Shadak moved away from the girl, gathered his swords and belted them to his waist. Then he stepped out into the open and strolled casually towards the tent. Only a few men were awake, and they paid little heed to the figure moving through the shadows so confidently.
Lifting the tent-flap he swiftly entered, drawing his right-hand sword as he did so. Harib Ka was sitting on a canvas chair with a goblet of wine in his left hand, a sabre in his right. “Welcome to my hearth, Wolf-man,” he said, with a smile. He drained the goblet and stood. Wine had run into his dark, forked beard, making it shine in the lantern light as if oiled. “May I offer you a drink?”
“Why not?” answered Shadak, aware that if they began to fight too soon the noise of clashing steel would wake the other raiders and they would see the women fleeing.
“You are far from home,” remarked Harib Ka.
“These days I have no home,” Shadak told him.
Harib Ka filled a second goblet and passed it to the hunter. “You are here to kill me?”
“I came for Collan. I understand he has gone?”
“Why Collan?” asked Harib Ka, his dark eyes glittering in the golden light.
“He killed my son in Corialis.”
“Ah, the blond boy. Fine swordsman, but too reckless.”
“A vice of the young.” Shadak sipped his wine, his anger controlled like an armourer’s fire, hot but contained.
“That vice killed him,” observed Shadak. “Collan is very skilled. Where did you leave the young villager, the one with the axe?”
“You are well informed.”
“Only a few hours ago his wife stood where you now stand; she told me he was coming. She’s a witch - did you know that?”
“No. Where is she?”
“On her way to Mashrapur with Collan. When do you want the fight to begin?”
“As soon as…” began Shadak, but even as he was speaking Harib attacked, his sabre slashing for Shadak’s throat. The hunter ducked, leaned to the left and kicked out at Harib’s knee. The Ventrian crashed to the floor and Shadak’s sword touched the skin of Harib’s throat. “Never fight drunk,” he said softly.
“I’ll remember that. What now?”
“Now tell me where Collan stays in Mashrapur.”
“The White Bear Inn. It’s in the western quarter.”
“I know that. Now, what is your life worth, Harib Ka?”
“To the Drenai authorities? Around a thousand gold pieces. To me? I have nothing to offer - until I sell my slaves.”
“You have no slaves.”
“I can find them again. Thirty women on foot in the mountains will pose me no problem.”
“Hunting is not easy with a slit throat,” pointed out Shadak, adding an extra ounce of pressure to the sword-blade, which pricked the skin of Harib’s neck.
“True,” agreed the Ventrian, glancing up. “What do you suggest?” Just as Shadak was about to answer he caught the gleam of triumph in Harib’s eyes and he swung round. But too late.
Something cold, hard and metallic crashed against his skull.
And the world spun into darkness.
Pain brought Shadak back to consciousness, harsh slaps to his face that jarred his teeth. His eyes opened. His arms were being held by two men who had hauled him to his knees, and Harib Ka was squatting before him.
“Did you think me so stupid that I would allow an assassin to enter my tent unobserved? I knew someone was following us. And when the four men I left in the pass did not return I guessed it had to be you. Now I have questions for you, Shadak. Firstly, where is the young farmer with the axe; and secondly, where are my women?”
Shadak said nothing. One of the men holding him crashed a fist against the hunter’s ear; lights blazed before Shadak’s eyes and he sagged to his right. He watched Harib Ka rise and move to the brazier where the coals had burned low. “Get him outside to a fire,” ordered the leader. Shadak was hauled to his feet and half carried out into the camp. Most of the men were still asleep. His captors pushed him to his knees beside a camp-fire and Harib Ka drew his dagger, pushing the blade into the flames. “You will tell me what I wish to know,” he said, “or I will burn out your eyes and then set you free in the mountains.”
Shadak tasted blood on his tongue, and fear in his belly. But still he said nothing.
An unearthly scream tore through the silence of the night, followed by the thunder of hooves. Harib swung to see forty terrified horses galloping towards the camp. One of the men holding the hunter turned also, his grip slackening. Shadak surged upright, head butting the raider who staggered back. The second man, seeing the stampeding horses closing fast, released his hold and ran for the safety of the wagons. Harib Ka drew his sabre and leapt at Shadak, but the first of the horses cannoned into him, spinning him from his feet. Shadak spun on his heel to face the terrified beasts and began to wave his arms. The maddened horses swerved around him and galloped on through the camp. Some men, still wrapped in their blankets, were trampled underfoot. Others tried to halt the charging beasts. Shadak ran back to Harib’s tent and found his swords. Then he stepped out into the night. All was chaos.
The fires had been scattered by pounding hooves and several corpses were lying on the open ground. Some twenty of the horses had been halted and calmed; the others were running on through the woods, pursued by many of the warriors.
A second scream sounded and despite his years of experience in warfare and battle, Shadak was astonished by what followed.
Alone, the young woodsman had attacked the camp. The awesome axe shone silver in the moonlight, slashing and cleaving into the surprised warriors. Several took up swords and ran at him; they died in moments.
But he could not survive. Shadak saw the raiders group together, a dozen men spread out in a semi-circle around the black-garbed giant, Harib Ka among them. The hunter, his two short swords drawn, ran towards them yelling the battle-cry of the Lancers. “Ayiaa! Ayiaa!” At that moment arrows flashed from the woods. One took a raider in the throat, a second glanced from a helm to plunge home into an unprotected shoulder. Combined with the sudden battle-cry, the attack made the raiders pause, many of them backing away and scanning the tree line. At that moment Druss charged the enemy centre, cutting to left and right. The raiders fell back before him, several tumbling to the ground, tripping over their fellows. The mighty blood-smeared axe clove into them, rising and falling with a merciless rhythm.
Just as Shadak reached them, the raiders broke and fled. More arrows sailed after them.
Harib Ka ran for one of the horses, grabbing its mane and vaulting to its bare back. The animal reared, but he held on. Shadak hurled his right-hand sword, which lanced into Harib’s shoulder. The Ventrian sagged, then fell to the ground as the horse galloped away
“Druss!” shouted Shadak. “Druss!” The axeman was pursuing the fleeing raiders, but he stopped at the edge of the trees and swung back. Harib Ka was on his knees, trying to pull the brass-hilted sword from his body.
The axeman stalked back to where Shadak was waiting. He was blood-drenched and his eyes glittered. “Where is she?” he asked the hunter.
“Collan took her to Mashrapur; they left at dusk.”
Two women emerged from the trees, carrying bows and quivers of arrows. “Who are they?” asked Shadak.
“The Tanner’s daughters. They did a lot of hunting for the village. I gave them the bows the sentries had with them.”
The tallest of the women approached Druss. “They are fleeing into the night. I don’t think they’ll come back now. You want us to follow them?”
“No, bring the others down and gather the horses.” The axeman turned towards the kneeling figure of Harib Ka. “Who is this?” Druss asked Shadak.
“One of the leaders.”
Without a word Druss clove the axe through Harib’s neck. “Not any more,” he observed.
“Indeed not,” agreed Shadak, stepping to the still quivering corpse and pulling free his sword. He gaze
d around the clearing and counted the bodies. “Nineteen. By all the gods, Druss, I can’t believe you did that!”
“Some were trampled by the horses I stampeded, others were killed by the girls.” Druss turned and stared out over the campsite. Somewhere to his left a man groaned and the tallest of the girls ran to him, plunging a dagger into his throat. Druss turned back to Shadak. “Will you see the women get safely to Padia?”
“You’re going on to Mashrapur?”
“I’m going to find her.”
Shadak laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I hope that you do, Druss. Seek out the White Bear Inn - that’s where Collan will stay. But be warned, my friend. In Mashrapur, Rowena is his property. That is their law.”
“This is mine,” answered Druss, raising the double-headed axe.
Shadak took the young man’s arm and led him back to Harib’s tent where he poured himself a goblet of wine and drained it. One of Harib’s linen tunics was draped over a small chest and Shadak threw it to Druss. “Wipe off the blood. You look like a demon.” Druss smiled grimly and wiped his face and arms, then cleaned the double blades.
“What do you know of Mashrapur?” asked Shadak.
The axeman shrugged. “It is an independent state, ruled by an exiled Ventrian Prince. That’s all.”
“It is a haven for thieves and slavers,” said Shadak. The laws are simple: those with gold to offer bribes are considered fine citizens. It matters not where the gold comes from. Collan is respected there; he owns property and dines with the Emir.”
“So?”
“So if you march in and kill him, you will be taken and executed. It is that simple.”
“What do you suggest?”
“There is a small town around twenty miles from here, due south. There is a man there, a friend of mine. Go to him, tell him I sent you. He is young and talented. You won’t like him, Druss; he is a fop and a pleasure-seeker. He has no morals. But it will make him invaluable in Mashrapur.”
“Who is this man?”
“His name is Sieben. He’s a poet, a saga-teller, and he performs at palaces; he’s very good as a matter of fact. He could have been rich. But he spends most of his time trying to bed every pretty young woman who comes into his line of vision. He never concerns himself whether they are married or single - that has brought him many enemies.”
“Already I don’t like the sound of him.”
Shadak chuckled. “He has good qualities. He is a loyal friend, and he is ridiculously fearless. A good man with a knife. And he knows Mashrapur. Trust him.”
“Why should he help me?”
“He owes me a favour.” Shadak poured a second goblet of wine and passed it to the young man.
Druss sipped it, then drained the goblet. “This is good. What is it?”
“Lentrian Red. Around five years old, I’d say. Not the best, but good enough on a night like this.”
“I can see that a man could get a taste for it,” Druss agreed.
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter Four
Sieben was enjoying himself. A small crowd had gathered around the barrel, and three men had already lost heavily. The green crystal was small and fitted easily under one of the three walnut shells. “I’ll move a little more slowly,” the young poet told the tall, bearded warrior who had just lost four silver pieces. His slender hands slid the shells around the smooth barrel top, halting them in a line across the centre. “Which one? And take your time, my friend, for that emerald is worth twenty golden raq.”
The man sniffed loudly and scratched at his beard with a dirty finger. “That one,” he said at last, pointing to the centre shell. Sieben flipped the shell. There was nothing beneath it. Moving his hand to the right he covered a second shell, expertly palmed the stone under it and showed it to the audience.
“So close,” he said, with a bright smile. The warrior swore, then turned and thrust his way through the crowd. A short swarthy man was next; he had body odour that could have felled an ox. Sieben was tempted to let him win. The fake emerald was only worth a tenth of what he had already cheated from the crowd. But he was enjoying himself too much. The swarthy man lost three silver pieces.
The crowd parted and a young warrior eased his way to the front as Sieben glanced up. The newcomer was dressed in black, with shoulder guards of shining silver steel. He wore a helm on which was blazoned a motif of two skulls on either side of a silver axe. And he was carrying a double-headed axe. “Try your luck?” asked Sieben, gazing up into the eyes of winter blue.
“Why not?” answered the warrior, his voice deep and cold. He placed a silver piece on the barrel head. The poet’s hands moved with bewildering speed, gliding the shells in elaborate figure eights. At last he stopped.
“I hope you have a keen eye, my friend,” said Sieben.
“Keen enough,” said the axeman, and leaning forward he placed a huge finger on the central shell. “It is here,” he said.
“Let us see,” said the poet, reaching out, but the axeman pushed his hand away.
“Indeed we shall,” he said. Slowly he flipped the shells to the left and right of the centre. Both were empty. “I must be right,” he said, his pale eyes locked to Sieben’s face. You may show us.” Lifting his finger, he gestured to the poet.
Sieben forced a smile and palmed the crystal under the shell as he flipped it. “Well done, my friend. You are indeed hawk-eyed.” The crowd applauded and drifted away.
“Thank you for not exposing me,” said Sieben, rising and gathering his silver.
“Fools and money are like ice and heat,” quoted the young man. “They cannot live together. You are Sieben?”
“I might be,” answered the other cautiously. “Who is asking?”
“Shadak sent me.”
“For what purpose?”
“A favour you owe him.”
“That is between the two of us. What has it to do with you?”
The warrior’s face darkened. “Nothing at all,” he said, then turned away and strode towards the tavern on the other side of the street. As Sieben watched him go, a young woman approached from the shadows.
“Did you earn enough to buy me a fine necklace?” she asked. He swung and smiled. The woman was tall and shapely, raven-haired and full-lipped; her eyes were tawny brown, her smile an enchantment. She stepped into his embrace and winced. “Why do you have to wear so many knives?” she asked, moving back from him and tapping the brown leather baldric from which hung four diamond-shaped throwing-blades.
“Affectation, my love. I’ll not wear them tonight. And as for your necklace - I’ll have it with me.” Taking her hand he kissed it. “However, at the moment, duty calls.”
“Duty, my poet? What would you know of duty?”
He chuckled. “Very little - but I always pay my debts; it is my last finger-hold on the cliff of respectability. I will see you later.” He bowed, then walked across the street.
The tavern was an old, three-storeyed building with a high gallery on the second floor overlooking a long room with open fires at both ends. There was a score of bench tables and seats and a sixty-foot brass-inlaid bar behind which six tavern maids were serving ale, mead and mulled wine. The tavern was crowded, unusually so, but this was market day and fanners and cattle-breeders from all over the region had gathered for the auctions. Sieben stepped to the long bar, where a young tavern maid with honey-blonde hair smiled and approached him. “At last you visit me,” she said.
“Who could stay away from you for long, dear heart?” he said with a smile, straining to remember her name.
“I will be finished here by second watch,” she told him.
“Where’s my ale?” shouted a burly farmer, some way to the left.
“I was before you, goat-face!” came another voice. The girl gave a shy smile to Sieben, then moved down the bar to quell the threatened row.
“Here I am now, sirs, and I’ve only one pair of hands. Give me a mo
ment, won’t you?”
Sieben strolled through the crowds, seeking out the axeman, and found him sitting alone by a narrow, open window. Sieben eased on to the bench alongside him. “Might be a good idea to start again,” said the poet. “Let me buy you a jug of ale.”
“I buy my own ale,” grunted the axeman. “And don’t sit so close.”
Sieben stood and moved to the far side of the table, seating himself opposite the young man. “Is that more to your liking?” he asked, with heavy sarcasm.
“Aye, it is. Are you wearing perfume?”
“Scented oil on the hair. You like it?”
The axeman shook his head, but refrained from comment. He cleared his throat. “My wife has been taken by slavers. She is in Mashrapur.”
Sieben sat back and gazed at the young man. “I take it you weren’t home at the time,” he said.
“No. They took all the women. I freed them. But Rowena wasn’t with them; she was with someone called Collan. He left before I got to the other raiders.”
“Before you got to the other raiders?” repeated Sieben. “Isn’t there a little more to it?”
“To what?”
“How did you free the other women?”
“What in Hell’s name does that matter? I killed a few of them and the rest ran away. But that’s not the point. Rowena wasn’t there - she’s in Mashrapur.”
Sieben raised a slender hand. “Slow down, there’s a good fellow. Firstly, how does Shadak come into this? And secondly, are you saying that you single-handedly attacked Harib Ka and his killers?”
“Not single-handedly. Shadak was there; they were going to torture him. Also I had two girls with me; good archers. Anyway, all that is past. Shadak said you could help me to find Rowena and come up with a plan to rescue her.”
“From Collan?”
“Yes, from Collan,” stormed the axeman. “Are you deaf or stupid?”
Sieben’s dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “You have an appealing way of asking for help, my large and ugly friend. Good luck with your quest!” He rose and moved back through the throng, emerging into the late afternoon sunlight. Two men were lounging close to the entrance, a third was whittling a length of wood with a razor-sharp hunting-knife.
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