The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (24 page)

He smoothed out the hide and gazed with undisguised fury at the map. Two-thirds of the Empire had been overrun. Leaning back in his chair, he remembered the palace at Nusa where he had been born and raised. Built on a hill overlooking a verdant valley, and a glistening city of white marble, the palace had taken twelve years to construct, and at one time more than eight thousand workers had labored on the task, bringing in blocks of granite and marble and towering trunks of cedar, oak, and elm to be fashioned by the Royal masons and carpenters.

Nusa—the first of the cities to fall. “By all the gods of Hell, Father, I curse thee!” hissed Gorben. His father had reduced the size of the national army, relying on the wealth and power of his Satraps to protect the borders. But four of the nine Satraps had betrayed him, opening a path for the Naashanites to invade. His father had gathered an army to confront them, but his military skills were nonexistent. He had fought bravely, so Gorben had been informed—but then they would say that to the new Emperor.

The new Emperor! Gorben rose now and walked to the silvered mirror on the far wall. What he saw was a young, handsome man, with black hair that gleamed with scented oils, and deep-set dark eyes. It was a strong face—but was it the face of an Emperor? Can you overcome the enemy, he asked himself silently, aware that any spoken word could be heard by servants and repeated. The gilded breastplate had been worn by warrior Emperors for two hundred years, and the cloak of purple was the mark of ultimate royalty. But these were merely adornments. What mattered was the man who wore them. Are you man enough? He gazed hard at his reflection, taking in the broad shoulders and the narrow waist, the muscular legs and powerful arms. But these too were merely adornments, he knew. The cloak of the soul.

Are you man enough?

The thought haunted him, and he returned to his studies. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Gorben stared down at the map once more. Scrawled across it in charcoal was the new line of defense: Capalis to the west, Larian and Ectanis to the east. Gorben hurled the map aside. Beneath it lay a second map of the port city of Capalis. Four gates, sixteen towers, and a single
wall which stretched from the sea in the south in a curving half circle to the cliffs of the north. Two miles of wall, forty feet high, guarded by three thousand men, many of them raw recruits with no shields nor breastplates.

Rising, Gorben moved to the window and the balcony beyond. The harbor and the open sea met his gaze. “Ah, Bodasen, my brother, where are you?” he whispered. The sea seemed so peaceful under the clear blue sky and the young Emperor sank into a padded seat and lifted his feet to rest on the balcony rail.

On this warm, tranquil day it seemed inconceivable that so much death and destruction had been visited upon the Empire in so short a time. He closed his eyes and recalled the Summer Banquet at Nusa last year. His father had been celebrating his forty-fourth birthday, and the seventeenth anniversary of his accession to the throne. The banquet had lasted eight days and there had been circuses, plays, knightly combat, displays of archery, running, wrestling, and riding. The nine Satraps were all present, smiling and offering toasts to the Emperor. Shabag, tall and slim, hawkeyed, and cruel of mouth. Gorben pictured him. He always wore black gloves, even in the hottest weather, and tunics of silk buttoned to the neck. Berish, fat and greedy, but a wonderful raconteur with his tales of orgies and humorous calamities. Darishan, the Fox of the North, the cavalryman, the Lancer, with his long silver hair braided like a woman. And Ashac, the Peacock, the lizard-eyed lover of boys. They had been given pride of place on either side of the Emperor, while his eldest son was forced to sit on the lower table, gazing up at these men of power!

Shabag, Berish, Darishan, and Ashac! Names and faces that burned Gorben’s heart and soul. Traitors! Men who swore allegiance to his father, then saw him done to death, his lands overrun and his people slaughtered.

Gorben opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I will seek you out—each one of you,” he promised, “and I will pay you back for your treachery.”

The threat was as empty as the treasury coffers, and Gorben knew it.

A soft tapping came at the outer door. “Enter!” he called.

Nebuchad stepped inside and bowed low. “The scouts are in, Lord. The enemy is less than two days’ march from the walls.”

“What news from the east?”

“None, Lord. Perhaps our riders did not get through.”

“What of the supplies?”

Nebuchad reached inside his tunic and produced a parchment scroll which he unrolled. “We have sixteen thousand loaves of unleavened bread, a thousand barrels of flour, eight hundred beef cattle, one hundred and forty goats. The sheep have not been counted yet. There is little cheese left, but a great quantity of oats and dried fruit.”

“What about salt?”

“Salt, Lord?”

“When we kill the cattle, how will we keep the meat fresh?”

“We could kill them only when we need them,” offered Nebuchad, reddening.

“To keep the cattle we must feed them, but there is no food to spare. Therefore they must be slaughtered, and the meat salted. Scour the city. And, Nebuchad?”

“Lord?”

“You did not mention water.”

“But, Lord, the river flows through the city.”

“Indeed it does. But what will we drink when the enemy dams it, or fills it with poisons?”

“There are artesian wells, I believe.”

“Locate them.”

The young man’s head dropped. “I fear, Lord, that I am not serving you well. I should have anticipated these requirements.”

Gorben smiled. “You have much to think of and I am well pleased with you. But you do need help. Take Jasua.”

“As you wish, Lord,” said Nebuchad doubtfully.

“You do not like him?”

Nebuchad swallowed hard. “It is not a question of
like
, Lord. But he treats me with … contempt.”

Gorben’s eyes narrowed, but he held the anger from his voice. “Tell him it is my wish that he assist you. Now go.”

As the door closed, Gorben slumped down onto a satin-covered couch. “Sweet Lords of Heaven,” he whispered, “does my future depend on men of such little substance?” He sighed, then gazed once more out to sea. “I need you, Bodasen,” he said. “By all that is sacred, I need you!”

Bodasen stood on the tiller deck, his right hand shading his eyes, his vision focusing on the far horizon. On the main deck sailors
were busy repairing the rail, while others were aloft in the rigging, or refastening bales that had slipped during the storm.

“You’ll see pirates soon enough if they are near,” said Milus Bar.

Bodasen nodded and swung back to the skipper. “With a mere twenty-four warriors, I am hoping not to see them at all,” he said softly.

The captain chuckled. “In life we do not always get what we want, my Ventrian friend. I did not want a storm. I did not want my first wife to leave me—nor my second wife to stay.” He shrugged. “Such is life, eh?”

“You do not seem unduly concerned.”

“I am a fatalist, Bodasen. What will be will be.”

“Could we outrun them?”

Milus Bar shrugged once more. “It depends on which direction they are coming from.” He waved his hand in the air. “The wind. Behind us? Yes. There is not a swifter ship on the ocean than my
Thunderchild
. Ahead and to the west—probably. Ahead and to the east—no. They would ram us. They have a great advantage, for many of their vessels are triremes with three banks of oars. You would be amazed, my friend, at the speed with which they can turn and ram.”

“How long now to Capalis?”

“Two days—maybe three if the wind drops.”

Bodasen moved across the tiller deck, climbing down the six steps to the main deck. He saw Druss, Sieben, and Eskodas by the prow and walked toward them. Druss saw him and glanced up.

“Just the man we need,” said the axeman. “We are talking about Ventria. Sieben maintains there are mountains there which brush the moon. Is it so?”

“I have not seen all of the Empire,” Bodasen told him, “but according to our astronomers the moon is more than a quarter of a million miles from the surface of the earth. Therefore I would doubt it.”

“Such eastern nonsense,” mocked Sieben. “There was a Drenai archer once, who fired a shaft into the moon. He had a great bow called Akansin, twelve feet long and woven with spells. He fired a black arrow, which he named Paka. Attached to the arrow was a thread of silver, which he used to climb to the moon. He sat upon it as it sailed around the great plate of the earth.”

“Mere fable,” insisted Bodasen.

“It is recorded in the library at Drenan—in the
Historic
section.”

“All that tells me is how limited is your understanding of the universe,” said Bodasen. “Do you still believe the sun is a golden chariot drawn by six white, winged horses?” He sat down upon a coiled rope. “Or perhaps that the earth sits upon the shoulders of an elephant, or some such beast?”

Sieben smiled. “No, we do not. But would it not be better if we did? Is there not a certain beauty in the tale? One day I shall craft a bow and shoot at the moon.”

“Never mind the moon,” said Druss. “I want to know about Ventria.”

“According to the census ordered by the Emperor fifteen years ago, and concluded only last year, the Greater Ventrian empire is 214,969 square miles. It has an estimated population of fifteen and a half million people. On a succession of fast horses, a rider galloping along the borders would return to where he started in just under four years.”

Druss looked crestfallen. He swallowed hard. “So large?”

“So large,” agreed Bodasen.

Druss’s eyes narrowed. “I will find her,” he said at last.

“Of course you will,” said Bodasen. “She left with Kabuchek and he will have headed for his home in Ectanis, which means he will have docked at Capalis. Kabuchek is a famous man, senior advisor to the Satrap, Shabag. He will not be hard to find. Unless …”

“Unless what?” queried Druss.

“Unless Ectanis has already fallen.”

“Sail! Sail!” came a cry from the rigging. Bodasen leaped up, eyes scanning the glittering water. Then he saw the ship in the east with sails furled, three banks of oars glistening like wings. Swinging back toward the main deck, he drew his saber.

“Gather your weapons,” he shouted.

Druss donned his jerkin and helm and stood at the prow, watching the trireme glide toward them. Even at this distance he could see the fighting men thronging the decks.

“A magnificent ship,” he said.

Beside him Sieben nodded. “The very best. Two hundred and forty oars. See there! At the prow!”

Druss focused on the oncoming ship, and saw a glint of gold at the waterline. “I see it.”

“That is the ram. It is an extension of the keel, and it is covered with reinforced bronze. With three banks of oars at full stretch, that ram could punch through the hull of the strongest vessel!”

“Will that be their plan?” Druss asked.

Sieben shook his head. “I doubt it. This is a merchant vessel, ripe for plunder. They will come in close, the oars will be withdrawn, and they’ll try to drag us with grappling-hooks.”

Druss hefted Snaga and glanced back along the deck. The remaining Drenai warriors were armored now, their faces grim. Bowmen, Eskodas among them, were climbing the rigging to hook themselves into place high above the deck, ready to shoot down into the enemy. Bodasen was standing on the tiller deck with a black breastplate buckled to his torso.

The Thunderchild
swung away toward the west, then veered back. In the distance two more sails could be seen and Sieben swore. “We can’t fight them all,” he said. Druss glanced at the billowing sail, and then back at the newly sighted vessel.

“They don’t look the same,” he observed. “They’re bulkier. No oars. And they’re tacking against the wind. If we can deal with the trireme, they’ll not catch us.”

Sieben chuckled. “Aye, aye, captain. I bow to your superior knowledge of the sea.”

“I’m a swift learner. That’s because I listen.”

“You never listen to me. I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve fallen asleep during our conversations on this voyage.”

The Thunderchild
swung again, veering away from the trireme. Druss swore and ran back along the deck, climbing swiftly to where Bodasen stood with Milus Bar at the tiller.

“What are you doing?” he yelled at the skipper.

“Get off my deck!” roared Milus.

“If you keep this course, we’ll have three ships to fight,” Druss snarled.

“What other choices are there?” queried Bodasen. “We cannot defeat a trireme.”

“Why?” asked Druss. “They are only men.”

“They have close to one hundred fighting men—plus the oarsmen. We have twenty-four, and a few sailors. The odds speak for themselves.”

Druss glanced back at the sailing-ships to the west. “How many men do they have?”

Bodasen spread his hands and looked to Milus Bar. The captain
thought for a moment. “More than two hundred on each ship,” he admitted.

“Can we outrun them?”

“If we get a mist, or if we can keep them off until dusk.”

“What chance of either?” inquired the axeman.

“Precious little,” said Milus.

“Then let’s at least take the fight to them.”

“How do you suggest we do that, young man?” the captain asked.

Druss smiled. “I’m no sailor, but it seems to me their biggest advantage lies in the oars. Can we not try to smash them?”

“We could,” admitted Milus, “but that would bring us in close enough for their grappling-hooks. We’d be finished then; they’d board us.”

“Or we board them!” snapped Druss.

Milus laughed aloud, “You are insane!”

“Insane and quite correct,” said Bodasen. “They are hunting us down like wolves around a stag. Let’s do it, Milus!”

For a moment the captain stood and stared at the two warriors, then he swore and leaned in to the tiller.
The Thunderchild
swung toward the oncoming trireme.

His name was Earin Shad, though none of his crew used it. They addressed him to his face as Sea Lord, or Great One, while behind his back they used the Naashanite slang
—Bojeeba
, The Shark.