The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (15 page)

“Aye, I have. But we got the information from Old Thom. He swore they were staying in the Tree of Bone—and so they were. But they went into hiding after the fight with Borcha. We’ve men still looking; they won’t be hard to find tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” said Collan. “They won’t be hard to find; they’ll be coming here!”

“You could give his wife back,” offered Bodasen, who was lounging on a couch on the far side of the room.

“I don’t
give women back
. I take them! Anyway, I don’t know which farm wench he’s talking about. Most of those we took were freed when the madman attacked the camp. I expect his wife took a welcome opportunity to escape from his clutches.”

“He’s not a man I’d want hunting me,” said Borcha. “I’ve never hit anyone so hard—and seen them stay on their feet.”

“Get back out on the streets, all of you. Scour the inns and taverns near the docks. They won’t be far. And understand this, Kotis, if he does walk into my home tomorrow, I’ll kill you!”

The men shuffled out and Borcha leaned back on the couch, suppressing a groan as his injured rib lanced pain into his side. He had been forced to withdraw from the tournament, and that hurt his pride. Yet he felt a grudging admiration for the young
fighter; he, too, would have taken on an army for Caria. “You know what I think?” he offered.

“What?” snapped Collan.

“I think she’s the witch you sold to Kabuchek. What was her name?”

“Rowena.”

“Did you rape her?”

“I didn’t touch her,” lied Collan. “And anyway, I’ve sold her to Kabuchek. He gave me five thousand in silver—just like that. I should have asked for ten.”

“I think you should see the Old Woman,” advised Borcha.

“I don’t need a prophet to tell me how to deal with one country bumpkin and an axe. Now to business.” He turned to Bodasen. “It is too early to have received word on our demands, so why are you here tonight?”

The Ventrian smiled, his teeth startlingly white against the black trident beard. “I came because I told the young fighter that we were acquainted. I said I might be able to secure the release of his wife. But if you have already sold her, then I have wasted my time.”

“What concern is it of yours?”

Bodasen rose and flung his black cloak around his shoulders. “I am a soldier, Collan—as you once were. And I know men. You should have seen his fight with Borcha. It wasn’t pretty, it was brutal and almost terrifying. You are not dealing with a country bumpkin, you are facing a terrible killer. I don’t believe you have the men to stop him.”

“Why should you care?”

“Ventria needs the Free Traders and you are my link to them. I don’t want to see you dead just yet.”

“I am a fighter too, Bodasen,” said Collan.

“Indeed you are, Drenai. But let us review what we know. Harib Ka, according to those of his men who survived the raid, sent six men into the woods. They did not return. I spoke to Druss tonight and he told me he killed them. I believe him. Then he attacked a camp where forty armed men were based. The men ran away. Now he has fought Borcha, whom most men, including myself, believed to be invincible. The rabble you just sent out will have no chance against him.”

“True,” admitted Collan, “but as soon as he kills them the City Watch will take him. And I have only four more days to spend
here; then I sail for the Free Trading ports. However, I take it you have some advice to offer?”

“Indeed I do. Get the woman back from Kabuchek and deliver her to Druss. Buy her or steal her—but do it, Collan.”

With a short, perfunctory bow, the Ventrian officer left the room.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” advised Borcha.

“Not you as well!” stormed Collan. “By the gods, did he scramble your brains tonight? You and I both know what keeps us at the top of this filthy pile. Fear. Awe. Sometimes sheer terror. Where would my reputation be if I gave back a stolen woman?”

“You are quite right,” said Borcha, rising, “but a reputation can be rebuilt. A life is something else. He said he’d tear off your head and he’s a man who could do just that.”

“I never thought to see you running scared, my friend. I thought you were impervious to fear.”

Borcha smiled. “I am strong, Collan. I use my reputation because it makes it easier to win, but I don’t
live
it. If I were to be in the path of a charging bull, then I would step aside, or turn and run, or climb a tree. A strong man should always know his limitations.”

“Well, he’s helped you know yours, my friend,” said Collan, with a sneer.

Borcha smiled and shook his head. He left Collan’s house and wandered through the northern streets. They were wider here, and lined with trees. Officers of the Watch marched by him, the captain saluting as he recognized the champion.

Former champion, thought Borcha. Now it was Grassin who would win the accolades.

Until next year. “I’ll be back,” whispered Borcha. “I have to. It is all I have.”

Sieben floated to consciousness through layers of dreams. He was drifting on a blue lake, yet his body was dry; he was standing on an island of flowers, but could not feel the earth beneath his feet; he was lying on a satin bed, beside a statue of marble. At his touch she became flesh, but remained cold.

He opened his eyes and the dreams whispered away from his memory. Druss was still asleep. Sieben rose from the chair and stretched his back, then he gazed down on the sleeping warrior. The stitches on Druss’s brows were tight and puckered, dried
blood had stained both eyelids and his nose was swollen and discolored. Yet despite the wounds his face radiated strength, and Sieben felt chilled by the almost inhuman power of the youth.

Druss groaned and opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling this morning?” asked the poet.

“Like a horse galloped over my face,” answered Druss, rolling from the bed and pouring himself a goblet of water. Someone tapped at the door.

Sieben rose from his chair and drew a knife from its sheath. “Who is it?”

“It is me, sir,” came the voice of the tavern-maid. “There is a man to see you; he is downstairs.”

Sieben opened the door and the maid curtsied. “Do you know him?” asked Sieben.

“He is the Ventrian gentleman who was here last night, sir.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him up,” ordered Sieben. While they were waiting, he told Druss about the men who had come searching for them the night before.

“You should have woken me,” said Druss.

“I thought we could do without a scene of carnage,” Sieben replied.

Bodasen entered and immediately crossed to where Druss stood by the window. He leaned in and examined the stitches on the axeman’s eyebrows. “They’ve held well,” said Bodasen, with a smile.

“What news?” asked Druss.

The Ventrian removed his black cloak and draped it over a chair. “Last night Collan had men scouring the city for you. Assassins. But today he has come to his senses. This morning he sent a man to me with a message for you. He has decided to return your wife to you.”

“Good. When and where?”

“There is a quay about a half mile west of here. He will meet you there tonight, one hour after dusk, and he will have Rowena with him. But he is a worried man, Druss; he doesn’t want to die.”

“I’ll not kill him,” promised Druss.

“He wants you to come alone—and unarmed.”

“Madness! stormed Sieben. “Does he think he is dealing with fools?”

“Whatever else he may be,” said Bodasen, “he is still a Drenai noble. His word must be accepted.”

“Not by me,” hissed Sieben. “He is a murdering renegade who has become rich by dealing in the misery of others. Drenai noble indeed!”

“I’ll go,” said Druss. “What other choices are there?”

“It is a trap, Druss. There is no honor in men like Collan. He’ll be there, right enough—with a dozen or so killers.”

“They won’t stop me,” insisted the axeman, his pale eyes gleaming.

“A knife through the throat can stop anyone.”

Bodasen stepped forward and laid his hand on Druss’s shoulder. “Collan assured me this was an honest trade. I would not have brought this message had I believed it to be false.”

Druss nodded and smiled. “I believe you,” he said.

“How did you find us?” enquired Sieben.

“This is where you said you would be,” answered Bodasen.

“Exactly where will this meeting take place?” asked Druss. Bodasen gave directions and then bade them farewell.

When he had left, Sieben turned on the young axeman. “You truly believe him?”

“Of course. He is a Ventrian gentleman. My father told me they are the world’s worst traders because they have a hatred of lies and deceit. They are reared that way.”

“Collan isn’t a Ventrian,” Sieben pointed out.

“No,” agreed Druss, his expression grim. “No, he is not. He is everything you described. And you are quite right, poet. It will be a trap.”

“And yet you will still go?”

“As I have already said, there are no other choices. But you don’t have to be there. You owe Shadak—not me.”

Sieben smiled. “You are quite right, old horse. So how shall we play this little game?”

An hour before dusk, Collan sat in an upper room overlooking the quay. The bearded Kotis stood beside him. “Is everyone in place?” asked the Drenai swordsman.

“Aye. Two crossbowmen, and six knife-fighters. Is Borcha coming?”

Collan’s handsome face darkened. “No.”

“He would make a difference,” observed Kotis.

“Why?” snapped Collan. “He’s already taken one beating from the peasant!”

“You really think he will come alone and unarmed?”

“Bodasen believes he will.”

“Gods, what a fool!”

Collan laughed. “The world is full of fools, Kotis. That is how we grow rich.” He leaned out of the window and gazed down on the quayside. Several whores were lounging in doorways, and two beggars were accosting passersby. A drunken dockworker staggered from a tavern, collided with a wall, and slid to the ground by a mooring post. He tried to rise, but as he lifted his work-sack he fell back, and then curled up on the stone and went to sleep. What a city! thought Collan. What a wonderful city. A whore moved to the sleeping man and dipped her fingers expertly into his money-pouch.

Collan stepped back from the window and drew his saber. Taking a whetstone, he sharpened the edge. He had no intention of facing the peasant, but a man could never be too careful.

Kotis poured a goblet of cheap wine. “Don’t drink too much of that,” warned Collan. “Even unarmed, the man can fight.”

“He won’t fight so well with a crossbow bolt through the heart.”

Collan sat down in a padded leather chair and stretched out his long legs. “In a few days we’ll be rich, Kotis. Ventrian gold—enough to fill this squalid room. Then we’ll sail to Naashan and buy a palace. Maybe more than one.”

“You think the pirates will aid Ventria?” asked Kotis.

“No, they’ve already taken Naashanite gold. Ventria is finished.”

“Then we keep Bodasen’s money?”

“Of course. As I said, the world is full of fools. You know, I used to be one of them. I had dreams, I wasted half my life on them. Chivalry, gallantry. My father fed me the concepts until my mind was awash with dreams of knighthood and I truly believed it all.” Collan chuckled. “Incredible! But I learned the error of my ways. I became wise to the way of the world.”

“You are in good humor today,” observed Kotis. “You’ll have to kill Bodasen too. He won’t be pleased when he learns he’s been tricked.”

“Him I’ll fight,” said Collan. “Ventrians! A pox on them! They think they’re better than everyone else. Bodasen more than most; he thinks he’s a swordsman. We’ll see. I’ll cut him a piece at a time, a nick here and a slash there. He’ll suffer well enough. I’ll break his pride before I kill him.”

“He may be better than you,” ventured Kotis.

“No one is better than me, with saber or short blade.”

“They say Shadak is one of the best who ever lived.”

“Shadak is an old man!” stormed Collan, surging to his feet, “and even at his best he could not have faced me.”

Kotis paled and began to stammer out an apology. “Be silent!” snapped Collan. “Get outside and check that the men are in position.”

As Kotis backed from the room, Collan poured himself a goblet of wine and sat down by the window. Shadak! Always Shadak. What was it about the man that inspired men to revere him? What had he ever done? Shema’s balls, I’ve killed twice as many swordsmen as the old man! But do they sing songs about Collan? No.

One day I’ll hunt him out, he promised himself. Somewhere in public view, where men can see the great Shadak humbled. He glanced out of the window. The sun was setting, turning the sea to fire.

Soon the peasant would arrive. Soon the enjoyment would begin.

Druss approached the quayside. There was a ship moored at the far end; dockworkers were untying the mooring ropes and hurling them to the decks, while aloft sailors were unfurling the great square on the mainmast. Gulls swooped above the vessel, their wings silver in the moonlight.

The young warrior glanced along the quayside, which was almost deserted save for two whores and a sleeping man. He scanned the buildings, but all the windows were closed. He could taste fear in his mouth, not for his own safety, but for Rowena’s should Collan kill him. A life of slavery beckoned for her, and Druss could not bear that.

The wounds above his eyes were stinging, and a dull, thudding headache reminded him of the bout with Borcha. He hawked and spat, then made for the quay. From the shadows to his right a man moved.

“Druss!” came a low voice. He stopped and turned his head to see Old Thom standing just inside the mouth of a dark alleyway.

“What do you want?” asked Druss.

“They’re waiting for you, lad. There’s nine of them. Go back!”

“I cannot. They have my wife.”

“Damn you, boy, you’re going to die.”

“We’ll see.”

“Listen to me. Two have crossbows. Keep close to the wall on the right. The bowmen are in upper rooms; they’ll not be able to sight their weapons if you keep to the wall.”

“I’ll do that,” said Druss. “Thank you, old man.”