The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (47 page)

“How disappointing for you,” she replied, her smile friendly. “You hear of a princess and meet a plump matron.”

“He wants me to travel to Skeln,” said Druss.

“I heard. I think you should go.”

“I am no speechmaker,” growled Druss.

“Then take Sieben with you. It will do you good. You have no idea how irritating it is to have you fussing around me all day. Be honest, you will enjoy yourself enormously.”

“Are you married?” Druss asked Certak, his voice almost a growl.

“No, sir.”

“Very wise. Will you stay the night?”

“No, sir. Thank you. I have other dispatches to deliver. But I will see you at Skeln … and look forward to it.” The officer bowed once more and backed away toward the door.

“You will stay for supper,” ordered Rowena. “Your dispatches can wait for at least one hour.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but …”

“Give up, Certak,” advised Druss. “You cannot win.”

The officer smiled and spread his hands. “An hour then,” he agreed.

The following morning, on borrowed horses, Druss and Sieben waved farewell and headed east. Rowena waved and smiled until they were out of sight, then returned to the house, where Pudri was waiting.

“You should not have sent him away, lady,” said the Ventrian sadly. Rowena swallowed hard, and the tears began to flow. Pudri moved alongside her, his slender arms encircling her.

“I had to. He must not be here when the time comes.”

“He would want to be here.”

“In so many ways he is the strongest man I have ever known. But in this I am right. He must not see me die.”

“I will be with you, lady. I will hold your hand.”

“You will tell him that it was sudden, and there was no pain—even if it is a lie?”

“I will.”

Six days later, after a dozen changes of mount, Certak galloped into the camp. There were four hundred white tents set in unit squares in the shadow of the Skeln range, each housing twelve men. Four thousand horses were picketed in the surrounding fields, and sixty cookfires were blazing under iron pots. The odor of stew assailed him as he reined in outside the large red-striped tent used by the general and his staff.

The young officer handed over his dispatches, saluted, and left to rejoin his company at the northern edge of the camp. Leaving his lathered mount with a groom, he removed his helm and pushed aside the tent flap of his quarters. Inside his companions were dicing and drinking. The game broke up as he entered.

“Certak!” said Orases, grinning and rising to meet him. “Well, what was he like?”

“Who?” asked Certak innocently.

“Druss, you moron.”

“Big,” said Certak, moving past the burly blond officer and throwing his helm to the narrow pallet bed. He unbuckled his breastplate, letting it drop to the floor. Freed of its weight, he took a deep breath and scratched his chest.

“Now don’t be annoying, there’s a good fellow,” said Orases, his smile fading. “Tell us about him.”

“Do tell him,” urged the dark-eyed Diagoras. “He’s been talking about the axeman nonstop since you left.”

“That’s not true,” muttered Orases, blushing. “We’ve all been talking about him.” Certak slapped Orases on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair.

“You get me a drink, Orases, and then I’ll tell you all.”

As Orases fetched a flagon of wine and four goblets, Diagoras moved smoothly to his feet and pulled up a chair, reversing it before sitting opposite Certak, who had stretched out on the bed.
The fourth man, Archytas, joined them, accepting a goblet of light honey mead wine from Orases and draining it swiftly.

“As I said, he is big,” said Certak. “Not as tall as the stories claim, but built like a small castle. The size of his arms? Well, his biceps are as long as your thighs, Diagoras. He is bearded and dark, though there is some gray in his hair. His eyes are blue, and they seem to look through you.”

“And Rowena?” asked Orases eagerly. “Is she as fabulously beautiful as the poem says?”

“No. She is nice enough, in a matronly sort of way. I suppose she would have been lovely once. It’s hard to tell with some of these older women. Her eyes are gorgeous, though, and she has a pretty smile.”

“Did you see the axe?” asked Archytas, a wand-slender nobleman from the Lentrian border.

“No.”

“Did you ask Druss about his battles?” asked Diagoras.

“Of course not, you fool. He may be only a farmer now, but he’s still Druss. You don’t just march up and ask how many dragons he’s downed.”

“There are no dragons,” said Archytas loftily.

Certak shook his head, staring at the man through narrowed eyes.

“It was a figure of speech,” he said. “Anyway, they invited me to join them for supper and we chatted about horses and the running of the farm. He asked my opinion about the war, and I told him I thought Gorben would sail for Penrac Bay.”

“It’s a safe bet,” said Diagoras.

“Not necessarily. If it’s that safe, how come we’re stuck here with five regiments?”

“Abalayn is overcautious,” answered Diagoras, grinning.

“That’s the trouble with you westerners,” said Certak. “You live so long with your horses that you start to think like them. Skeln Pass is a gateway to the Sentran Plain. If Gorben took that we would starve during the winter. So would half of Vagria, for that matter.”

“Gorben is no fool,” offered Archytas. “He knows Skeln can be defended forever with two thousand men. The pass is too narrow for the numbers of his army to be of any real use. And there’s no other way through. Penrac makes more sense. It’s only three
hundred miles from Drenan and the countryside around is as flat as a lake. There his army could spread and cause real problems.”

“I don’t particularly care where he lands,” said Orases, “as long as I’m close by to see it.”

Certak and Diagoras exchanged glances. Both had fought the Sathuli and had seen the true, bloody face of battle, and watched the crows peck out the eyes of dead friends. Orases was a newcomer who had urged his father to buy him a commission in Abalayn’s lancers when news of the invasion fleet reached Drenan.

“What about the Cuckold King?” asked Archytas. “Was he there?”

“Sieben? Yes, he arrived for supper. He looks ancient. I can’t see the ladies swooning over him any longer. Bald as a rock and thin as a stick.”

“You think Druss will want to fight alongside us?” asked Diagoras. “That would be something to tell the children.”

“No. He’s past it. Tired. You can see it in him. But I liked him. He’s no braggart, that’s for sure. Down to earth. You’d never believe he was the subject of so many songs and ballads. They say Gorben has never forgotten him.”

“Maybe he sailed the fleet just for a reunion with his friend Druss,” said Archytas, with a sneer. “Perhaps you should put that idea to the general. We could all go home.”

“It’s an idea,” admitted Certak, biting back his anger. “But if the regiments separate, we’d be deprived of your delightful company, Archytas. And nothing is worth that.”

“I could live with it,” said Diagoras.

“And I could do without being forced to share a tent with a pack of ill-bred hounds,” said Archytas. “But needs must.”

“Well, woof woof,” said Diagoras. “Do you think we’ve been insulted, Certak?”

“Not by anyone worth worrying about,” he replied.

“Now that is an insult,” said Archytas, rising. A sudden commotion from outside the tent cut through the gathering drama. The flap was pulled aside. A young soldier pushed his head inside.

“The beacons are lit,” he said. “The Ventrians have landed at Penrac.”

The four warriors leaped to their feet, rushing to gather their armor.

Archytas turned as he buckled his breastplate.

“This changes nothing,” he said. “It is a question of honor.”

“No,” said Certak. “It is a question of dying. And you’ll do that nicely, you pompous pig.”

Archytas grinned mirthlessly back at him.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Diagoras pulled down the earflaps of his bronze helmet and tied them under his chin. He leaned conspiratorially close to Archytas.

“A thought to remember, goat-face. If you kill him—which is extremely doubtful—I shall cut your throat while you’re sleeping.” He smiled pleasantly and patted Archytas’s shoulder. “You see, I’m no gentleman.”

The camp was in uproar. Along the coast the warning beacons were blazing from the Skeln peaks. Gorben, as expected, had landed in the south. Abalayn was there with twenty thousand men. But he would be outnumbered at least two to one. It was a hard five days’ ride to Penrac and the orders were being issued at speed, the horses saddled, and the tents packed away. Cooking fires were doused and wagons loaded as men scurried about the camp in seeming chaos.

By morning only six hundred warriors remained in the mouth of Skeln Pass, the bulk of the army thundering south to bolster Abalayn.

Earl Delnar, Warden of the North, gathered the men together just after dawn. Beside him stood Archytas.

“As you know, the Ventrians have landed,” said the Earl. “We are to stay here in case they send a small force to harry the north. I know many of you would have preferred to head south, but, to state the obvious, someone has to stay behind to protect the Sentran Plain. And we’ve been chosen. The camp here is no longer suitable for our needs and we will be moving up into the pass itself. Are there any questions?”

There were none and Delnar dismissed the men, turning to Archytas.

“Why you have been left here I do not know,” he said. “But I don’t like you at all, lad. You are a troublemaker. I would have thought your skills would have been welcome at Penrac. However, be that as it may. You cause any trouble here and you will regret it.”

“I understand, Lord Delnar,” replied Archytas.

“Understand this also: As my aide I will require you to work, passing on my instructions exactly as I give them to you. I am told you are a man of surpassing arrogance.”

“That is hardly fair.”

“Perhaps. I cannot see that it should be true, since your grandfather was a tradesman and your nobility is scarce two generations old. You will find as you grow older that it is what a man does that counts, and not what his father did.”

“Thank you for your advice, my lord. I shall bear it in mind,” said Archytas stiffly.

“I doubt that you will. I do not know what drives you, but then I don’t care overmuch. We should be here about three weeks and then I’ll be rid of you.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Delnar waved him away, then glanced beyond him to the edge of the trees bordering the field to the west. Two men were walking steadily toward them. Delnar’s jaw tightened as he recognized the poet. He called Archytas back.

“Sir?”

“The two men approaching yonder. Go out to meet them and have them brought to my tent.”

“Yes, sir. Who are they, do you know?”

“The large one is Druss the Legend. The other is the saga poet Sieben.”

“I understand you know him very well,” said Archytas, barely disguising his malice.

“It doesn’t look much of an army,” said Druss, shading his eyes against the sun rising over the Skeln peaks. “Can’t be more than a few hundred of them.”

Sieben didn’t answer. He was exhausted. Early the previous day Druss had finally tired of riding the tall gelding borrowed in Skoda. He had left it with a stock breeder in a small town thirty miles west, determined to walk to Skeln. In a moment—in which Sieben could only consider he had been struck by transient and massive stupidity—he had agreed to walk with him. He seemed to remember thinking that it would be good for him. Now, even with Druss carrying both packs, the poet stumbled wearily alongside, his legs boneless and numb, his ankles and wrists swollen, his breathing ragged.

“You know what I think?” said Druss. Sieben shook his head, concentrating on the tents. “I think we’re too late. Gorben has landed at Penrac and the army’s gone. Still, it’s been a pleasant journey. Are you all right, poet?”

Sieben nodded, his face gray.

“You don’t look it. If you weren’t standing here beside me I’d think you were dead. I’ve seen corpses that looked in better health.” Sieben glared at him. It was the only response his fading strength would allow. Druss chuckled. “Lost for words, eh? This was worth coming for.”

A tall young officer was making his way toward them, fastidiously avoiding small patches of mud and the more obvious reminders of the horses picketed in the field the night before.

Halting before them, he bowed elaborately.

“Welcome to Skeln,” he said. “Is your friend ill?”

“No, he always looks like this,” said Druss, running his eyes over the warrior. He moved well, and handled himself confidently, but there was something about the narrow green eyes and the set of his features that nettled the axeman.

“Earl Delnar asked me to conduct you to his tent. I am Archytas. And you?”

“Druss. This is Sieben. Lead on.”

The officer set a fast pace which Druss made no effort to match on the last few hundred paces uphill. He walked slowly beside Sieben. The truth of it was that Druss himself was tired. They had walked most of the night, both trying to prove they still had a claim to youth.

Delnar dismissed Archytas and remained seated behind the small folding table on which were strewn papers and dispatches. Sieben, oblivious of the tension, slumped to Delnar’s narrow bed. Druss lifted a flagon of wine to his lips, taking three great swallows.

“He is not welcome here—and, therefore, neither are you,” said Delnar, as Druss replaced the flagon.

The axeman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had I been sure you were here, I would not have brought him,” he said. “I take it the army has moved on.”

“Yes. They traveled south. Gorben has landed. You may borrow two horses, but I want you gone by sundown.”

“I came to give the men something to think about besides waiting,” said Druss. “They won’t need me now. So I’ll just rest here for a couple of days, then head back to Skoda.”

“I said you’re not welcome here,” said Delnar.

The axeman’s eyes grew cold as he stared at the Earl. “Listen to me,” said Druss, as softly as he could. “I know why you feel as you do. In your place I would feel the same. But I am not in your
place. I am Druss. And I walk where I will. If I say I will stay here then I shall. Now I like you, laddie. But cross me and I’ll kill you.”