From his position in the alleyway he had watched Druss enter the Broken Sword tavern and had followed him inside, listening as he ordered his meal and noting the tavern maid telling him that the house was almost full and that the food would take a little time to prepare.
Jarid had left the tavern and run to where Copass waited; he gave the man his orders and stood back in the shadows, waiting. Copass soon returned with a dozen men, tough capable fighters mostly armed with knives and clubs. The last man carried a short crossbow.
Jarid took the thin-faced bowman by the arm and led him away from the others, then spoke to him in a low voice. “You don’t shoot unless all else fails. You will be paid whether you loose a bolt or not. Your target is a black-bearded Drenai in a dark leather shirt; you will have no trouble picking him out.”
“Why don’t I just kill him as he appears in the doorway?”
“Because I am telling you not to, half-wit. He is the Drenai champion. It will suit our purposes if he is merely injured—you understand?”
“Whose purposes are we talking about?”
Jarid smiled. “Large sums have been wagered on tomorrow’s fight. If you wish, I shall speak the name of my master. Know, however, that once I have done so, I will take your neck in my hands and snap the bones beneath. Your choice. You wish to know?”
“No. I understand. But you have to understand that if your men fail, then I’ll be sending a bolt into the darkness at a moving target. I can’t guarantee I won’t kill him! What happens then?”
“You’ll still get paid. Now take up your position.” Swinging to the others, Jarid gathered them in a tight group and spoke, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “The Drenai is a fearsome fighter, very powerful. Once any of you have planted a knife in his upper body, shoulders, chest, or arm, the rest of you must break away and run. You understand? This is not a fight to the death; a deep wound is all we require.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said a lean man with missing front teeth, “but I’ve bet on Klay. Won’t that bet be voided if the Drenai can’t fight?”
Jarid shook his head. “The bet would be on Klay taking gold. If the Drenai doesn’t fight, then the gold is automatically given to Klay.”
“What if a knife goes too deep and he dies?” asked another man.
Jarid shrugged. “All life is a game of chance.”
Moving away from the men, he ducked into an alley, then cut left across a section of waste ground, ducking into a shadowed doorway. Tall Tess was standing by a broken mirror, her red dress unfastened at the breast and pushed down to her hips. She was sponging cool water on her naked upper body.
“It’s hot tonight,” she said, grinning at Jarid. He did not return the smile but, in close, grabbed her arm, twisting it painfully. Tess cried out.
“Shut up!” he ordered. “I told you no other clients tonight, my girl. I like my women fresh.”
“There haven’t been any, lovely man,” she said. “I had to run from the hospice, all the way. That’s why I’m sweating!”
“Hospice? What you talking about, girl?” Releasing her arm, he took a step back. Tess rubbed at her scrawny bicep.
“Loira. They took her in today. Klay come for her. Took her in his carriage, he did. It was wonderful, Jarid. All dark wood, lacquered black, and padded leather seats and cushions of satin. And she’s in a bed now, with linen so white, it could have been spun from clouds.”
“I didn’t know Klay was one of her marks.”
“He wasn’t. Her snipe, Fastfinger, went and begged him to help. And he did. So Loira’s being looked after now, with medicines and food.”
“You’d better be telling me the truth, girl,” said Jarid huskily, moving in close and cupping his hand to Tess’ sagging breast.
“I’d never lie to you, lovely man,” she whispered. “You’re my darling. My only darling.” Tess slid her hand downward and allowed her mind to drift. Everything now was performance, and so mind-numbingly familiar was every move that she no longer needed to think. Instead, as she moaned and touched, teased and caressed, Tess was thinking about Loira. It seemed so wrong that a woman should be laid on such clean sheets merely to die. Many was the time that she and Loira had been huddled together under a thin blanket on cold winter nights, when the freezing winds had kept marks from the street. Then they had spoken of such luxuries as all-day fires, down-filled pillows and quilts, and blankets of softest wool. And they had giggled and laughed and cuddled in close for warmth. Now poor Loira had the kind of sheets she had dreamed of and would never know it. One day soon she would die, and her bowels would open and gush out their contents on those clean white sheets.
The pounding of the man’s hips increased in power and speed. Instantly Tess began to moan rhythmically, arching her thin body up against his. His breathing was hoarse in her ear, then he groaned and sank his weight down upon her. Curling her arm around him, she stroked the nape of his neck. “Ah, you are a wonder, lovely man. You are my darling. My only darling.”
Jarid heaved himself from her, pulled his leggings up from around his ankles, and rolled to his feet. Tess smoothed down her red dress and sat up. Jarid tossed her a full silver piece. “You want to stay for a little, Jarid? I have some wine.”
“No, I have work to do.” He smiled at her. “It was good tonight.”
“The best,” she assured him.
4
DRUSS FINISHED HIS meal and pushed away the wooden platter. The meat had been good, lean and tender, covered with savory spices and a rich, dark gravy. Yet despite the quality of the meal he had barely tasted it. His thoughts remained confused and melancholy. Meeting Klay had not helped. Damn it, he liked the man.
Druss lifted his tankard and swallowed half the contents. The ale was thin but refreshing and brought back memories of his youth and the beer brewed in the mountains. He had grown to manhood among common folk, men and women of simple pleasures who worked from first light to dusk and lived for their families, battling to put enough bread on the table. Often on summer evenings they would gather in the communal hall and drink ale, sing songs, and swap stories. Not for them the great questions of politics, the compromises, the betrayals of ideals. Life was hard yet uncomplicated.
He had been torn from that life when the renegade Collan had led an attack on the village, slaughtering the men and the older women and taking the young girls captive to be sold as slaves.
Among them had been Druss’ wife, Rowena, his love and his life. He had been felling trees high in the timberline when the attack had taken place. He had returned to the ruins of the village and set off after the killers, and he had found them.
Druss had slain many of the raiders and freed the girls, but Rowena had not been with them; Collan had taken her to Mashrapur and sold her to a Ventrian merchant. In order to earn money for his passage to Ventria, Druss had become a fighter in the sand circles of Mashrapur. And moment by bone-crunching moment the young farmer had changed, his natural strength and ferocity honed until he became the most feared fighter in the city.
At last he had journeyed on, in the company of Sieben and the Ventrian officer Bodasen, joining in the Ventrian Wars and quickly earning a deadly reputation. The Silver Slayer, they called him for his deeds with the shining double-headed ax Snaga.
Druss had fought in a score of battles and hundreds of skirmishes. Many times he had been wounded, yet always he had emerged triumphant.
When, after many years, he had found Rowena and brought her home, he had truly believed that his wanderings and his battles were blood dreams of the past. Rowena knew differently. Day by day Druss grew more morose. He was no longer a farmer and could find no pleasure in tilling the earth or tending his cattle. A little more than a year had passed when he journeyed to Dros Delnoch to join a militia force formed to counter raids by Sathuli tribesmen. Six months later, with the Sathuli forced back into the mountains, he had returned home with fresh scars and fond memories.
Closing his eyes, he recalled Rowena
’s words on the night he had returned from the Sathuli campaign. Sitting on the goatskin rug before a log fire, she had reached out and taken his hand. “My poor Druss. How can a man live for war? It is so futile.”
He had seen the sorrow in her hazel eyes and had struggled to find an answer. “It is not the fighting alone, Rowena. It is the comradeship, the fire in the blood, the facing of fear. When danger threatens, I become … a man.”
Rowena had sighed. “You are what you are, my love. But it saddens me. There is great beauty here—bringing food from the earth, watching the sun rise over the mountains and the moon’s reflection dancing on the lakes. There is contentment and joy. Yet it is not for you. Tell me, Druss: Why did you cross the world for me?”
“Because I love you. You are everything to me.”
She had shaken her head. “If that were true, you would have no desire to leave me and go wandering in search of war. Look around you at the other farmers. Do they rush off to battle?”
Druss had risen and walked to the window, pushing the shutters wide and staring out at the distant stars. “I am not like them anymore. I do not know if ever I was. I am a man fitted for war, Rowena.”
“I know,” she had said sadly. “Oh, Druss, I know.”
Draining his tankard now, Druss caught the eye of a blond serving maid. “Another!” he called out, waving the tankard in the air.
“Just a moment, sir,” she answered him.
The tavern was almost full, the atmosphere bright and noisy. Druss had found a booth in the corner of the room, where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the crowd. Usually he enjoyed the gently chaotic rhythms of a tavern, the mix of laughter and conversation, the clattering of plates, the clinking of tankards, the shuffling of feet, and the scraping of chairs. But not tonight.
The maid brought him a second tankard of ale; she was a buxom girl, full-breasted and wide-hipped. “Did you enjoy your meal, sir?” she asked, leaning forward with her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers stroked up into his short-cropped dark hair. Rowena often did the same thing when he was tense or angry. Always it soothed him. He smiled at the girl.
“It was a meal fit for a king, lass, but I didn’t enjoy it as I should. Too many weighty problems that I haven’t the brain to solve.”
“You need to relax in the company of a woman,” she said, her fingers stroking his dark beard.
Taking her hand, he gently moved it away from his face. “My woman is a long way from here, girl. But always she is close to my heart. And pretty as you are, I’ll wait to enjoy her company.” Dipping into the pouch at his belt, Druss drew out two silver pieces. “The one is for the meal, the second for you.”
“You are very kind. If you change your mind …”
“I won’t.”
As she moved away, Druss felt a cold draft on his cheek.
In that instant all sound died away. Druss blinked. The serving maid was standing statue-still, her wide skirt, which swished as she walked, motionless. All around him the diners and revelers were frozen in their places. When Druss flicked his gaze to the fire, the tongues of flame were no longer dancing between the logs but were standing steady, the smoke above them hanging solid in the chimney. And the normal smells of a tavern—roasted meats, wood smoke, and stale sweat—had disappeared, to be replaced by the sickly-sweet odor of cinnamon and burning sandalwood.
A small Nadir dressed in a tunic of goat’s hair stepped into sight, weaving his way through the silent revelers. He was old but not ancient, his thinning black hair greasy and lank. Swiftly he crossed the room and seated himself opposite Druss. “Well met, axman,” he said, his voice soft, almost sibilant.
Druss looked deep into the man’s dark, slanted eyes and read the hatred there. “Your magic will need to be very strong to stop me from reaching across and snapping your scrawny neck,” he said.
The old man grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. “I am not here to bring you harm, axman. I am Nosta Khan, shaman to the Wolfshead tribe. You aided a young friend of mine, Talisman; you fought alongside him.”
“What of it?”
“He is important to me. And we Nadir like to repay our debts.”
“I have no need of repayment. There is nothing you can offer me.”
Nosta Khan shook his head. “Never be too sure, axman. Firstly, would it surprise you to know that even now there are a dozen men waiting outside, armed with clubs and knives? Their purpose is to prevent you from fighting the Gothir champion. They have been told to cripple you if they can and kill you if they must.”
“It seems everyone wants me to lose,” said Druss. “Why do you warn me? And don’t insult me with talk of repayment. I can see the hatred in your eyes.”
The shaman was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was rich with both malice and a sense of regret. “My people need you, axman.”
Druss gave a cold smile. “It cost you to say that, did it not?”
“Indeed it did,” admitted the little man. “But I would swallow burning coals for my people, and telling a small truth to a roundeye is a pain I can live with.” He grinned again. “An ancestor of yours aided us in the past. He hated the Nadir, yet he helped my grandfather in a great battle against the Gothir. His heroism brought us closer to the days of the Uniter. He was known as Angel, but his Nadir name was Hard-to-Kill.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“You roundeyes disgust me! You call us barbarians, yet you know not the deeds of your own ancestors. Pah! Let us move on. My powers are not limitless, and soon this stinking tavern will return with all its foul noise and stench. Angel was linked to the Nadir, Druss. Linked by blood, held by destiny. So are you. I have risked my life in many fever dreams, and always your face floats before me. I do not know as yet what role you have to play in the coming drama. It may be small, though I doubt it. But whatever it is, I know where you must be in the coming days. It is necessary that you travel to the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears. It is a five-day ride to the east. There is a shrine there, dedicated to the memory of Oshikai Demon-bane, the greatest of Nadir warriors.”
“Why would I wish to go there?” asked Druss. “You say it is necessary, but I do not think so.”
The shaman shook his head. “Let me tell you of the healing stones, axman. There is said to be no wound they cannot mend. Some even claim they can raise the dead. They are hidden at the shrine.”
“As you can see,” said Druss, “I have no wound.”
The little man averted his eyes from Druss’ gaze, and a secretive smile touched his weather-beaten features. “No, you have not. But much can happen in Gulgothir. Have you forgotten the men who wait? Remember, Druss, a five-day ride due east, in the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears.”
Druss’ vision swam, and the noise of the tavern covered him once more. He blinked. The tavern maid’s skirt swished as she walked. Of the shaman there was no sign.
Draining the last of his ale, Druss pushed himself to his feet. According to the shaman, a dozen men waited outside, rogues hired to prevent him from fighting Klay. He gave a deep sigh and moved to the long trestle bar. The tavern keeper, fat of belly and red of face, approached him. “Another ale, sir?”
“No,” said Druss, placing a silver coin on the bar. “Loan me your club.”
“My club? I don’t know what you mean.”
Druss smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ve never met a tavern keeper yet, friend, who did not keep a weighted club at hand. Now, I am the Drenai fighter Druss, and I am told there is a gang outside waiting for me. They seek to stop my fight with Klay.”
“I’ve got money on that,” muttered the innkeeper. “Now look, lad, why don’t you just come with me and I’ll take you downstairs to the ale cellar? There’s a secret door that will allow you to sneak past them all.”
“I don’t need a secret door,” said Druss patiently. “I need to borrow your club.”
“One day, lad, you might realize that it is more sensible
to avoid trouble. No one is invincible.” Reaching down, he produced an eighteen-inch truncheon of black metal, which he laid on the bar. “The outer casing is iron,” he said, “but the inner is lead. Return it when you are done.”
Druss hefted the weapon; it was twice as heavy as most short swords. Sliding it up the right sleeve of his shirt, he eased himself through the crowd. As he opened the door, he saw several big men standing outside. Dressed in shabby tunics and leggings, they looked like beggars. Switching his gaze to the right, he saw a second group gathered close by. They stiffened as he appeared, and for a moment no one moved. “Well, lads,” said Druss with a broad grin. “Who wants to be first?”
“That would be me,” answered a tall man with a shaggy beard. He had wide, powerful shoulders and despite his grimy clothing was no beggar, Druss knew. The skin of his neck was white and clean, as were his hands. And the knife he carried was of Ventrian steel; weapons like that did not come cheap. “I can tell by your eyes that you’re frightened,” said the knifeman as he moved in. “And I can smell your fear.”
Druss stood very still, and the man suddenly leapt forward, his knife flashing toward Druss’ shoulder. With his left forearm Druss blocked the thrust, and in the same movement he sent a left hook exploding against the man’s chin; he hit the cobbles face first and did not move. Opening his fingers, Druss allowed the truncheon to slide from his sleeve. Figures darted from the shadows, and he charged into them, turning his shoulder into the first and cannoning him from his feet. The truncheon hammered left and right, hurling men from their feet. A knife blade grazed the top of his shoulder. Grabbing the wielder by his tunic, he head-butted the man, smashing his nose and cheekbone, then spun him into the path of two more attackers. The first fell clumsily, landing on his own knife; as the blade tore into his side, his screams rent the air. The second backed away. But more men gathered: eight fighters, all with weapons of sharp steel. Druss knew they were no longer thinking of crippling him; he could sense their hatred and the blood lust surging within them.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 8