Sieben had stood very still, waiting for her eyes to glance in his direction. When they did, he sent her a smile. One of his best - a swift, flashing grin that said, “I am bored too. I understand you. I am a linked soul.” She raised an eyebrow at him, signifying her distaste for his impertinence, and then turned away. He waited, knowing she would look again. She moved to a nearby stall and began to examine a set of ceramic bowls. He angled himself through the crowd and she looked up, startled to see him so close.
“Good morning, my lady,” he said. She ignored him. “You are very beautiful.”
“And you are presumptuous, sir.” Her voice had a northern burr, which he normally found irritating. Not so now.
“Beauty demands presumption. Just as it demands adoration.”
“You are very sure of yourself,” she said, moving in close to disconcert him.
She was wearing a simple gown of radiant blue and a Lentrian shawl of white silk. But it was her perfume that filled his senses - a rich, scented musk he recognised as Moserche, a Ventrian import costing five gold raq an ounce.
“Are you happy?” he asked her.
“What a ridiculous question! Who could answer it?”
“Someone who is happy,” he told her.
She smiled. “And you, sir, are you happy?”
“I am now.”
“I think you are an accomplished womaniser, and there is no truth to your words.”
“Then judge me by my deeds, my lady. My name is Sieben.” He whispered the address of the house he shared with Druss and then, taking her hand, he kissed it.
Her messenger arrived at the house two days later.
She moved in her sleep. Sieben’s hand slid under the satin sheet, cupping her breast. At first she did not stir, but he gently continued to caress her skin, squeezing her nipple until it swelled erect. She moaned and stretched. “Do you never sleep?” she asked him.
He did not reply.
Later, as Evejorda slept again, he lay silently beside her, his passion gone, his thoughts sorrowful. She was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever enjoyed. She was bright, intelligent, dynamic and full of passion.
And he was bored….
As a poet he had sung of love, but never known it, and he envied the lovers of legend who looked into each other’s eyes and saw eternity beckoning. He sighed and slipped from the bed, dressing swiftly and leaving the room, padding softly down the back stairs to the garden before pulling on his boots. The servants were not yet awake, and dawn was only just breaking in the eastern sky. A cockerel crowed in the distance.
Sieben walked through the garden and out on to the avenue beyond. As he walked he could smell the fresh bread baking, and he stopped at a bakery to buy some cheese bread which he ate as he strolled home.
Druss was not there, and he remembered the labouring work the young man had undertaken. God, how could a man spend his days digging in the dirt, he wondered? Moving through to the kitchen, he stoked up the iron stove and set a copper pan filled with water atop it.
Making a tisane of mint and herbs, he stirred the brew and carried it to the main sitting room where he found Shadak asleep on a couch. The hunter’s black jerkin and trews were travel-stained, his boots encrusted with mud. He awoke as Sieben entered, and swung his long legs from the couch.
“I was wondering where you were,” said Shadak, yawning. “I arrived last night.”
“I stayed with a friend,” said Sieben, sitting opposite the hunter and sipping his tisane.
Shadak nodded. “Mapek is due in Mashrapur later today. He cut short his visit to Vagria.”
“Why would that concern me?”
“I’m sure that it does not. But now you know it anyway.”
“Did you come to give me a sermon, Shadak?”
“Do I look like a priest? I came to see Druss. But when I got here he was in the garden, sparring with a bald giant. From the way he moved I concluded his wounds are healed.”
“Only the physical wounds,” said Sieben.
“I know,” responded the hunter. “I spoke to him. He still intends to sail for Ventria. Will you go with him?”
Sieben laughed. “Why should I? I don’t know his wife. Gods, I hardly know him.”
“It might be good for you, poet.”
“The sea air, you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” said Shadak gravely. “You have chosen to make an enemy of one of the most powerful men in Mashrapur. His enemies die, Sieben. Poison, or the blade, or a knotted rope around your throat as you sleep.”
“Is my business known all over the city??
“Of course. There are thirty servants in that house. You think to keep secrets from them when her ecstatic cries reverberate around the building in the middle of the afternoon, or the morning, or in the dead of night?”
“Or indeed all three,” said Sieben, smiling.
“I see no humour in this,” snapped Shadak. “You are no more than a rutting dog and you will undoubtedly ruin her life as you have ruined others. Yet I would sooner you lived than died - only the gods know why!”
“I gave her a little pleasure, that’s all. Which is more than that dry stick of a husband could do. But I will think on your advice.”
“Do not think too long. When Mapek returns he will soon find out about his wife’s… little pleasure. Do not be surprised if he has her killed also.”
Sieben paled. “He wouldn’t…”
“He is a proud man, poet. And you have made a profound error.”
“If he touches her I’ll kill him.”
“Ah, how noble. The dog bares its fangs. You should never have wooed her. You do not even have the defence of being in love; you merely wanted to rut.”
“Is that not what love is?” countered Sieben.
“For you, yes.” Shadak shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ll ever understand it, Sieben. To love means giving, not receiving. Sharing your soul. But this argument is wasted on you, like teaching algebra to a chicken.”
“Oh, please, don’t try to spare my feelings with pretty words. Just come right out with it!”
Shadak rose. “Bodasen is hiring warriors, mercenaries to fight in the Ventrian war. He has chartered a ship which will sail in twelve days. Lie low until then, and do not seek to see Evejorda again - not if you want her to live.”
The hunter moved towards the door, but Sieben called out, “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”
Shadak half turned. “I think more of you than you think of yourself.”
“I am too tired for riddles.”
“You can’t forget Gulgothir.”
Sieben jerked as if struck, then lunged to his feet. “That is all past. It means nothing to me. You understand? Nothing!”
“If you say so. I’ll see you in twelve days. The ship is called The Thunderchild. She will sail from Quay 12.”
“I may be on it. I may not.”
“A man always has two choices, my friend.”
“No! No! No!” roared Borcha. “You are still thrusting out that chin, and leading with your head.” Stepping back from his opponent, Borcha swept up a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and head. “Try to understand, Druss, that if Grassin gets the opportunity he will take out one - or both - of your eyes. He will step in close, and as you charge he will strike with a sudden thrust, his thumb like a dagger.”
“Let’s go again,” said Druss.
“No. You are too angry and it swamps your thoughts. Come and sit for a while.”
“The light is fading,” Druss pointed out.
“Then let it fade. You are four days from the competition. Four days, Druss. In that time you must learn to control your temper. Winning is everything. It means nothing if an opponent sneers at you, or mocks you, or claims your mother sold herself to sailors. You understand? These insults are merely weapons in a fighter’s armoury. You will be goaded - because every fighter knows that his enemy’s rage is his greatest weakness.”
<
br /> “I can control it,” snapped Druss.
“A few moments ago you were fighting well - your balance was good, the punches crisp. Then I slapped you with a straight left… then another. The blows were too fast for your defences and they began to irritate you. Then the curve came back to your punches and you exposed your chin, your face.”
Druss sat beside the fighter and nodded. “You are right. But I do not like this sparring, this holding back. It does not feel real.”
“It isn’t real, my friend, but it prepares the body for genuine combat.” He slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Do not despair; you are almost ready. I think your digging in the dirt has brought back your strength. How goes it at the clearing site?”
“We finished today,” said Druss. “Tomorrow the stonemasons and builders move in.”
“On time. The Overseer must have been pleased - I know I am.”
“Why should it please you?”
“I own a third of the land. The value will rise sharply when the houses are completed.” The bald fighter chuckled. “Were you happy with your bonus?”
“Was that your doing?” asked Druss suspiciously.
“It is standard practice, Druss. The Overseer received fifty raq for completing within the time allocated. The charge-hand is usually offered one tenth of this sum.”
“He gave me ten raq - in gold.”
“Well, well, you must have impressed him.”
“He asked me to stay on and supervise the digging of the footings.”
“But you declined?”
“Yes. There is a ship bound for Ventria. I told him my assistant, Togrin, could take my place. He agreed.”
Borcha was silent for a moment. He knew of Druss’s fight with Togrin on the first day, and how he had welcomed the defeated charge-hand back on the site, training him and giving him responsibility. And the Overseer had told him at their progress meetings how well the men responded to Druss.
“He is a natural leader who inspires by example. No work is too menial, nor too hard. He’s a real find, Borcha; I intend to promote him. There is a new site planned to the north, with difficult terrain. I shall make him Overseer.”
“He won’t take it.”
“Of course he will. He could become rich.”
Borcha pulled his thoughts back to the present. “You know you may never find her,” he said softly.
Druss shook his head. “I’ll find her, Borcha - if I have to walk across Ventria and search every house.”
“You are a woodman, Druss, so answer me this: If I marked a single fallen leaf in a forest, how would you begin to search for it?”
“I hear you - but it is not that difficult. I know who bought her: Kabuchek. He is a rich man, an important man; I will find him.” Reaching behind the bench seat, Druss drew forth Snaga. “This was my grandfather’s axe,” he said. “He was an evil man, they say. But when he was young a great army came out of the north, led by a Gothir King named Pasia. Everywhere there was panic. How could the Drenai stand against such an army? Towns emptied, people piled their possessions on to carts, wagons, coaches, the backs of horses, ponies. Bardan - my grandfather - led a small raiding party deep into the mountains, to where the enemy was camped. He and twenty men walked into the camp, found the King’s tent and slew him in the night. In the morning they found Pasia’s head stuck atop a lance. The army went home.”
“An interesting story, and one I have heard before,” said Borcha. “What do you think we learn from it?”
“There is nothing a man cannot achieve if he has the will, the strength and the courage to attempt it,” answered Druss.
Borcha rose and stretched the massive muscles of his shoulders and back. “Then let’s see if it is true,” he said, with a smile. “Let’s see if you have the will, the strength and the courage to keep your chin tucked in.”
Druss chuckled and placed the axe beside the seat as he stood. “I like you, Borcha. How in the name of Chaos did you ever come to serve a man like Collan?”
“He had a good side, Druss.”
“He did?”
“Aye, he paid well.” As he spoke his hand snaked out, the open palm lashing across Druss’s cheek. The younger man snarled and leapt at him but Borcha swayed left, his fist glancing from Druss’s cheek. “The chin, you ox! Keep it in!” he bellowed.
“I was hoping for men with more quality,” said Bodasen, as he scanned the crowds milling in the Celebration Field.
Borcha chuckled. “Do not be misled by appearances. Some of these men are quality. It really depends on what you are seeking.”
Bodasen stared moodily at the rabble - some in rags, most filthy. More than two hundred had assembled so far, and a quick glance to the gate showed others moving along the access road. “I think we have different views on what constitutes quality,” he said gloomily.
“Look over there,” said Borcha, pointing to a man sitting on a fence rail. “That is Eskodas the Bowman. He can hit a mark no larger than your thumbnail from fifty paces. A man to walk the mountains with, as they say in my home country. And there, the swordsman Kelva - fearless and highly skilled. A natural killer.”
“But do they understand the concept of honour?”
Borcha’s laughter rang out. “You have listened to too many tales of glory and wonder, my friend. These men are fighters; they fight for pay.”
Bodasen sighed. “I am trapped in this… this blemish of a city. My emperor is beset on all sides by a terrible enemy, and I cannot join him. No ship will sail unless it is manned by seasoned troops, and I must choose them from among the gutter scum of Mashrapur. I had hoped for more.”
“Choose wisely, and they may yet surprise you,” advised Borcha.
“Let us see the archers first,” Bodasen ordered.
For more than an hour Bodasen watched the bowmen sending their shafts at targets stuffed with straw. When they had finished he selected five men, the youthful Eskodas among them. Each man was given a single gold raq, and told to report to The Thunderchild at dawn on the day of departure.
The swordsmen were more difficult to judge. At first he ordered them to fence with one another, but the warriors set about their task with mindless ferocity and soon several men were down with cuts, gashes, and one with a smashed collar-bone. Bodasen called a halt to the proceedings and, with Borcha’s help, chose ten. The injured men were each given five silver pieces.
The day wore on, and by noon Bodasen had chosen thirty of the fifty men he required to man The Thunderchild. Dismissing the remainder of the would-be mercenaries, he strode from the field with Borcha beside him.
“Will you leave a place for Druss?” asked the fighter.
“No. I will have room only for men who will fight for Ventria. His quest is a personal one.”
“According to Shadak he is the best fighting man in the city.”
“I am not best disposed towards Shadak. Were it not for him the pirates would not be fighting Ventria’s cause.”
“Sweet Heaven!” snorted Borcha. “How can you believe that? Collan would merely have taken your money and given nothing in return.”
“He gave me his word,” said Bodasen.
“How on earth did you Ventrians ever build an empire?” enquired Borcha. “Collan was a liar, a thief, a raider. Why would you believe him? Did he not tell you he was going to give back Druss’s wife? Did he not lie to you in order for you to lure Druss into a trap? What kind of man did you believe you were dealing with?”
“A nobleman,” snapped Bodasen. “Obviously I was wrong.”
“Indeed you were. You have just paid a gold raq to Eskodas, the son of a goat-breeder and a Lentrian whore. His father was hanged for stealing two horses and his mother abandoned him. He was raised in an orphanage run by two Source priests.”
“Is there some point to this sordid tale?” asked the Ventrian.
“Aye, there is. Eskodas will fight to the death for you; he’ll not run. Ask him his opinion, and he’ll give an honest
answer. Hand him a bag of diamonds and tell him to deliver it to a man a thousand leagues distant, and he will do so - and never once will he consider stealing a single gem.”
“So I should hope,” observed Bodasen. “I would expect no less from any Ventrian servant I employed. Why do you make honesty sound like a grand virtue?”
“I have known rocks with more common sense than you,” said Borcha, struggling to hold his temper.
Bodasen chuckled. “Ah, the ways of you barbarians are mystifying. But you are quite right about Druss - I was instrumental in causing him grievous wounds. Therefore I shall leave a place for him on The Thunderchild. Now let us find somewhere that serves good food and passable wine.”
Shadak, Sieben and Borcha stood with Druss on the quayside as dock-workers moved by them, climbing the gangplank, carrying the last of the ship’s stores to the single deck. The Thunderchild was riding low in the water, her deck crammed with mercenaries who leaned on the rail, waving goodbyes to the women who thronged the quay. Most were whores, but there were a few wives with small children, and many were the tears.
Shadak gripped Druss’s hand. “I wish you fair sailing, laddie,” the hunter told him. “And I hope the Source leads you to Rowena.”
“He will,” said Druss. The axeman’s eyes were swollen, the lids discoloured - a mixture of dull yellow and faded purple - and there was a lump under his left eye, where the skin was split and badly stitched.
Shadak grinned at him. “It was a good fight. Grassin will long remember it.”
“And me,” grunted Druss.
Shadak nodded, and his smile faded. “You are a rare man, Druss. Try not to change. Remember the code.”
“I will,” promised Druss. The two men shook hands again, and Shadak strolled away.
“What code?” Sieben asked.
Druss watched as the black-garbed hunter vanished into the crowd. “He once told me that all true warriors live by a code: Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.”
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 15
