thwart you for so long. Give my regards to Bodasen - and if you wish to stake it all on another duel, I will meet whoever you send.”

  “If my champion was here I would hold you to that,” said Gorben, with a wide grin. “I would like to see how you would fare against Druss and his axe. Farewell, Michanek. May the gods grant you a splendid afterlife.”

  The Ventrian Emperor heeled the stallion into a run and galloped back to the camp.

  Pahtai was sitting in the garden when the first vision came to her. She was watching a bee negotiate an entry into a purple bloom when suddenly she saw an image of the man with the axe - only he had no axe, and no beard. He was sitting upon a mountainside overlooking a small village with a half-built stockade wall. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. She was troubled, but with the constant battles upon the walls of Resha, and her fears for Michanek’s safety, she brushed her worries away.

  But the second vision was more powerful than the first. She saw a ship, and upon it a tall, thin man. A name filtered through the veils of her mind:

  Kabuchek.

  He had owned her once, long ago in the days when Pudri said she had a rare Talent, a gift for seeing the future and reading the past. The gift was gone now, and she did not regret it. Amid a terrible civil war it was, perhaps, a blessing not to know what perils the future had to offer.

  She told Michanek of her visions and watched as the look of sorrow touched his handsome face. He had taken her into his arms, holding her tight, just as he had throughout her sickness. Michanek had risked catching the plague, yet in her fever dreams she drew great strength from his presence and his devotion. And she had survived, though all the surgeons predicted her death. True her heart was now weak, so they said, and any exertion tired her. But her strength was returning month by month.

  The sun was bright above the garden, and Pahtai moved out to gather flowers with which to decorate the main rooms. In her arms she held a flat wicker basket in which was placed a sharp cutting knife. As the sun touched her face she tilted her head, enjoying the warmth upon her skin. In the distance a high-pitched scream suddenly sounded and her eyes turned towards the direction of the noise. Faintly she could hear the clash of-steel on steel, the shouts and cries of warriors in desperate combat.

  Will it never end? she thought.

  A shadow fell across her and she turned and saw that two men had entered the garden. They were thin, their clothes ragged and filthy.

  “Give us food,” demanded one, moving in towards her.

  “You must go to the ration centre,” she said, fighting down her fear.

  “You don’t live on rations, do you, you Naashanite whore!” said the second man, stepping in close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap ale, and she saw his pale eyes glance towards her breasts. She was wearing a thin tunic of blue silk, and her legs were bare. The first man grabbed her arm, dragging her towards him. She thought of grabbing for the cutting knife, but in that instant found herself staring down at a narrow bed in a small room. Upon it lay a woman and a sickly child; their names flashed into her mind.

  “What of Katina?” she said suddenly. The man groaned and fell back, releasing his hold, his eyes wide and stricken with guilt. “Your baby son is dying,” she said softly. “Dying while you drink and attack women. Go to the kitchen, both of you. Ask for Pudri, and tell him that…” she hesitated… “that Pahtai said you could have food. There are some eggs and unleavened bread. Go now, both of you.”

  The men backed away from her, then turned and ran for the house. Pahtai, trembling from the shock, sat down on a marble seat.

  Pahtai? Rowena… The name rose up from the deepest levels of her memory, and she greeted it like a song of morning after a night of storms.

  Rowena. I am Rowena.

  A man came walking along the garden path, bowing as he saw her. His hair was silver, and braided, yet his face was young and almost unlined. He bowed again. “Greetings, Pahtai, are you well?”

  “I am well, Darishan. But you look tired.”

  “Tired of sieges, that’s for sure. May I sit beside you?”

  “Of course. Michanek is not here, but you are welcome to wait for him.”

  He leaned back and sniffed the air. “I do love roses. Exquisite smell; they remind me of my childhood. You know I used to play with Gorben? We were friends. We used to hide in bushes such as these, and pretend we were being hunted by assassins. Now I am hiding again, but there is not a rose bush large enough to conceal me.”

  Rowena said nothing, but she gazed into his handsome face and saw the fear lurking below the surface.

  “I saddled the wrong horse, my dear,” he said, with a show of brightness. “I thought the Naashanites would be preferable to watching Gorben’s father destroy the Empire. But all I have done is to train a younger lion in the ways of war and conquest. Do you think I could convince Gorben that I have, in fact, done him a service?” He looked into her face. “No, I suppose I couldn’t. I shall just have to face my death like a Ventrian.”

  “Don’t talk of death,” she scolded. “The walls still hold and now we have food.”

  Darishan smiled. “Yes. It was a fine duel, but I don’t mind admitting that my heart was in my mouth throughout. Michanek might have slipped, and then where would I have been, with the gates open to Gorben?”

  “There is no man alive who could defeat Michanek,” she said.

  “So far. But Gorben had another champion once… Druss, I think his name was. Axeman. He was rather deadly, as I recall.”

  Rowena shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly solicitous. “You’re not getting a fever, are you?” Lifting his hand, he laid his palm on her brow. As he touched her she saw him die, fighting upon the battlements, black-cloaked warriors all around him, swords and knives piercing his flesh.

  Closing her eyes, she forced the images back. “You are unwell,” she heard him say, as if from a great distance.

  Rowena took a deep breath. “I am a little weak,” she admitted.

  “Well, you must be strong for your celebration. Michanek has found three singers and a lyre player - it should be quite an entertainment. And I have a full barrel of the finest Lentrian Red, which I shall have sent over.”

  At the thought of the anniversary Rowena brightened. It was almost a year since she had recovered from the plague… A year since Michanek had made her happiness complete. She smiled at Darishan. “You will join us tomorrow? That is good. I know Michanek values your friendship.”

  “And I his.” Darishan rose. “He’s a good man, you know, far better than the rest of us. I’m proud to have known him.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

  “I have to admit, old horse, that life without you
was dull,” said Sieben. Druss said nothing, but sat staring into the flames of the small fire, watching them dance and flicker. Snaga was laid beside him, the blades upwards resting against the trunk of a young oak, the haft wedged against a jutting root. On the other side of the fire Eskodas was preparing two rabbits for the spit. “When we have dined,” continued Sieben, “I shall regale you with the further adventures of Druss the Legend.”

  “No, you damned well won’t,” grunted Druss.

  Eskodas laughed. “You really should hear it, Druss. He has you descending into Hell to rescue the soul of a princess.”

  Druss shook his head, but a brief smile showed through the black beard and Sieben was heartened. In the month since Druss had killed Cajivak the axeman had said little. For the first two weeks they had rested at Lania, then they had journeyed across the mountains, heading east. Now, two days from Resha, they were camped on a wooded hillside above a small village. Druss had regained much of his lost weight, and his shoulders almost filled the silver-embossed jerkin he had removed from Cajivak’s body.

  Eskodas placed the spitted rabbits across the fire and sat back, wiping grease and blood from his fingers. “A man can starve to death eating rabbit,” he observed. “Not a lot of goodness there. We should have gone down to the village.”

  “I like being outside,” said Druss.

  “Had I known, I would have come sooner,” said Sieben softly and Druss nodded.

  “I know that, poet. But it is in the past now. All that matters is that I find Rowena. She came to me in a dream while I was in that dungeon; she gave me strength. I’ll find her.” He sighed. “Some day.”

  “The war is almost over,” said Eskodas. “Once it is won, I think you’ll find her. Gorben will be able to send riders to every city, village and town. Whoever owns her will know that the Emperor wants her returned.”

  “That’s true,” said Druss, brightening, “and he did promise to help. I feel better already. The stars are bright, the night is cool. Ah, but it’s good to be alive! All right, poet, tell me how I rescued the princess from Hell. And put in a dragon or two!”

  “No,” said Sieben, with a laugh, “you are now in altogether too good a mood. It is only amusing when your face is dark as thunder and your knuckles are clenched white.”

  “There is truth in that,” muttered Druss. “I think you only invent these tales to annoy me.”

  Eskodas lifted the spit and turned the roasting meat. “I rather liked the tale, Druss. And it had the ring of truth. If the Chaos Spirit did drag your soul into Hell, I’m sure you’d twist his tail for him.”

  Conversation ceased as they heard movement from the woods. Sieben drew one of his knives; Eskodas took up his bow and notched a shaft to the string; Druss merely sat silently, waiting. A man appeared. He was wearing long flowing robes of dusty grey, though they shone like silver in the bright moonlight.

  “I was waiting for you in the village,” said the priest of Pashtar Sen, sitting down alongside the axeman.

  “I prefer it here,” said Druss, his voice cold and unwelcoming.

  “I am sorry, my son, for your suffering, and I feel a weight of shame for asking you to take up the burden of the axe. But Cajivak was laying waste to the countryside, and his power would have grown. What you did…”

  “I did what I did,” snarled Druss. “Now live up to your side of the bargain.”

  “Rowena is in Resha. She… lives… with a soldier named Michanek. He is a Naashanite general, and the Emperor’s champion.”

  “Lives with?”

  The priest hesitated. “She is married to him,” he said swiftly.

  Druss’s eyes narrowed. “That is a lie. They might force her to do many things, but she would never marry another man.”

  “Let me tell this in my own way,” pleaded the priest. “As you know I searched long and hard for her, but there was nothing. It was as if she had ceased to exist. When I did find her it was by chance - I saw her in Resha just before the siege and I touched her mind. She had no memory of the lands of the Drenai, none whatever. I followed her home and saw Michanek greet her. Then I entered his mind. He had a friend, a mystic, and he employed him to take away Rowena’s Talent as a seeress. In doing this they also robbed her of her memories. Michanek is now all she has ever known.”

  “They tricked her with sorcery. By the gods, I’ll make them pay for that! Resha, eh?” Reaching out Druss curled his hand around the haft of the axe, drawing the weapon to him.

  “No, you still don’t understand,” said the priest. “Michanek is a fine man. What he…”

  “Enough!” thundered Druss. “Because of you I have spent more than a year in a hole in the ground, with only rats for company. Now get out of my sight - and never, ever cross my path again.”

  The priest slowly rose.and backed away from the axeman. He seemed about to speak, but Druss turned his pale eyes upon the man and the priest stumbled away into the darkness.

  Sieben and Eskodas said nothing.

  High in the cliffs, far to the east, the Naashanite Emperor sat, his woollen cloak wrapped tightly around him. He was fifty-four years of age and looked seventy, his hair white and wispy, his eyes sunken. Beside him sat his staff officer, Anindais; he was unshaven, and the pain of defeat was etched into his face.

  Behind them, down the long pass, the rearguard had halted the advancing Ventrians. They were safe… for the moment.

  Nazhreen Connitopa, Lord of the Eyries, Prince of the Highlands, Emperor of Naashan, tasted bile in his mouth and his heart was sick with frustration. He had planned the invasion of Ventria for almost eleven years, and the Empire had been his for the taking. Gorben was beaten - everyone knew it, from the lowliest peasant to the highest Satraps in the land. Everyone, that is, except Gorben.

  Nazhreen silently cursed the gods for snatching away his prize. The only reason he was still alive was because Michanek was holding Resha and tying down two Ventrian armies. Nazhreen rubbed at his face and saw, in the firelight, that his hands were grubby, the paint on his nails cracked and peeling.

  “We must kill Gorben,” said Anindais suddenly, his voice harsh and cold as the winds that hissed through the peaks.

  Nazhreen gazed sullenly at his cousin. “And how do we do that?” he countered. “His armies have vanquished ours. His Immortals are even now harrying our rearguard.”

  “We should do now what I urged two years ago, cousin. Use the Darklight. Send for the Old Woman.”

  “No! I will not use sorcery.”

  “Ah, you have so many other choices then, cousin?” The tone was derisive, contempt dripping from every word. Nazhreen swallowed hard. Anindais was a dangerous man, and Nazhreen’s position as a losing Emperor left him exposed.

  “Sorcery has a way of rebounding on those who use it,” he said softly. “When you summon demons they require payment in blood.”

  Anindais leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering in the firelight. “Once Resha falls, you can expect Gorben to march into Naashan. Then there’ll be blood aplenty. Who will defend you, Nazhreen? Our troops have been cut to pieces, and the best of our men are trapped in Resha and will be butchered. Our only hope is for Gorben to die; then the Ventrians can fight amongst themselves to choose a successor and that will give us time to rebuild, to negotiate. Who else can guarantee his death? The Old Woman has never failed, they say.”

  “They say,” mocked the Emperor. “Have you used her yourself then? Is that why your brother died in so timely a fashion?” As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, for Anindais was not a man to offend, not even in the best of times. And these were certainly not the best of times.

  Nazhreen was relieved to see his cousin smile broadly, as Anindais leaned in and placed his arm around the Emperor’s shoulder. “Ah, cousin, you came so close to victory. It was a brave gamble and I honour you for it. But times change, needs change.”

  Nazhreen was about to answer when he saw the firelight glint from the dagger blade. There was no
time to struggle or to scream, and the blade plunged in between his ribs, cutting through his heart.

  There was no pain, only release as he slumped sideways, his head resting on Anindais’ shoulder. The last feeling he experienced was of Anindais stroking his hair.

  It was soothing…

  Anindais pushed the body from him and stood. A figure shuffled from the shadows, an old woman in a wolfskin cloak. Kneeling by the body, she dipped her skeletal fingers into the blood and licked them. “Ah, the blood of kings,” she said. “Sweeter than wine.”

  “Is that enough of a sacrifice?” Anindais asked.

  “No - but it will suffice as a beginning,” she said. She shivered. “It is cold here. Not like Mashrapur. I think I shall return there when this is over. I miss my house.”

  “How will you kill him?” asked Anindais.

  She glanced up at the general. “We shall make it poetic. He is a Ventrian nobleman, and the sign of his house is the Bear. I shall send Kalith.”

  Anindais licked his dry lips. “Kalith is just a dark legend, surely?”

  “If you want to see him for yourself I can arrange it,” hissed the Old Woman.

  Anindais fell back. “No, I believe you.”

  “I like you, Anindais,” she said softly. “You do not have a single redeeming virtue - that is rare. So I will give you a gift, and charge nothing for it. Stay by me and you will see the Kalith kill the Ventrian.” She stood and walked to the cliff-face. “Come,” she called and Anindais followed. The Old Woman gestured at the grey rock and the wall became smoke. Taking the general’s hand, she led him through.

  A long dark tunnel beckoned and Anindais shrank back. “Not a single redeeming feature,” she repeated, “not even courage. Stay by me, general, and no harm will befall you.”

  The walk was not long, but to Anindais it stretched on for an eternity. He knew they were passing through a world that was not his own, and in the distance he could hear screams and cries that were not human. Great bats flew in a sky of dark ash, and not a living plant could be seen. The Old Woman followed a slender path, and took him across a narrow bridge that spanned an awesome chasm. At last she came to a fork in the path, and moved to the left towards a small cave. A three-headed dog guarded the entrance, but it backed away from her and they passed through. Within was a circular room stacked with tomes and scrolls. Two skeletons were hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their joints bound with golden wire. A cadaver lay across a long table, its chest and belly cut open, the heart lying beside the body like a grey stone about the size of a human fist.