“Yes. How does it feel?” countered his opponent. Collan laughed. “You have nerve, I’ll say that for you. Before I kill you, will you tell me why you are hunting me? A wronged wife, perhaps? A despoiled daughter? Or are you a hired assassin?”
“I am Shadak,” said the man.
Collan grinned. “So the night is not a total waste.” He glanced at the crowd. “The great Shadak!” he said, his voice rising. “This is the famed hunter, the mighty swordsman. See him bleed? Well, my friends, you can tell your children how you saw him die! How Collan slew the man of legend.”
He advanced on the waiting Shadak, then raised his sabre in a mock salute. “I have enjoyed this duel, old man,” he said, “but now it is time to end it.” Even as he spoke he leapt, sending a fast reverse cut towards Shadak’s right side. As his opponent parried Collan rolled his wrist, the sabre rolling over the blocking blade and sweeping up towards Shadak’s unprotected neck. It was the classic killing stroke, and one Collan had employed many times, but Shadak swayed to his left, the sabre cutting into his right shoulder. Collan felt a searing pain in his belly and glanced down. Horrified, he saw Shadak’s sword jutting there.
“Burn in Hell!” hissed Shadak, wrenching the blade clear. Collan screamed and fell to his knees, his sabre clattering against the stones of the quay. He could feel his heart hammering and agony, red-hot acid pain, scorched through him. He cried out: “Help me!”
The crowd was silent now. Collan fell face down on the stones. “I can’t be dying,” he thought. “Not me. Not Collan.”
The pain receded, replaced by a soothing warmth that stole across his tortured mind. He opened his eyes and could see his sabre glinting on the stones just ahead. He reached out for it, his fingers touching the hilt.
“I can still win!” he told himself. “I can….”
Shadak sheathed his sword and stared down at the dead man. Already the beggars were around him, pulling at his boots and ripping at his belt. Shadak turned away and pushed through the crowd.
He saw Sieben kneeling beside the still figure of Druss, and his heart sank. Moving more swiftly, he came alongside the body and knelt down.
“He’s dead,” said Sieben.
“In your… dreams,” hissed Druss. “Get me to my feet.”
Shadak chuckled. “Some men take a sight of killing,” he told the poet. The two men hauled Druss upright.
“She’s out there,” said Druss, staring at the ship that was slowly shrinking against the distant horizon.
“I know, my friend,” said Shadak softly. “But we’ll find her. Now let’s get you to a surgeon.”
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
BOOK TWO: The Demon in the Axe Prologue
The ship glided from the harbour, the early evening swell rippling against the hull. Rowena stood on the aft deck, the tiny figure of Pudri beside her. Above them, unnoticed on the raised tiller deck, stood the Ventrian merchant Kabuchek. Tall and cadaverously thin, he stared at the dock. He had seen Collan cut down by an unknown swordsman, and had watched the giant Drenai warrior battle his way through Collan’s men. Interesting, he thought, what men will do for love.
His thoughts flew back to his youth in Varsipis and his desire for the young maiden Harenini. Did I love her then, he wondered? Or has time added colours to the otherwise grey days of youth?
The ship lifted on the swell as the vessel approached the harbour mouth and the surging tides beyond. Kabuchek glanced down at the girl; Collan had sold her cheaply. Five thousand pieces of silver for a talent such as hers? Ludicrous. He had been prepared for a charlatan, or a clever trickster. But she had taken his hand, looked into his eyes and said a single word: “Harenini.” Kabuchek had kept the shock from his face. He had not heard her name in twenty-five years, and certainly there was no way that the pirate Collan could have known of his juvenile infatuation. Though already convinced of her talents, Kabuchek asked many questions until finally he turned to Collan. “It appears she has a modicum of talent,” he said. “What price are you asking?”
“Five thousand.”
Kabuchek swung to his servant, the eunuch Pudri. “Pay him,” he said, concealing the smile of triumph and contenting himself with the tormented look which appeared on Collan’s face. “I will take her to the ship myself.”
Now, judging by how close the axeman had come, he congratulated himself upon his shrewdness. He heard Pudri’s gentle voice speaking to the girl.
“I pray your husband is not dead,” said Pudri. Kabuchek glanced back at the dock and saw two Drenai warriors were kneeling beside the still figure of the axeman.
“He will live,” said Rowena, tears filling her eyes. “And he will follow me.”
If he does, thought Kabuchek, I will have him slain.
“He has a great love for you, Pahtai,” said Pudri soothingly. “So it should be between husband and wife. It rarely happens that way, however. I myself have had three wives - and none of them loved me. But then a eunuch is not the ideal mate.”
The girl watched the tiny figures on the dock until the ship had slipped out of the harbour and the lights of Mashrapur became distant twinkling candles. She sighed and sank down on the rail seat, her head bowed, tears spilling from her eyes.
Pudri sat beside her, his slender arm on her shoulders. “Yes,” he whispered, “tears are good. Very good.” Patting her back as if she were a small child, he sat beside her and whispered meaningless platitudes.
Kabuchek climbed down the deck steps and approached them. “Bring her to my cabin,” he ordered Pudri.
Rowena glanced up at the harsh face of her new master. His nose was long and hooked, like the beak of an eagle, and his skin was darker than any she had seen, almost black. His eyes, however, were a bright blue beneath thick brows. Beside her Pudri stood, helping her to her feet, and together they followed the Ventrian merchant down the steps to the aft cabin. Lanterns were lit here, hanging on bronze hooks from low oak beams.
Kabuchek sat down behind a desk of polished mahogany. “Cast the runes for the voyage,” he ordered Rowena.
“I do not cast runes,” she said. “I would not know how.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Do whatever it is you do, woman. The sea is a treacherous mistress and I need to know how the voyage will be.”
Rowena sat opposite him. “Give me your hand,” she said. Leaning forward, he struck her face with his open palm. It was not a heavy blow, but it stung the skin.
“You will address me always as master,” he said, without any display of anger. His bright blue eyes scrutinised her face for any sign of anger or defiance, but found himself gazing into calm hazel eyes which appeared to be appraising him. Curiously he felt like apologising for the blow, which was a ridiculous thought. It was not intended to hurt, being merely a swift method of establishing authority-ownership. He cleared his throat. “I expect you to learn swiftly the ways of Ventrian households. You will be well cared for and well fed; your quarters will be comfortable and warm in winter, cool in summer. But you are a slave: understand that. I own you. You are property. Do you understand this?”
“I understand… master,” said the girl. The title was said with just a touch of emphasis, but without insolence.
“Very well. Then let us move on to more important matters.” He extended his hand.
Rowena reached out and touched his open palm. At first she could see only the details of his recent past, his agreement with the traitors who had slain the Ventrian Emperor, one of them a hawk-faced man. Kabuchek was kneeling before him and there was blood on the man’s sleeve. A name whispered into her mind - Shabag.
“What’s that you say?” hissed Kabuchek.
Rowena blinked, then realised she must have spoken the name. “I see a tall man with blood on his sleeve. You are kneeling before him…”
“The future, girl! Not the past.” From the decks above came a great flapping as if some giant flying beast was descending from the sky. Rowena was st
artled. “It is just the mainsail,” said Kabuchek. “Concentrate, girl!”
Closing her eyes, Rowena allowed her mind to drift. She could see the ship now from above, floating on a clear sea beneath a sky of brilliant blue. Then another ship hove into sight, a trireme, its three banks of oars sending up a white spray as it sheared through the waves towards them. Rowena floated closer… closer. Armed men filled the trireme’s deck.
Silver-grey forms swam around the trireme - great fish, twenty feet long, with fins like spear points cutting through the water. Rowena watched as the two ships crashed together, saw men falling into the water and the sleek grey fish rising up towards them. Blood billowed into the sea, and she saw the jagged teeth in the mouths of the fish, saw them rend and tear and dismember the helpless sailors thrashing in the water.
The battle on the ship’s deck was short and brutal. She saw herself and.Pudri, and the tall form of Kabuchek clambering over the aft rail and leaping out into the waves.
The killer fish circled them - then moved in.
Rowena could watch no more and, jerking her mind to the present, she opened her eyes.
“Well, what did you see?” asked Kabuchek.
“A black-sailed trireme, master.”
“Earin Shad,” whispered Pudri, his face pale, his eyes fearful.
“Do we escape him?” asked Kabuchek.
“Yes,” said Rowena, her voice dull, her thoughts full of despair, “we escape Earin Shad.”
“Good. I am well satisfied,” announced Kabuchek. He glanced at Pudri. “Take her to her cabin and give her some food. She is looking pale.”
Pudri led Rowena back along the narrow corridor to a small door. Pushing it open, he stepped inside. “The bed is very small, but you are not large. I think it will suffice, Pahtai.” Rowena nodded dumbly and sat.
“You saw more than you told the master,” he said.
“Yes. There were fish, huge fish, dark with terrible teeth.”
“Sharks,” said Pudri, sitting beside her.
“This ship will be sunk,” she told him. “And you and I, and Kabuchek, will leap into the sea, where the sharks will be waiting.”
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter One
Sieben sat in an outer room, sunlight slanting through the shuttered window at his back. He could hear low voices from the room beyond - a man’s deep, pleading tones, and the harsh responses from the Old Woman. Muffled by the thick walls of stone and the oak door, the words were lost - which was just as well, since Sieben had no wish to hear the conversation. The Old Woman had many clients; most seeking the murder of rivals - at least, according to the whispered gossip he had heard.
He closed his ears to the voices and concentrated instead on the shafts of light and the gleaming dust motes dancing within them. The room was bare of ornament save for the three seats of plain, unfinished wood. They were not even well made and Sieben guessed they had been bought in the southern quarter, where the poor spent what little money they had.
Idly he swept his hand through a shaft of light. The dust scattered and swirled.
The oak door opened and a middle-aged man emerged. Seeing Sieben, he swiftly turned his face away and hurried from the house. The poet rose and moved towards the open door. The room beyond was scarcely better furnished than the waiting area. There was a broad table with ill-fitting joints, two hard wood chairs and a single shutter window. No light shone through the slats and Sieben saw that old cloths had been wedged between them.
“A curtain would have been sufficient to block the light,” he said, forcing a lightness of tone he did not feel.
The Old Woman did not smile, her face impassive in the light of the red-glassed lantern on the table before her.
“Sit,” she said.
He did so, and tried to stop himself from considering her awesome ugliness. Her teeth were multi-coloured - green, grey and the brown of rotting vegetation. Her eyes were rheumy, and a cataract had formed in the left. She was wearing a loose-fitting gown of faded red, and a gold talisman was partially hidden in the wrinkled folds of her neck.
“Put the gold upon the table,” she said. He lifted a single gold raq from the pouch at his side and slid it towards her. Making no move to pick up the coin, she looked into his face. “What do you require of me?” she asked him.
“I have a friend who is dying.”
“The young axeman.”
“Yes. The surgeons have done all they can, but there is poison within his lungs, and the knife wound in his lower back will not heal.”
“You have something of his with you?”
Sieben nodded and pulled the silver-knuckled gauntlet from his belt. She took it from his hand and sat in silence, running the calloused skin of her thumb across the leather and metal. “The surgeon is Calvar Syn,” she said. “What does he say?”
“Only that Druss should already be dead. The poison in his system is spreading; they are forcing liquids into him, but his weight is falling away and he has not opened his eyes in four days.”
“What would you have me do?”
Sieben shrugged. “It is said you are very skilled in herbs. I thought you might save him.”
She laughed suddenly, the sound dry and harsh. “My herbs do not usually prolong life, Sieben.” Laying the gauntlet upon the table, she leaned back in her chair. “He suffers,” she said. “He has lost his lady, and his will to live is fading. Without the will, there is no hope.”
“There is nothing you can do?”
“About his will? No. But his lady is on board a ship bound for Ventria and she is safe - for the moment. But the war sweeps on and who can say what will become of a slave-girl if she reaches that battle-torn continent? Go back to the hospital. Take your friend to the house Shadak is preparing for you.”
“He will die, then?”
She smiled, and Sieben tore his eyes from the sudden show of rotting teeth. “Perhaps… Place him in a room where the sunlight enters in the morning, and lay his axe upon his bed, his fingers upon the hilt.” Her hand snaked across the table, and the gold raq vanished into her palm.
“That is all you can tell me for an ounce of gold?”
“It is all you need to know. Place his hand upon the hilt.”
Sieben rose. “I had expected more.”
“Life is full of disappointments, Sieben.”
He moved to the door, but her voice stopped him. “Do not touch the blades,” she warned.
“What?”
“Carry the weapon with care.”
Shaking his head, he left the house. The sun was hidden now behind dark clouds, and rain began to fall.
Druss was sitting alone and exhausted upon a grim mountainside, the sky above him grey and forlorn, the earth around him arid and dry. He gazed up at the towering peaks so far above him and levered himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady, and he had been climbing for so long that all sense of time had vanished. All he knew was that Rowena waited on the topmost peak, and he must find her. Some twenty paces ahead was a jutting finger of rock and Druss set off towards it, forcing his aching limbs to push his weary body on and up. Blood was gushing from the wounds in his back, making the ground treacherous around his feet. He fell. Then he crawled.
It seemed that hours had passed.
He looked up. The jutting finger of rock was now forty paces from him.
Despair came fleetingly, but was washed away on a tidal wave of rage. He crawled on. Ever on.
“I won’t give up,” he hissed. “Ever.”
Something cold touched his hand, his fingers closing around an object of steel. And he heard a voice. I am back, my brother.”
Something in the words chilled him. He gazed down at the silver axe - and felt his wounds heal, his strength flooding back into his frame.
Rising smoothly, he looked up at the mountain.
It was merely a hill.
Swiftly he strode to the top. And woke.
Calvar Syn
patted Druss’s back. “Put on your shirt, young man,” he said. “The wounds have finally healed. There is a little pus, but the blood is fresh and the scab contains no corruption. I congratulate you on your strength.”
Druss nodded, but did not reply. Slowly and with care he pulled on his shirt of grey wool, then leaned back exhausted on the bed. Calvar Syn reached out, gently pressing his index finger to the pulse point on the young man’s throat. The beat was erratic and fast, but this was to be expected after such a long infection. “Take a deep breath,” ordered the surgeon and Druss obeyed. “The right lung is still not operating at full efficiency; but it will. I want you to move out into the garden. Enjoy the sunshine and the sea air.”
The surgeon rose and left the room, walking down the long hallways and out into the gardens beyond. He saw the poet, Sieben, sitting beneath a spreading elm and tossing pebbles into a man-made pond. Calvar Syn wandered to the poolside.
“Your friend is improving, but not as swiftly as I had hoped,” he said.
“Did you bleed him?”
“No. There is no longer a fever. He is very silent… withdrawn.”
Sieben nodded. “His wife was taken from him.”
“Very sad, I’m sure. But there are other women in the world,” observed the surgeon.
“Not for him. He loves her, he’s going after her.”
“He’ll waste his life,” said Calvar. “Has he any idea of the size of the Ventrian continent? There are thousands upon thousands of small towns and villages, and more than three hundred major cities. Then there is the war. All shipping has ceased. How will he get there?”
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