The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (26 page)

“It’s just a little sport before we throw him to the sharks,” replied a wiry warrior with a black and silver beard.

“No one will be thrown to the sharks,” snapped Bodasen. “Now untie him.”

The men grumbled, but obeyed the order, and the giant stood rubbing his chafed wrists. His eyes met Druss’s gaze, but the corsair’s expression was unreadable. Bodasen led the man to the small cabin door below the tiller deck and they disappeared from view.

Eskodas returned and stitched the wounds in the axeman’s shoulder and side. He worked swiftly and expertly. “You must have had the gods with you,” he said. “They granted you good luck.”

“A man makes his own luck,” said Druss.

Eskodas chuckled. “Aye. Trust in the Source—but keep a spare bowstring handy. That’s what my old teacher used to tell me.”

Druss thought back to the action on the trireme. “You helped me,” he said, remembering the arrow that had killed the man coming in behind him.

“It was a good shot,” agreed Eskodas. “How are you feeling?”

Druss shrugged. “Like I could sleep for a week.”

“It is very natural, my friend. Battle lust roars through the blood, but the aftermath is unbearably depressing. Not many poets sing songs about that.” Eskodas took up a cloth and sponged the blood from Druss’s jerkin, handing it back to the axeman. “You are a great fighter, Druss—perhaps the best I’ve seen.”

Druss slipped on his jerkin, gathered Snaga, and walked to the prow where he stretched out between two bales. He slept for just under an hour, but was woken by Bodasen; he opened his eyes and saw the Ventrian bending over him as the sun was setting.

“We need to talk, my friend,” said Bodasen, and Druss sat up. The stitches in his side pulled tight as he stretched. He swore softly. “I’m tired,” said the axeman. “So let’s make this brief.”

“I have spoken with the corsair. His name is Patek …”

“I don’t care what his name is.”

Bodasen sighed. “In return for information about the numbers of corsair vessels, I have promised him his liberty when we reach Capalis. I have given him my word.”

“What has this to do with me?”

“I would like your word also that you will not kill him.”

“I don’t want to kill him. He means nothing to me.”

“Then say the words, my friend.”

Druss looked into the Ventrian’s dark eyes. “There is something else,” he said, “something you are not telling me.”

“Indeed there is,” agreed Bodasen. “Tell me that you will allow my promise to Patek to be honored, and I shall explain all.”

“Very well. I will not kill him. Now say what you have to say—and then let me get some sleep.”

Bodasen drew in a long, deep breath. “The trireme was the
Darkwind
. The captain was Earin Shad, one of the leading corsair … kings, if you like. They have been patrolling these waters for some months. One of the ships they … plundered …” Bodasen fell silent. He licked his lips. “Druss, I’m sorry. Kabuchek’s ship was taken and sunk, the passengers and crew thrown to the sharks. No one survived.”

Druss sat very still. All anger vanished from him.

“I wish there was something I could say or do to lessen your pain,” said Bodasen. “I know that you loved her.”

“Leave me be,” whispered Druss. “Just leave me be.”

5

W
ORD SOON SPREAD
among the warriors and crew of the tragedy that had befallen the huge axeman. Many of the men could not understand the depth of his grief, knowing nothing of love, but all could see the change in him. He sat at the prow, staring out over the sea, the massive axe in his hands. Sieben alone could approach him, but even the poet did not remain with him for long.

There was little laughter for the remaining three days of the voyage, for Druss’s brooding presence seemed to fill the deck. The corsair giant, Patek, remained as far from the axeman as space would allow, spending his time on the tiller deck.

On the morning of the fourth day the distant towers of Capalis could be seen, white marble glinting in the sun.

Sieben approached Druss. “Milus Bar intends to pick up a cargo of spices and attempt the return journey. Shall we stay on board?”

“I’m not going back,” said Druss.

“There is nothing here for us now,” pointed out the poet.

“There is the enemy,” the axeman grunted.

“What enemy?”

“The Naashanites.”

Sieben shook his head. “I don’t understand you. We don’t even know a Naashanite!”

“They killed my Rowena. I’ll make them pay.”

Sieben was about to debate the point, but he stopped himself. The Naashanites had bought the services of the corsairs and in Druss’s mind this made them guilty. Sieben wanted to argue, to hammer home to Druss that the real villain was Earin Shad, and that he was now dead. But what was the use? In the midst of his grief Druss would not listen. His eyes were cold, almost lifeless, and he clung to the axe as if it were his only friend.

“She must have been a very special woman,” observed Eskodas when he and Sieben stood by the port rail as
The Thunderchild
eased her way into the harbor.

“I never met her. But he speaks of her with reverence.”

Eskodas nodded, then pointed to the quayside. “There are no dockworkers,” he said, “only soldiers. The city must be under siege.”

Sieben saw movement at the far end of the quay, a column of soldiers wearing black breastplates adorned with silver marching behind a tall, wide-shouldered nobleman. “That must be Gorben,” he said. “He walks as if he owns the world.”

Eskodas chuckled. “Not any more—but I’ll agree he is a remarkably handsome fellow.”

The Emperor wore a simple black cloak above an unadorned breastplate, yet he still—like a hero of legend—commanded attention. Men ceased in their work as he approached, and Bodasen leaped from the ship even before the mooring ropes were fastened, landing lightly and stepping into the other man’s embrace. The Emperor clapped him on the back, and kissed Bodasen on both cheeks.

“I’d say they were friends,” observed Eskodas dryly.

“Strange customs they have in foreign lands,” said Sieben, with a grin.

The gangplank was lowered and a squad of soldiers moved on board, vanishing belowdecks and reappearing bearing heavy chests of brass-bound oak.

“Gold, I’d say,” whispered Eskodas, and Sieben nodded. Twenty chests in all were removed before the Drenai warriors were allowed to disembark. Sieben clambered down the gangplank just behind the bowman. As he stepped ashore he felt the ground move beneath him and he almost stumbled, then righted himself.

“Is it an earthquake?” he asked Eskodas.

“No, my friend, it is merely that you are so used to the pitching and rolling of the ship that your legs are unaccustomed to solid stone. It will pass very swiftly.”

Druss strode down to join them as Bodasen stepped forward, the Emperor beside him.

“And this, my Lord, is the warrior I spoke of—Druss the Axeman. Almost single-handedly he destroyed the corsairs.”

“I would like to have seen it,” said Gorben. “But there is time
yet to admire your prowess. The enemy is camped around our city and the attacks have begun.”

Druss said nothing, but the Emperor seemed unconcerned. “May I see your axe?” he asked. Druss nodded and passed the weapon to the monarch. Gorben accepted it and lifted the blades to his face. “Remarkable workmanship. Not a nick or a rust mark—the surface is entirely unblemished. A rare kind of steel.” He examined the black haft and the silver runes. “This is an ancient weapon, and has seen much death.”

“It will see more,” said Druss, his voice low and rumbling. At the sound, Sieben shivered.

Gorben smiled and handed back the axe, then turned to Bodasen. “When you have settled your men into their quarters you will find me at the Magisters’ Hall.” He strode away without another word.

Bodasen’s face was white with anger. “When you are in the presence of the Emperor you should bow deeply. He is a man to respect.”

“We Drenai are not well versed in subservient behavior,” Sieben pointed out.

“In Ventria such disrespect is punishable by disemboweling,” said Bodasen.

“But I think we can learn,” Sieben told him cheerfully.

Bodasen smiled. “See that you do, my friends. These are not Drenai lands, and there are other customs here. The Emperor is a good man, a fine man. Even so he must maintain discipline, and he will not tolerate such bad manners again.”

The Drenai warriors were billeted in the town center, all save Druss and Sieben, who had not signed on to fight for the Ventrians. Bodasen took the two of them to a deserted inn and told them to choose their own rooms. Food, he said, could be found at either of the two main barracks, although there were still some shops and stalls in the town center.

“Do you want to look at the city?” asked Sieben after the Ventrian general had left. Druss sat on a narrow bed staring at his hands; he did not seem to hear the question. The poet sat alongside him. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Empty.”

“Everyone dies, Druss. Even you and I. It is not your fault.”

“I don’t care about
fault
. I just keep thinking about our time in
the mountains together. I can still feel … the touch of her hand. I can still hear …” He stumbled to silence, his face reddened, and his jaw set in a tight line. “What was that about the city?” he growled.

“I thought we could take a look around.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Druss rose, gathered his axe, and strode through the door. The inn was situated on Vine Street. Bodasen had given them directions through the city and these were easy to follow, the roads being wide, the signs in several languages including the western tongue. The buildings were of white and gray stone, some more than four levels high. There were gleaming towers, domed palaces, gardens, and tree-lined avenues. The scent of flowers, jasmine and rose, was everywhere.

“It is very beautiful,” observed Sieben. They passed a near-deserted barracks and headed on toward the eastern wall. From the distance they could hear the clash of blades and the thin cries of wounded men. “I think I’ve seen enough,” announced Sieben, halting.

Druss gave a cold smile. “As you wish,” he said.

“There’s a temple back there I’d like to see more of. You know, the one with the white horses?”

“I saw it,” said Druss. The two men retraced their steps until they came to a large square. The temple was domed, and around it were twelve exquisitely sculpted statues of rearing horses, three times larger than life. A huge arched gateway, with open gates of polished brass and silver between, beckoned the two men into the temple. The domed roof had seven windows, all of colored glass, and beams of light crisscrossed the high altar. There were benches that could seat almost a thousand people, Sieben calculated, and upon the altar was a table on which was set a hunting horn of gold encrusted with gems. The poet walked down the aisle and climbed to the altar. “It’s worth a fortune,” he said.

“On the contrary,” came a low voice, “it is priceless.” Sieben turned to see a priest in robes of gray wool, embroidered with silver thread. The man was tall, his shaven head and long nose giving him a birdlike appearance. “Welcome to the shrine of Pashtar Sen.”

“The citizens here must be worthy of great trust,” said Sieben. “Such a prize as this would gain a man enormous wealth.”

The priest gave a thin smile. “Not really. Lift it!”

Sieben reached out his hand, but his fingers closed on air. The golden horn, so substantial to the eye, was merely an image. “Incredible!” whispered the poet. “How is it done?”

The priest shrugged and spread his thin arms. “Pashtar Sen worked the miracle a thousand years ago. He was a poet and a scholar, but also a man of war. According to myth he met the goddess, Ciris, and she gave him the hunting horn as a reward for his valor. He placed it here. And the moment it left his grasp it became as you see it.”

“What is its purpose?” Sieben asked.

“It has healing properties. Barren women are said to become fertile if they lie upon the altar and cover the horn. There is some evidence that this is true. And once every ten years the horn is said to become solid once more and then, so we are told, it can bring a man back from the halls of death, or carry his spirit to the stars.”