Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (21 page)

“My thanks, baker. What do I owe you?”

The baker was about to ask for two copper coins but realized in time that the old man had no pockets visible and no money sack. He sighed and said what was expected.

“No money necessary from you, Druss. Naturally.”

“Decent of you,” said Druss.

“You should get back to your quarters,” said the baker. “And get a good night’s sleep.” He was about to add that Druss was no youngster any more but thought better of it.

“Not yet. Got to see one of my officers.”

“Ah, Mendar,” said the baker, smiling.

“How did you know?”

“I saw him not twenty minutes since with three or four others heading down toward the Unicorn. We don’t see many officers here at this time of night. The Unicorn’s a soldier’s drinking house.”

“Yes. Well, thanks again. I’ll be on my way.”

Druss stood in the doorway for a few moments after the baker had returned to his oven. If Mendar was with three or four others, they might expect him to join them for a drink, and he racked his brains to think of a reason for refusing. Unable to come up with a convincing excuse, he cursed and started down Baker’s Row.

All was darkness now and silence. The silence jarred him, but his head ached too hard to consider it.

Ahead he could see the anvil sign of the armory repairer gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped again, blinking as the sign shimmered and distorted, and shook his head.

Silence … What was it about the damned silence?

He walked on, ill at ease, loosening Snaga in her sheath more as a reflex habit than as a conscious awareness of danger. He turned right …

Something swished through the air. Light exploded in his eyes as the club hit him; he went down hard and rolled in the dirt as a dark figure sprang forward. Snaga sang through the air, slicing through the man’s thigh, crunching on bone that splintered and broke, tearing a scream from the assassin. Druss lurched to his feet as more shapes came from the shadows. His vision blurred, he could still make out the gleam of steel in the moonlight. Bellowing a war cry, he lunged forward. A sword arced toward him, but he batted it aside and drove his ax through the skull of the swordsman, simultaneously kicking out at a second man. A sword blade cut through his shirt, nicking his chest. He hurled Snaga and turned to meet the third man.

It was Mendar!

Druss moved sideways with arms outstretched like a wrestler. The young officer, sword in hand, advanced confidently. Druss glanced at the second man; he was lying groaning on the ground, his weakening fingers desperately trying to pull the ax from his belly. Druss was angry with himself. He should never have hurled the ax—he blamed it on the headache and sickness. Now Mendar leapt and swung his sword, and Druss jumped backward as the silver steel swished by him, an inch from his neck.

“You can’t back away much longer, old man!” said Mendar, grinning.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Druss.

“Playing for time? Sorry? You wouldn’t understand.”

Once more he leapt and slashed, and once more Druss jumped clear. But now his back was against a building, and there was nowhere to run.

Mendar laughed. “I didn’t realize it would be so easy to kill you, Druss,” he said, and lunged. Druss twisted, slammed his hand against the flat of the sword, then leapt forward as the weapon sliced the skin over his ribs and hammered a fist into Mendar’s face. The tall officer staggered back with blood pouring from his mouth. A second blow crashed under his heart, snapping a rib. He went down, losing his grip on his sword, but huge fingers gripped his throat and hauled him upright. He blinked. The grip relaxed just enough for him to squeeze air through his windpipe.

“Easy, boy? Nothing in life is easy.”

A whisper of sound came from behind him.

Druss grabbed Mendar and swung him around. A double-headed ax cleaved the officer’s shoulder, lodging against the breastbone. Druss hurdled the body and shoulder-charged the assassin as he struggled to free his weapon. The man was hurled backward. As Druss clambered to his feet, the killer turned and sprinted out into Baker’s Row.

Druss cursed and returned to the dying officer. Blood poured from the ghastly wound, soaking into the hard-packed earth.

“Help me,” said Mendar. “Please!”

“Think yourself lucky, you whoreson. I would have killed you much more slowly. Who was he?”

But Mendar was dead. Druss retrieved Snaga from the other dead assassin, then searched for the man whose leg he had wounded. Following a trail of blood into a narrow alley, he found the man lying back against a wall, a dagger rammed to the hilt in his heart, his fingers still curled about the handle.

Druss rubbed his eyes, and his hand came away sticky. He ran his fingers over his temple. A lump the size of an egg, tender and broken, made him curse once more.

Was nothing simple in the world anymore?

In his day a battle was a battle, army against army.

Pull yourself together, he told himself. There have always been traitors and assassins.

It was just that he had never been a target before.

Suddenly he laughed as he remembered the silence. The inn was empty. As he turned into Unicorn Alley, he should have realized the danger. Why would five men be waiting for him after midnight in a deserted alley?

You old fool, he told himself. You must be getting senile.

Musar sat alone in his loft, listening to the pigeons as they ruffled their feathers to greet the new dawn. He was calm now, tranquil almost, and his large hands no longer trembled. He walked to the window, leaning far out over the sill to gaze north. His one all-consuming ambition had been to see Ulric ride into Dros Delnoch and on to the rich southlands, to see the rise, at long last, of the Nadir empire.

Now his Drenai wife and his eight-year-old son lay below, their sleep deepening toward death as he savored his last dawn.

It had been hard watching them sip their poisoned drinks, listening to his wife’s amiable chatter about her plans for tomorrow. When his son had asked him if he could go riding with Brentar’s boy, he had said that he could.

He should have followed his first instincts and poisoned the old warrior, but Dun Mendar had convinced him otherwise. Suspicion would then have fallen instantly on the master of ceremonies. This way was surer, Mendar had promised: drug him and kill him in a dark alleyway. So simple!

How could one so old move so swiftly?

Musar had felt he could bluff it out. He knew Druss would never recognize him as the fifth assassin, for his face had been half-covered by a dark scarf. But the risks were too great, maintained his Nadir lord, Surip. The last message had congratulated him on his work over these last twelve years and had concluded “Peace on you, brother, and your family.”

Musar filled a deep bucket with warm water from a large copper kettle.

Then he took a dagger from a shelf at the rear of the loft and sharpened it on a small whetstone. The risks were too great? Indeed they were. Musar knew the Nadir had another man at Delnoch, more highly placed than he. On no account would he be compromised.

He plunged his left arm into the bucket, then, holding the dagger firmly with his right, he severed the arteries of the wrist. The water changed color.

He had been a fool to marry, he thought, tears shining in his eyes.

But she had been so lovely …

Hogun and Elicas watched as men from the legion cleared away the bodies of the assassins. Spectators looked on from nearby windows, calling down questions, but the legion ignored them.

Elicas tugged at his small gold earring as Lebus the tracker outlined the skirmish. Elicas had never lost his fascination for the tracker’s skill. On a trail Lebus could tell one the sex of the horses, the age of the riders, and damned near the conversations around the camp fires. It was a science beyond his understanding.

“The old man entered the alley over there. The first man was hidden in the shadows. He struck him, and Druss fell. He rose fast. See the blood there? An ax cut across the thigh. Then he charged the other three, but he must have thrown his ax because he backed away to the wall there.”

“How did he manage to kill Mendar?” asked Hogun, who already knew from Druss. But he, too, appreciated Lebus’ skill.

“That had me puzzled, sir,” said the tracker. “But I think I have it. There was a fifth attacker who stayed back during the struggle. There is some indication that Druss and Mendar had ceased to fight and were standing close. The fifth man must have moved in then. See the heel mark there? That belongs to Druss. See the deep round imprint? I would say he swung Mendar around to block the fifth man.”

“Good work, Lebus,” said Hogun. “The men say you could track a bird in flight, and I believe them.”

Lebus bowed and moved away.

“I begin to believe Druss is everything they say he is,” said Elicas. “Astonishing!”

“True,” said Hogun, “but worrying. To have an army the size of Ulric’s opposing us is one thing; traitors at the Dros is quite another. And as for Mendar … it is almost beyond belief.”

“From a good family, I understand. I have put it around that Mendar aided Druss against Nadir infiltrators. It may work. Not everyone has Lebus’ talent, and anyway, the ground will be well trodden over by full daylight.”

“The Mendar story is a good one,” said Hogun. “But word will get out.”

“How is the old man?” asked Elicas.

“Ten stitches in his side and four in his head. He was asleep when I left. Calvar Syn says it’s a miracle the skull didn’t crack.”

“Will he still judge the open swords?” asked the younger man. Hogun merely raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I thought he would. That’s a shame.”

“Why?” asked Hogun.

“Well, if he hadn’t judged it, you would have done so. And then I would have missed the pleasure of beating you.”

“You conceited pup!” said Hogun, laughing. “The day has not yet come when you could breach my guard, even with a wooden sword.”

“There’s a first time for everything. And you’re not getting any younger, Hogun. Why, you must be over thirty. One foot in the grave!”

“We shall see. A side bet, perhaps?”

“A flagon of red?” said Elicas.

“Done, my lad! Nothing tastes sweeter than wine another man has paid for.”

“As I shall no doubt find out this evening,” retorted Elicas.

14

T
he marriage was
a simple one, performed by the Abbot of Swords, Vintar, and witnessed by the captain and mate of the
Wastrel
. The sea was calm, the night sky cloudless. Overhead gulls wheeled and dived, a sure sign of approaching land.

Antaheim, one of the Thirty, tall and slender, his dark features showing his Vagrian descent, supplied the ring: an unadorned band of gold.

Now, as the dawn neared and the others slept, Rek stood alone at the prow, starlight glinting on his silver headband, wind streaming his hair like a dark banner.

The die was cast now. He was chained by his own hand to the Delnoch cause. Sea spray stung his eyes, and he stepped back, sitting down with his back to the rail and hugging his cloak tightly about him. All his life he had sought direction and an escape from fear, an end to trembling hands and an unsteady heart. Now his fears had vanished like candle wax before a flame.

Earl Regnak of Dros Delnoch, Warden of the North.

At first Virae had refused his offer, but ultimately, he knew, she would be forced to accept. If she had not married him, Abalayn would have sent a husband posthaste. It was inconceivable that Delnoch should lack a leader and equally inconceivable for a woman to take on the duties.

The captain had sprinkled their heads with seawater in the ritual blessing, but Vintar, a lover of truth, had omitted the blessing of fertility and replaced it with the more simple “Be happy, my children, now and until the end of your lives.”

Druss had escaped the attempt on his life, Gan Orrin had found his strength, and the Thirty were only two days from Dros Purdol and the last stage of their journey. The winds had been kind, and
Wastrel
was two, maybe three days ahead of schedule.