“Who is this man?”
“A stranger from the mountains. Youngster - around twenty, I’d say.”
“That explains his stupidity,” hissed Borcha. No man who had ever seen him fight would relish the prospect of four minutes in the sand circle with the champion of Mashrapur. But still he was annoyed.
Winning involved far more skills than with fists and feet, he knew. It was a complex mix of courage and heart, allied to the planting of the seeds of doubt in the minds of opponents. A man who believed his enemy was invincible had already lost, and Borcha had spent years building such a reputation.
No one in two years had dared to risk a turn of the glass with the champion.
Until now. Which threw up a second problem. Arena fights were without rules: a fighter could legitimately gouge out an opponent’s eyes or, after downing him, stamp upon his neck. Deaths were rare, but not unknown, and many fighters were crippled for life. But Borcha would not be able to use his more deadly array of skills against an unknown youngster. It would suggest he feared the boy.
“They’re offering fifteen to one against him surviving,” whispered the aide.
“Who is negotiating for him?”
“Old Thorn.”
“How much has he wagered?”
“I’ll find out.” The man moved away into the crowd.
The tournament organiser, a huge, obese merchant named Bilse, stepped into the sand circle. “My friends,” he bellowed, his fat chins wobbling, “welcome to the Blind Corsair. Tonight you will be privileged to witness the finest fist fighters in Mashrapur.”
Borcha closed his mind to the man’s droning voice. He had heard it all before. Five years ago his mood had been different. His wife and son sick from dysentery, the young Borcha had finished his work on the docks and had run all the way to the Corsair to win ten silver pieces in a warm-up contest. To his surprise he had beaten his opponent, and had taken his place in the tournament. That night, after hammering six fighters to defeat, he had taken home sixty golden raq. He had arrived at their rooms triumphant, only to find his son dead and his wife comatose. The best doctor in Mashrapur was summoned. He had insisted Caria be removed to a hospital in the rich northern district - but only after Borcha had parted with all his hard-won gold. There Caria rallied for a while, only to be struck down with consumption.
The treatment over the next two years cost three hundred raq.
And still she died, her body ravaged by sickness.
Borcha’s bitterness was colossal, and he unleashed it in every fight, focusing his hatred and his fury on the men who faced him.
He heard his name called and raised his right arm. The crowd cheered and clapped.
Now he had a house in the northern quarter, built of marble and the finest timber, with terracotta tiles on the roof. Twenty slaves were on hand to do his bidding, and his investments in slaves and silks brought him an income to rival any of the senior merchants. Yet still he fought, the demons of the past driving him on.
Bilse announced that the warm-up contest would begin and Borcha watched as Grassin stepped into the circle to take on a burly dock-worker. The bout lasted barely a few seconds, Grassin lifting the man from his feet with an uppercut. Borcha’s aide approached him. “They have wagered around nine silver pieces. Is it important?”
Borcha shook his head. Had there been large sums involved it would have indicated trickery of some kind, perhaps a foreign fighter drafted in, a tough man from another city, a bruiser unknown in Mashrapur. But no. This was merely stupidity and arrogance combined.
Bilse called his name and Borcha stepped into the circle. He tested the sand beneath his feet. Too thick and it made for clumsy movement, too thin and a fighter could slide and lose balance. It was well raked. Satisfied, Borcha turned his gaze on the young man who had entered the circle from the other side.
He was young and some inches shorter than Borcha, though his shoulders were enormous. His chest was thick, the pectoral muscles well developed, and his biceps were huge. Watching him move, Borcha saw that he was well balanced and lithe. His waist was thick, but carried little fat, and his neck was large and well protected by the powerful, swollen muscles of the trapezius. Borcha transferred his gaze to his opponent’s face. Strong cheekbones and a good chin. The nose was wide and flat, the brows heavy. The champion looked into the challenger’s eyes; they were pale, and they showed no fear. Indeed, thought Borcha, he looks as if he hates me.
Bilse introduced the young man as “Druss from the lands of the Drenai.” The two fighters approached one another. Borcha towered over Druss. The champion held out his hands but Druss merely smiled and walked back to the ropes, turning to wait for the signal to begin.
The casual insult did not concern the champion. Lifting his hands into the orthodox fighting position, left arm extended and right fist held close to the cheek, he advanced on the young man. Druss surged forward, almost taking Borcha by surprise. But the champion was fast and sent a thudding left jab into the young man’s face, following it with a stinging right cross that thundered against Druss’s jaw. Borcha stepped back, allowing room for Druss to fall, but something exploded against the side of the champion. For a moment he thought a large rock had been hurled from the crowd, then he realised it was the fist of his opponent. Far from falling, the young man had taken the two punches and hit back with one of his own.
Borcha reeled from the blow, then counter-attacked with a series of combination strikes that snapped Druss’s head back. Yet still he came on. Borcha feinted a jab to the head, then swept an uppercut into the young man’s belly, whereupon Druss snarled and threw a wild right. Borcha ducked under it, dipping just in time to meet a rising left uppercut. He managed to roll his head, the blow striking his cheek. Surging upright, he crashed an overhand right into Druss’s face, splitting the skin above the man’s left eye; then he hit him with a left.
Druss staggered back, thrown off balance, and Borcha moved in for the kill, but a hammer-blow hit him just under the heart and he felt a rib snap. Anger roared through him and he began to smash punches into the youngster’s face and body - brutal, powerful blows that forced his opponent back towards the ropes. Another cut appeared, this time over Druss’s right eye.
The young man ducked and weaved, but more and more blows hammered home. Sensing victory, Borcha increased the ferocity of his attack and the pace of his punches. But Druss refused to go down and, ducking his head, he charged at Borcha. The champion sidestepped and threw a left that glanced from Druss’s shoulder. The young man recovered his balance and Borcha stepped in. Druss wiped the blood from his eyes and advanced to meet him.
The champion feinted with a left, but Druss ignored it and sent a right that swept under Borcha’s guard and smashed into his injured ribs. The champion winced as pain lanced his side. A huge fist crashed against his chin and he felt a tooth snap; he responded with a left uppercut that lifted Druss to his toes and a right hook that almost felled the youngster.
Druss hit him with another right to the ribs and Borcha was forced back. The two men began to circle one another, and only now did Borcha hear the baying of the crowd. They were cheering for Druss, just as five years before they had cheered for Borcha.
Druss attacked. Borcha threw a left that missed and a right that didn’t. Druss rocked back on his heels, but advanced again. Borcha hit him three times, further opening the cuts that saw blood streaming into the young man’s face. Almost blinded, Druss lashed out, one punch catching Borcha on the right bicep, numbing his arm, a second cracking against his brow. Blood seeped from the champion’s face now, and a tremendous roar went up from the crowd.
Oblivious to the noise Borcha counter-attacked, driving Druss back across the circle, hitting him time and again with brutal hooks and jabs.
Then the horn sounded. The sandglass had run out. Borcha stepped back, but Druss attacked. Borcha grabbed him around the waist, pinning his arms and hauling him in close. “It is over, boy,” he hissed. “You won yo
ur wager.”
Druss jerked himself loose and shook his head, spraying blood to the sand. Then he lifted his hand and pointed at Borcha. “You go to Collan,” he snarled, “and you tell him that if anyone has harmed my wife I’ll tear his head from his neck.”
Then the young man swung away and stalked from the circle.
Borcha turned and saw the other fighters watching him.
They were all willing to meet his eyes now… and Grassin was smiling.
Sieben entered the Tree of Bone just after midnight. There were still some hardened drinkers present, and the serving maids moved wearily among them. Sieben mounted the stairs to the gallery above and made his way to the room he shared with Druss. Just as he was about to open the door, he heard voices from within.
Drawing his dagger, he threw open the door and leapt inside. Druss was sitting on one of the beds, his face bruised and swollen, the marks of rough stitches over both eyes. A dirt-streaked fat man was sitting on Sieben’s bed and a slim, black-cloaked nobleman with a trident beard was standing by the window. As the poet entered the nobleman swung, a shining sabre hissing from its scabbard. The fat man screamed and dived from the bed, landing with a dull thud behind the seated Druss.
“You took your time, poet,” said the axeman.
Sieben gazed down at the point of the sabre which was motionless in the air some two inches from his throat. “It didn’t take you long to make new friends,” he said, with a forced smile.
With great care he slipped the knife back into its sheath, and was relieved to see the nobleman return his sabre to its scabbard.
“This is Bodasen; he’s a Ventrian,” said Druss. “And the man on his knees behind me is Thorn.”
The fat man rose, grinning sheepishly. “Good to meet you, my lord,” he said, bowing.
“Who the Devil gave you those black eyes?” asked Sieben, moving forward to examine Dross’s wounds.
“Nobody gave them to me. I had to fight for them.”
“He fought Borcha,” said Bodasen, with the faintest trace of an eastern accent. “And a fine bout it was. Lasted a full turn of the glass.”
“Aye, it was something to see,” added Thorn. “Borcha didn’t look none too pleased - especially when Dross cracked his rib! We all heard it. Wonderful, it was.”
“You fought Borcha?” whispered Sieben.
“To a standstill,” said the Ventrian. “There were no surgeons present, so I assisted with the stitching. You are the poet Sieben, are you not?”
“Yes. Do I know you, my friend?”
“I saw you perform once in Drenan, and in Ventria I read your saga of Waylander. Wonderfully inventive.”
“Thank you. Much needed to be invention since little is known of him. I did not know that the book had travelled so far. Only fifty copies were made.”
“My Emperor acquired one on his travels, bound in leather and embossed with gold leaf. The script is very fine.”
“There were five of those,” said Sieben. “Twenty raq each. Beautiful works.”
Bodasen chuckled. “My Emperor paid six hundred for it.”
Sieben sighed and sat down on the bed. “Ah well, better the fame than gold, eh? So tell me, Dross, what made you fight Borcha?”
“I earned a hundred silver pieces. Now I shall buy Rowena. Did you find out where she is held?”
“No, my friend. Collan has sold only one woman recently. A Seer. He must be keeping Rowena for himself.”
“Then I shall kill him and take her - and to Hell with the law of Mashrapur.”
“If I may,” said Bodasen, “I think I can help. I am acquainted with this Collan. It may be that I can secure the release of your lady - without bloodshed.”
Sieben said nothing, but he noted the concern in the Ventrian’s dark eyes.
“I’ll not wait much longer,” said Druss. “Can you see him tomorrow?”
“Of course. You will be here?”
“I’ll wait for your word,” promised Dross.
“Very well. I bid you all good night,” said Bodasen, with a short bow.
After he had left Old Thorn also made for the door. “Well, lad, it were quite a night. If you decide to fight again I’d be honoured to make the arrangements.”
“No more for me,” said Druss. “I’d sooner have trees fall on me than that man again.”
Thorn shook his head. “I wish that I’d had more faith,” he said. “I only bet one silver piece of my share.” He chuckled and spread his hands. “Ah well, that is life, I suppose.” His smile faded. “A word of warning, Druss. Collan has many friends here. And there are those who will slit a man’s throat for the price of a jug of ale. Walk with care.” He turned and left the room.
There was a jug of wine on the small table and Sieben filled a clay goblet and sat. “You are a curious fellow, to be sure,” he said, grinning. “But at least Borcha has improved your looks. I think your nose is broken.”
“I think you are right,” said Druss. “So tell me of your day.”
“I visited four well-known slave traders. Collan brought no women with him to the slave markets. The story of your attack on Harib Ka is known everywhere. Some of the men who survived have now joined Collan, and they speak of you as a demon. But it is a mystery, Druss. I don’t know where she could be - unless at his home.”
The wound above Druss’s right eye began to seep blood. Sieben found a cloth and offered it to the axeman. Dross waved it away. “It will seal. Forget about it.”
“By the gods, Dross, you must be in agony. Your face is swollen, your eyes black.”
“Pain lets you know you’re alive,” said Dross. “Did you spend your silver pennies on the whore?”
Sieben chuckled. “Yes. She was very good - told me I was the best love-maker she had ever known.”
“There’s a surprise,” said Druss and Sieben laughed.
“Yes - but it’s nice to hear.” He sipped his wine, then stood and gathered his belongings.
“Where are you going?” asked Druss.
“Not I…we. We’ll move rooms.”
“I like it here.”
“Yes, it is quaint. But we need to sleep and - convivial as they both were - I see no reason to trust men I do not know. Collan will send killers after you, Druss. Bodasen may be in his employ, and as for the walking lice-sack who just left I think he’d sell his mother for a copper farthing. So trust me, and let’s move.”
“I liked them both - but you are right. I do need sleep.”
Sieben stepped outside and called to a tavern maid, slipping her a silver piece and asking for their move to be kept secret - even from the landlord. She slipped the coin into the pocket of her leather apron and took the two men to the far end of the gallery. The new room was larger than the first, boasting three beds and two lanterns. A fire had been laid in the hearth, but it was unlit and the room was cold.
When the maid had departed Sieben lit the fire and sat beside it, watching the flames lick at the tinder. Druss pulled off his boots and jerkin and stretched out on the widest of the beds. Within moments he was asleep, his axe on the floor beside the bed.
Sieben lifted the baldric of knives from his shoulder and hooked it over the back of the chair. The fire blazed more brightly and he added several thick chunks of wood from the log basket beside the hearth. As the hours passed, all sounds from the inn below faded, and only the crackling of burning wood disturbed the silence. Sieben was tired, but he did not sleep.
Then he heard the sounds of men upon the stairs, stealthy footfalls. Drawing one of his knives he moved to the door, opening it a fraction and peering out. At the other end of the gallery some seven men were crowding around the door of their previous quarters; the landlord was with them. The door was wrenched open and the men surged inside, but moments later they returned. One of the newcomers took hold of the landlord by his shirt and pushed him against the wall. The frightened man’s voice rose, and Sieben could just make out some of his words: “They were… honestly…
lives of my children… they… without paying…” Sieben watched as the man was hurled to the floor. The would-be assassins then trooped down the gallery stairs and out into the night.
Pushing shut the door, Sieben returned to the fire.
And slept.
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter Six
Borcha sat quietly while Collan berated the men he had sent in search of Druss. They stood shamefaced before him, heads down. “How long have you been with me, Kotis?” he asked one of them, his voice low and thick with menace.
“Six years,” answered the man at the centre of the group, a tall, wide-shouldered bearded fist-fighter. Borcha remembered his destruction of this man; it had taken no more than a minute.
“Six years,” echoed Collan. “And in that time have you seen other men fall foul of me?”
“Aye, I have. But we got the information from Old Thorn. He swore they were staying in the Tree of Bone - and so they were. But they went into hiding after the fight with Borcha. We’ve men still looking; they won’t be hard to find tomorrow.”
“You’re right,” said Collan. “They won’t be hard to find; they’ll be coming here!”
“You could give his wife back,” offered Bodasen, who was lounging on a couch on the far side of the room.
“I don’t give women back. I take them! Anyway, I don’t know which farm wench he’s talking about. Most of those we took were freed when the madman attacked the camp. I expect his wife took a welcome opportunity to escape from his clutches.”
“He’s not a man I’d want hunting me,” said Borcha. “I’ve never hit anyone so hard - and seen them stay on their feet.”
“Get back out on the streets, all of you. Scour the inns and taverns near the docks. They won’t be far. And understand this, Kotis, if he does walk into my home tomorrow I’ll kill you!”
The men shuffled out and Borcha leaned back on the couch, suppressing a groan as his injured rib lanced pain into his side. He had been forced to withdraw from the tournament, and that hurt his pride. Yet he felt a grudging admiration for the young fighter; he, too, would have taken on an army for Caria. “You know what I think?” he offered.
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