The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (22 page)

“Move yourself, dog-face!” yelled a warrior, leaning over the rail.

The axeman glanced up at the speaker, then turned back to Borcha. “Be lucky, my friend,” he said, then strode up the gangplank.

With the ropes loosed,
The Thunderchild
eased away from the quayside.

Warriors were lounging on the deck, or leaning over the rail waving goodbye to friends and loved ones. Druss found a space by the port rail and sat, laying his axe on the deck beside him. Bodasen was standing beside the mate at the tiller; he waved and smiled at the axeman.

Druss leaned back, feeling curiously at peace. The months trapped in Mashrapur had been hard on the young man. He pictured Rowena.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered.

Sieben strolled away from the quay, and off into the maze of alleys leading to the park. Ignoring the whores who pressed close
around him, his thoughts were many. There was sadness at the departure of Druss. He had come to like the young axeman; there were no hidden sides to him, no cunning, no guile. And much as he laughed at the axeman’s rigid morality, he secretly admired the strength that gave birth to it. Druss had even sought out the surgeon Calvar Syn, and settled his debt. Sieben had gone with him and would long remember the surprise that registered on the young doctor’s face.

But Ventria? Sieben had no wish to visit a land torn by war.

He thought of Evejorda and regret washed over him. He’d like to have seen her just one more time, to have felt those slim thighs sliding up over his hips. But Shadak was right; it was too dangerous for both of them.

Sieben turned left and started to climb the Hundred Steps to the park gateway. Shadak was wrong about Gulgothir. He remembered the filth-strewn streets, the limbless beggars, and the cries of the dispossessed. But he remembered them without bitterness. And was it his fault that his father had made such a fool of himself with the Duchess? Anger flared briefly. Stupid fool, he thought. Stupid, stupid man! She had stripped him first of his wealth, then his dignity, and finally his manhood. They called her the Vampire Queen and it was a good description, save that she didn’t drink blood. No, she drank the very life force from a man, sucked him dry and left him thanking her for doing it, begging her to do it again.

Sieben’s father had been thrown aside—a useless husk, an empty, discarded shell of a man. While Sieben and his mother had almost starved, his father was sitting like a beggar outside the home of the Duchess. He sat there for a month, and finally cut his own throat with a rusty blade.

Stupid, stupid man!

But I am not stupid, thought Sieben as he climbed the steps. I am not like my father.

He glanced up to see two men walking down the steps toward him. They wore long cloaks that were drawn tightly across their bodies. Sieben paused in his climb. It was a hot morning, so why would they be dressed in such a manner? Hearing a sound, he turned to see another man climbing behind him. He also wore a long cloak.

Fear flared suddenly in the poet’s heart and, spinning on his heel, he descended toward the single man. As he neared the
climber, the cloak flashed back, a long knife appearing in the man’s hand. Sieben leaped feet first, his right boot cracking into the man’s chin and sending him tumbling down the steps. Sieben landed heavily but rose swiftly and began to run, taking the steps three at a time. He could hear the men behind him also running.

Reaching the bottom, he set off through the alleyways. A hunting horn sounded and a tall warrior leaped into his path with a sword in hand. Sieben, at full run, turned his shoulder into the man, barging him aside. He swerved right, then left. A knife sliced past his head to clatter against a wall.

Increasing his speed, he raced across a small square and into a side street. He could see the docks ahead. It was more crowded here and he pushed his way through. Several men shouted abuse, and a young woman fell behind him. He glanced back—there were at least half a dozen pursuers.

Close to panic now, he emerged onto the quay. To his left he saw a group of men emerge from a side street; they were all carrying weapons and Sieben swore.

The Thunderchild
was slipping away from the quayside as Sieben ran across the cobbles and launched himself through the air, reaching out to grab at a trailing rope. His fingers curled around it, and his body cracked against the ship’s timbers. Almost losing his grip, he clung to the rope as a knife thudded into the wood beside his head. Fear gave him strength and he began to climb.

A familiar face loomed above him and Druss leaned over, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him onto the deck.

“Changed your mind, I see,” said the axeman. Sieben gave a weak smile and glanced back at the quay. There were at least a dozen armed men there now.

“I thought the sea air would be good for me,” said Sieben.

The captain, a bearded man in his fifties, pushed his way through to them. “What’s going on?” he said. “I can only carry fifty men. That’s the limit.”

“He doesn’t weigh much,” said Druss good-naturedly.

Another man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a dented breastplate, two short swords, and a baldric boasting four knives. “First you keep us waiting, dogface, and now you bring your boyfriend aboard. Well, Kelva the Swordsman won’t sail with the likes of you.”

“Then don’t!” Druss’s left hand snaked out, his fingers locking
to the man’s throat, his right slamming home into the warrior’s groin. With one surging heave, Druss lifted the struggling man into the air and tossed him over the side. He hit with a great splash and came up struggling under the weight of his armor.

The Thunderchild
pulled away and Druss turned to the captain. “Now we are fifty again,” he said, with a smile.

“Can’t argue with that,” the captain agreed. He swung to the sailors standing by the mast. “Let loose the mainsail!” he bellowed.

Sieben walked to the rail and saw that people on the quayside had thrown a rope to the struggling warrior in the water. “He might have friends aboard the ship,” observed the poet.

“They’re welcome to join him,” answered Druss.

3

E
ACH MORNING
E
SKODAS
paced the deck, moving along the port rail all the way to the prow and then back along the starboard rail, rising the six steps to the tiller deck at the stern, where either the captain or the first mate would be standing alongside the curved oak tiller.

The bowman feared the sea, gazing with undisguised dread at the rolling waves and feeling the awesome power that lifted the ship like a piece of driftwood. On the first morning of the voyage, Eskodas had climbed to the tiller deck and approached the captain, Milus Bar.

“No passengers up here,” said the captain sternly.

“I have questions, sir,” Eskodas told him politely.

Milus Bar looped a hemp rope over the tiller arm, securing it. “About what?” he asked.

“The boat.”

“Ship,” snapped Milus.

“Yes, the ship. Forgive me, I am not versed in nautical terms.”

“She’s seaworthy,” said Milus. “Three hundred and fifty feet of seasoned timber. She leaks no more than a man can sweat, and she’ll ride any storm the gods can throw our way. She’s sleek. She’s fast. What else do you need to know?”

“You talk of the … ship … as a woman.”

“Better than any woman I ever knew,” said Milus, grinning. “She’s never let me down.”

“She seems so small against the immensity of the ocean,” observed Eskodas.

“We are all small against the ocean, lad. But there are few storms at this time of year. Our danger is pirates, and that’s why you are here.” He stared at the young bowman, his gray eyes narrowing under heavy brows. “If you don’t mind me saying so, lad, you seem a little out of place among these killers and villains.”

“I don’t object to you saying it, sir,” Eskodas told him. “They might object to hearing it, however. Thank you for your time and your courtesy.”

The bowman climbed down to the main deck. Men were lounging everywhere, some dicing, others talking. By the port rail several others were engaged in an arm-wrestling tourney. Eskodas moved through them toward the prow.

The sun was bright in a blue sky, and there was a good following breeze. Gulls circled high above the ship, and to the north he could just make out the coast of Lentria. At this distance the land seemed misty and unreal, a place of ghosts and legends.

There were two men sitting by the prow. One was the slim young man who had boarded the ship so spectacularly. Blond and handsome, long hair held in place by a silver headband, his clothes were expensive—a pale blue shirt of fine silk, dark blue leggings of lambswool seamed with soft leather. The other man was huge; he had lifted Kelva as if the warrior weighed no more than a few ounces, and hurled him into the sea like a spear. Eskodas approached them. The giant was younger than he had first thought, but the beginnings of a dark beard gave him the look of someone older. Eskodas met his gaze. Cold blue eyes, flint-hard and unwelcoming. The bowman smiled. “Good morning,” he said. The giant grunted something, but the blond dandy rose and extended his hand.

“Hello, there. My name is Sieben. This is Druss.”

“Ay, yes. He defeated Grassin at the tournament—broke his jaw, I believe.”

“In several places,” said Sieben.

“I am Eskodas.” The bowman sat down on a coiled rope and leaned his back against a cloth-bound bale. Closing his eyes, he felt the sun warm on his face. The silence lasted for several moments, then the two men resumed their conversation.

Eskodas didn’t listen too intently … something about a woman and assassins.

He thought of the journey ahead. He had never seen Ventria, which according to the story books was a land of fabled wealth, dragons, centaurs, and many wild beasts. He tended to disbelieve the part about the dragons; he was widely traveled, and in every country there were stories of them, but never had Eskodas seen one. In Chiatze there was a museum where the bones of a dragon had been reassembled. The skeleton was colossal, but it had no
wings, and a neck that was at least eight feet long. No fire could have issued from such a throat, he thought.

But dragons or not, Eskodas looked forward with real pleasure to seeing Ventria.

“You don’t say much, do you?” observed Sieben.

Eskodas opened his eyes and smiled. “When I have something to say, I will speak,” he said.

“You’ll never get the chance,” grunted Druss. “Sieben talks enough for ten men.”

Eskodas smiled politely. “You are the saga-master,” he said.

“Yes. How gratifying to be recognized.”

“I saw you in Corteswain. You gave a performance of
The Song of Karnak
. It was very good; I particularly enjoyed the tale of Dros Purdol and the siege, though I was less impressed by the arrival of the gods of war, and the mysterious princess with the power to hurl lightning.”

“Dramatic license,” said Sieben, with a tight smile.

“The courage of men needs no such license,” said Eskodas. “It lessens the heroism of the defenders to suggest that they had divine help.”

“It was not a history lesson,” Sieben pointed out, his smile fading. “It was a poem—a song. The arrival of the gods was merely an artistic device to highlight the idea that courage will sometimes bring about good fortune.”

“Hmmm,” said Eskodas, leaning back and closing his eyes.

“What does that mean?” demanded Sieben. “Are you disagreeing?”

Eskodas sighed. “It is not my wish to provoke an argument, sir poet, but I think the device was a poor one. You maintain it was inserted to supply dramatic effect. There is no point in further discussion; I have no desire to increase your anger.”

“I am not angry, damn you!” stormed Sieben.

“He doesn’t take well to criticism,” said Druss.

“That’s very droll,” snapped Sieben, “coming as it does from the man who tosses shipmates over the side at the first angry word. Now why was it a poor device?”

Eskodas leaned forward. “I have been in many sieges. The point of greatest courage comes at the end, when all seems lost; that is when weak men break and run, or beg for their lives. You had the gods arrive just before that moment, and offer divine assistance to thwart the Vagrians. Therefore the truly climactic moment
was lost, for as soon as the gods appeared we knew victory was assured.”