The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (5 page)

Lifting his leg, Shadak slid from the saddle. “Your friends leave you behind, laddie?” he asked the axeman. The young man did not speak but stepped out into the open. Shadak looked into the man’s pale eyes and felt the unaccustomed thrill of fear.

The face beneath the helm was flat and expressionless, but power emanated from the young warrior. Shadak moved warily to his right, hands resting on the hilts of his short swords. “Proud of your handiwork, are you?” he asked, trying to force the man into conversation. “Killed many babes today, did you?”

The young man’s brow furrowed. “This was my … my home,” he said, his voice deep. “You are not one of the raiders?”

“I am hunting them,” said Shadak, surprised at the relief he felt. “They attacked Corialis looking for slaves, but the young women escaped them. The villagers fought hard. Seventeen of them died, but the attack was beaten off. My name is Shadak. Who are you?”

“I am Druss. They took my wife. I’ll find them.”

Shadak glanced at the sky. “It’s getting dark. Best to start in the morning, we could lose their trail in the night.”

“I’ll not wait,” said the young man. “I need one of your horses.”

Shadak smiled grimly. “It is difficult to refuse when you ask so politely. But I think we should talk before you ride out.”

“Why?”

“Because there are many of them, laddie, and they do have a tendency to leave rearguards behind them, watching the road.” Shadak pointed to the horses. “Four lay in wait for me.”

“I’ll kill any I find.”

“I take it they took all the young women, since I see no corpses here?”

“Yes.”

Shadak hitched his horses to a rail and stepped past the young man into the home of Bress. “You’ll lose nothing by listening for a few minutes,” he said.

Inside the building he righted the chairs and stopped. On the table was an old glove, made of lace and edged with pearls. “What’s this?” he asked the cold-eyed young man.

“It belonged to my mother. My father used to take it out now and again, and sit by the fire holding it. What did you want to talk about?”

Shadak sat down at the table. “The raiders are led by two men—Collan, a renegade Drenai officer, and Harib Ka, a Ventrian. They will be making for Mashrapur and the slave markets there. With all the captives, they will not be able to move at speed and we will have little difficulty catching them. But if we follow
now, we will come upon them in the open. Two against forty—these are not odds to inspire confidence. They will push on through most of tonight, crossing the plain and reaching the long valley trails to Mashrapur late tomorrow. Then they will relax.”

“They have my wife,” said the young man. “I’ll not let them keep her for a heartbeat longer than necessary.”

Shadak shook his head and sighed. “Nor would I, laddie. But you know the country to the south. What chance would we have of rescuing her on the plains? They would see us coming from a mile away.”

For the first time the young man looked uncertain. Then he shrugged and sat, laying the great axe on the tabletop, where it covered the tiny glove. “You are a soldier?” he asked.

“I was. Now I am a hunter—a hunter of men. Trust me. Now, how many women did they take?”

The young man thought for a moment. “Perhaps around thirty. They killed Berys in the woods. Tailia escaped. But I have not seen all the bodies. Maybe others were killed.”

“Then let us think of thirty. It won’t be easy freeing them.”

A sound from outside made both men turn as a young woman entered the room. Shadak rose. The woman was fair-haired and pretty, and there was blood upon her blue woolen skirt and her shirt of white linen.

“Yorath died,” she told the young man. “They’re all dead, Druss.” Her eyes filled with tears and she stood in the doorway looking lost and forlorn. Druss did not move, but Shadak stepped swiftly toward her, taking her in his arms and stroking her back.

He led her into the room and sat her at the table. “Is there any food here?” he asked Druss. The young man nodded and moved through to the back room, returning with a pitcher of water and some bread. Shadak filled a clay cup with water and told the girl to drink. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The blood is Yorath’s,” she whispered. Shadak sat beside her and Tailia sagged against him; she was exhausted.

“You need to rest,” he told her gently, helping her to rise and leading her through the building to a small bedroom. Obediently she lay down, and he covered her with a thick blanket. “Sleep, child. I will be here.”

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

He took her hand. “You are safe … Tailia. Sleep.” She closed
her eyes, but clung to his hand, and Shadak sat with her until the grip eased and her breathing deepened. At last he stood and returned to the outer room.

“You were planning to leave her behind?” he asked the young man.

“She is nothing to me,” he said coldly. “Rowena is everything.”

“I see. Then think on this, my friend: suppose it was you who had died and Rowena who had survived hiding in the woods. How would your spirit feel if you saw me ride in and leave her alone in this wilderness?”

“I did not die,” said Druss.

“No,” said Shadak, “you didn’t. We’ll take the girl with us.”

“No!”

“Either that or you walk on alone, laddie. And I do mean
walk
.”

The young man looked up at the hunter, and his eyes gleamed. “I have killed men today,” he said, “and I will not be threatened by you, or anyone. Not ever again. If I choose to leave here on one of your stolen horses, I shall do so. You would be wise not to try to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t
try
, boy, I’d do it.” The words were spoken softly, and with quiet confidence. But deep inside Shadak was surprised, for it was a confidence he did not feel. He saw the young man’s hand snake around the haft of the axe. “I know you are angry, lad, and concerned for the safety of … Rowena. But you can do nothing alone—unless of course you are a tracker, and an expert horseman. You could ride off into the dark and lose them. Or you could stumble upon them, and try to kill forty warriors. Then there’d be no one to rescue her, or the others.”

Slowly the giant’s fingers relaxed, the hand moving away from the axe haft, the gleam fading from his eyes. “It hurts me to sit here while they carry her farther away.”

“I understand that. But we will catch them. And they will not harm the women; they are valuable to them.”

“You have a plan?”

“I do. I know the country, and I can guess where they will be camped tomorrow. We will go in at night, deal with the sentries, and free the captives.”

Druss nodded. “What then? They’ll be hunting us. How do we escape with thirty women?”

“Their leaders will be dead,” said Shadak softly. “I’ll see to that.”

“Others will take the lead. They will come after us.”

Shadak shrugged, then smiled. “Then we kill as many as we can.”

“I like that part of the plan,” said the young man grimly.

The stars were bright and Shadak sat on the porch of the timber dwelling, watching Druss sitting beside the bodies of his parents.

“You’re getting old,” Shadak told himself, his gaze fixed on Druss. “You make me feel old,” he whispered. Not in twenty years had a man inspired such fear in Shadak. He remembered the moment well—he was a Sathuli tribesman named Jonacin, a man with eyes of ice and fire, a legend among his own people. The Lord’s champion, he had killed seventeen men in single combat, among them the Vagrian champion, Vearl.

Shadak had known the Vagrian—a tall, lean man, lightning-fast and tactically sound. The Sathuli, it was said, had treated him like a novice, first slicing off his right ear before dispatching him with a heart thrust.

Shadak smiled as he remembered hoping with all his heart that he would never have to fight the man. But such hopes are akin to magic, he knew now, and all men are ultimately faced with their darkest fears.

It had been a golden morning in the Delnoch mountains. The Drenai were negotiating treaties with a Sathuli Lord and Shadak was present merely as one of the envoy’s guards. Jonacin had been mildly insulting at the dinner the night before, speaking sneeringly of Drenai sword skills. Shadak had been ordered to ignore the man. But on the following morning the white-robed Sathuli stepped in front of him as he walked along the path to the Long Hall.

“It is said you are a fighter,” said Jonacin, the sneer in his voice showing disbelief.

Shadak had remained cool under the other’s baleful stare. “Stand aside, if you please. I am expected at the meeting.”

“I shall stand aside—as soon as you have kissed my feet.”

Shadak had been twenty-two then, in his prime. He looked into Jonacin’s eyes and knew there was no avoiding confrontation. Other Sathuli warriors had gathered close by, and Shadak
forced a smile. “Kiss your feet? I don’t think so. Kiss this instead!” His right fist lashed into the Sathuli’s chin, spinning him to the ground. Then Shadak walked on and took his place at the table.

As he sat he glanced at the Sathuli Lord, a tall man with dark, cruel eyes. The man saw him, and Shadak thought he glimpsed a look of faint amusement, even triumph, in the Lord’s face. A messenger whispered something in the Lord’s ear and the chieftain stood. “The hospitality of my house has been abused,” he told the envoy. “One of your men struck my champion, Jonacin. The attack was unwarranted. Jonacin demands satisfaction.”

The envoy was speechless. Shadak stood. “He shall have it, my Lord. But let us fight in the cemetery. At least then you will not have far to carry his body!”

Now the hoot of an owl brought Shadak back to the present, and he saw Druss striding toward him. The young man made as if to walk by, then stopped. “I had no words,” he said. “I could think of nothing to say.”

“Sit down for a moment and we will speak of them,” said Shadak. “It is said that our praises follow the dead to their place of rest. Perhaps it is true.”

Druss sat alongside the swordsman. “There is not much to tell. He was a carpenter, and a fashioner of brooches. She was a bought wife.”

“They raised you, helped you to be strong.”

“I needed no help in that.”

“You are wrong, Druss. If your father had been a weak, or a vengeful man, he would have beaten you as a child, robbed you of your spirit. In my experience it takes a strong man to raise strong men. Was the axe his?”

“No. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Bardan the Axeman,” said Shadak softly.

“How could you know?”

“It is an infamous weapon. Snaga. That was the name. Your father had a hard life, trying to live down such a beast as Bardan. What happened to your real mother?”

Druss shrugged. “She died in an accident when I was a babe.”

“Ah yes, I remember the story,” said Shadak. “Three men attacked your father; he killed two of them with his bare hands and near crippled the third. Your mother was struck down by a charging horse.”

“He killed two men?” Druss was astonished. “Are you sure?”

“So the story goes.”

“I cannot believe it. He always backed away from any argument. He never stood up for himself at all. He was weak … spineless.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“I saw where his body lay, and I saw the dead men around it. And I know many stories concerning the son of Bardan. None of them speaks of his cowardice. After his own father was killed he tried to settle in many towns, under many names. Always he was discovered and forced to flee. But on at least three occasions he was followed and attacked. Just outside Drenan he was cornered by five soldiers. One of them shot an arrow into your father’s shoulder. Bress was carrying an infant at the time, and according to the soldiers he laid the babe behind a boulder, and then charged at them. He had no weapon, and they were all armed with swords. But he tore a limb from a tree and laid into them. Two went down swiftly, the others turned and fled. I know
that
story is true, Druss, because my brother was one of the soldiers. It was the year before he was killed in the Sathuli campaign. He said that Bardan’s son was a black-bearded giant with the strength of six men.”

“I knew none of this,” said Druss. “Why did he never speak of it?”

“Why should he? Perhaps he took no pleasure for being the son of a monster. Perhaps he did not relish speaking of killing men with his hands, or beating them unconscious with a tree branch.”

“I didn’t know him at all,” whispered Druss. “Not at all.”

“I expect he didn’t know you either,” said Shadak, with a sigh. “It is the curse of parents and children.”

“You have sons?”

“One. He died a week ago at Corialis. He thought he was immortal.”

“What happened?”

“He went up against Collan; he was cut to pieces.” Shadak cleared his throat and stood. “Time for some sleep. It’ll be dawn soon, and I’m not as young as I was.”

“Sleep well,” said Druss.

“I will, laddie. I always do. Go back to your parents and find something to say.”

“Wait!” called Druss.

“Yes,” answered the swordsman, pausing in the doorway.

“You were correct in what you said. I wouldn’t have wanted Rowena left in the mountains alone. I spoke in … anger.”

Shadak nodded. “A man is only as strong as that which makes him angry. Remember that, laddie.”

Shadak could not sleep. He sat in the wide leather chair beside the hearth, his long legs stretched out before him, his head resting on a cushion, his body relaxed. But his mind was in turmoil—images, memories flashing into thoughts.

He saw again the Sathuli cemetery, Jonacin stripped to the waist, a broad-bladed tulwar in his hands and a small iron buckler strapped to his left forearm.

“Do you feel fear, Drenai?” asked Jonacin.

Shadak did not answer. Slowly he unstrapped his baldric, then lifted clear his heavy woolen shirt. The sun was warm on his back, the mountain air fresh in his lungs.
You are going to die today
, said the voice of his soul.

And then the duel began. Jonacin drew first blood, a narrow cut appearing on Shadak’s chest. More than a thousand Sathuli onlookers, standing around the perimeter of the cemetery, cheered as the blood began to flow. Shadak leapt back.