And awoke to the arrival of the jailer. The man knelt down at the narrow opening, but Druss knew he could not see more than a few inches into the dark. The food and water was untouched. The only question now was whether the jailer cared if his prisoner lived or died. Cajivak had threatened to have Druss dragged before him in order to plead for death. Would the Lord be pleased that his jailer had robbed him of such delights?
He heard the jailer curse, then move off back the way he had come. Druss’s mouth was dry, and his heart pounded. Minutes passed - long, anxious minutes. Then the jailer returned; he was speaking to someone.
“It’s not my fault,” he was saying. “His rations were set by the Lord himself.”
“So it’s his fault? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No! No! It’s nobody’s fault. Maybe he had a weak heart or something. Maybe he’s just sick. That’s it, he’s probably sick. We’ll move him to a bigger cell for a while.”
“I hope you’re right,” said a soft voice, “otherwise you’ll be wearing your own entrails for a necklace.”
A grating sound followed, then another, and Druss guessed the bolts were being drawn back. “All right, together now,” came a voice. “Heave!” The stone groaned as the men hauled it clear.
“Gods, but it stinks in there!” complained one of the guards as a torch was thrust inside. Druss grabbed the wielder by the throat, hauling him in, then he dived through the opening and rolled. He rose, but dizziness caused him to stagger and a guard laughed.
“There’s your dead man,” he said, and Druss heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. It was so hard to see - there were at least three torches, and the light was blinding. A shape moved towards him.
“Back in your hole, rat!” said the guard. Druss leapt forward to smash a punch to the man’s face. The guard’s iron helm flew from his head as his body shot backwards, his head cannoning into the dungeon wall. A second guard ran in. Druss’s vision was clearing now and he saw the man aim a blow at his head. He ducked and stepped inside the blow, thundering his fist in the man’s belly. Instantly the guard folded, a great whoosh of air rushing from his lungs. Druss brought his clenched fist down on the man’s neck, there was a sickening crack and the guard fell to his face.
The jailer was trying to wriggle clear of the dungeon opening as Druss turned on him. The man squealed in fright and elbowed his way back into the dungeon. Druss hauled the first guard to the entrance, thrusting the unconscious body through into the cell. The second guard was dead; his body followed the first. Breathing heavily Druss looked at the door-stone. Anger rose in him like a sudden fire. Squatting down, he took the stone in both hands and heaved it into place. Then he sat before it and pushed it home with his legs. For several minutes he sat exhausted, then he crawled to the door-stone and pushed the bolts home.
Lights danced before Druss’s eyes, and his heart was hammering so fast he could not count the beats. Yet he forced himself upright and moved carefully to the door, which was partly open, and glanced into the corridor beyond. Sunlight was shining through a window, the beam highlighting dust motes in the air. It was indescribably beautiful.
The corridor was deserted. He could see two chairs and a table with two cups upon it. Moving into the corridor, he halted at the table and, seeing the cups contained watered wine, he drained them both. More dungeons lined the walls, but these all had doors of iron bars. He moved on to a second wooden door, beyond which was a stairwell, dark and unlit.
His strength was fading as he slowly climbed the stairs, but anger drove him on.
Sieben gazed down with undisguised horror at the small black insect upon the back of his hand. This,” he said, “is insufferable.”
“What?” asked Varsava from his position at the narrow window.
“The room has fleas,” answered Sieben, taking the insect between thumb and forefinger and crushing it.
“They seem to prefer you, poet,” put in Eskodas with a boyish grin.
“The risk of death is one thing,” said Sieben icily. “Fleas are quite another. I have not even inspected the bed, but I would imagine it is teeming with wild-life. I think we should make the rescue attempt at once.”
Varsava chuckled. “After dark would probably be best,” he said. “I was here three months ago when I took a child back out to his father. That’s how I learned that Druss was here. The dungeons are - as you would expect - on the lowest level. Above them are the kitchens, and above them the main Hall. There is no exit from the dungeons save through the Hall, which means we must be inside the Keep by dusk. There is no night jailer; therefore, if we can hide within the Keep until around midnight, we should be able to find Druss and get him out. As to leaving the fortress, that is another matter. As you saw, the two gates are guarded by day and locked by night. There are sentries on the walls, and lookouts in the towers.”
“How many?” asked Eskodas.
“When I was here before, there were five near the main gate.”
“How did you get out with the child?”
“He was a small boy. I hid him in a sack and carried him out just after dawn, draped behind my saddle.”
“I can’t see Druss fitting in a sack,” said Sieben.
Varsava moved to sit alongside the poet. “Do not think of him as you knew him, poet. He has been over a year in a tiny, windowless cell. The food would be barely enough to keep him alive. He will not be the giant we all knew. And he’s likely to be blind - or insane. Or both.”
Silence fell upon the room as each man remembered the axeman they had fought alongside. “I wish I’d known sooner,” muttered Sieben.
“I did not know myself,” said Varsava. “I thought they’d killed him.”
“It’s strange,” put in Eskodas, “I could never imagine Druss being beaten - even by an army. He was always so - so indomitable.”
Varsava chuckled. “I know. I watched him walk unarmed into a hollow where a dozen or so warriors were torturing an old man. He went through them like a scythe through wheat. Impressive.”
“So, how shall we proceed?” Sieben asked.
“We will go to the main Hall to pay our respects to the Lord Cajivak. Perhaps he won’t kill us outright!”
“Oh, that’s a good plan,” said Sieben, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You have a better?”
“I believe that I have. One would imagine that a sordid place like this would be short of entertainment. I shall go alone and announce myself by name; I will offer to perform for my supper.”
“At the risk of being considered rude,” said Eskodas, “I don’t think your epic poems will be as well received as you think.”
“My dear boy, I am an entertainer. I can fashion a performance to suit any audience.”
“Well, this audience,” said Varsava, “will be made up of the dregs of Ventria and Naashan and all points east and west. There will be Drenai renegades, Vagrian mercenaries and Ventrian criminals of all kinds.”
“I shall dazzle them,” promised Sieben. “Give me half an hour to make my introductions, then make your way into the Hall. I promise you no one will notice your entrance.”
“Where did you acquire such humility?” asked Eskodas.
“It’s a gift,” replied Sieben, “and I’m very proud of it.”
Druss reached the second level and paused at the top of the stairwell. He could hear the sounds of many people moving around, the scrape of pans being cleaned and of cutlery being prepared. He could smell fresh bread cooking, mixed with the savoury aroma of roasting beef. Leaning against the wall, he tried to think. There was no way through without being seen. His legs were tired, and he sank down to his haunches.
What to do? “
He heard footsteps approaching and pushed himself upright. An old man appeared, his back hideously bent, his legs bowed. He was carrying a bucket of water. His head came up as he approached Druss, his nostrils quivering. The eyes, Druss saw, were rheumy and covered with an opal film. The old man pu
t down the bucket and reached out. “Is it you?” he whispered.
“You are blind?”
“Almost. I told you I spent five years in that cell. Come, follow me.” Leaving the bucket, the old man retraced his steps, round a winding corridor and down a narrow stair. Pushing open a door, he led Druss inside. The room was small, but there was a slit window that allowed a shaft of sunshine. “Wait here,” he said. “I will bring you some food and drink.”
He returned within minutes with a half-loaf of fresh baked bread, a slab of cheese and a jug of water. Druss devoured the food and drank deeply, then leaned back on the cot-bed.
“I thank you for your kindness,” he said. “Without it I would be worse than dead; I would have been lost.”
“I owed a debt,” said the cripple. “Another man fed me, just as I fed you. They killed him for it - Cajivak had him impaled. But I would never have found the courage had the goddess not appeared to me in a dream. Was it she who brought you from the dungeon?”
“Goddess?”
“She told me of you, and your suffering, and she filled me with shame at my cowardice. I swore to her that I would do all in my power to help you. And she touched my hand, and when I awoke all pain had gone from my back. Did she make the stone disappear?”
“No, I tricked the jailer.” He told the man of the ruse, and his fight with the guards.
“They will not be discovered until later tonight,” said the cripple. “Ah, but I would love to hear their screams as the rats come at them in the dark.”
“Why do you say the woman in your dream was a goddess?” asked Druss.
“She told me her name, Pahtai, and that is the daughter of the earth mother. And in my dream she walked with me upon the green hillsides of my youth. I shall never forget her.”
“Pahtai,” said Druss softly. “She came to me also in that cell, and gave me strength.” He stood and laid his hand on the old man’s back. “You risked much to help me, and I’ve no time left in this world in which to repay you.”
“No time?” echoed the old man. “You can hide here and escape after dark. I can get a rope; you can lower yourself from the wall.”
“No. I must find Cajivak - and kill him.”
“Good,” said the old man. “The goddess will give you powers, yes? She will pour strength into your body?”
“I fear not,” said Druss. “In this I shall be alone.”
“You will die! Do not attempt this,” pleaded the old man, tears streaming from the opal eyes. “I beg you. He will destroy you; he is a monster with the strength of ten men. Look at yourself. I cannot see you clearly, but I know how weak you must be. You have a chance at life, freedom, sunshine on your face. You are young - what will you achieve if you attempt this foolishness? He will crush you, and either kill you or throw you back into that hole in the ground.”
“I was not born to run,” said Druss. “And, trust me, I am not as weak as you think. You saw to that. Now tell me of the Keep, and where the stairwells lead.”
Eskodas had no fear of death, for he had no love of life - a fact he had known for many years. Ever since his father was dragged from their home and hanged, he had known no depth of joy. He felt the loss, but accepted it in a calm and tranquil manner. On board ship he had told Sieben that he enjoyed killing people, but this was not true. He experienced no sensation whatever when his arrow struck home, save for a momentary satisfaction when his aim was particularly good.
Now, as he strolled with Varsava towards the grey, forbidding Hall, he wondered if he would die. He thought of Druss imprisoned beneath the Keep in a dark, dank dungeon, and found himself wondering what such incarceration would do to his own personality. He took no especial pleasure from the sights of the world, the mountains and lakes, the oceans and valleys. Would he miss them? He doubted it.
Glancing at Varsava, he saw that the bladesman was tense, expectant. Eskodas smiled. No need for fear, he thought.
It is only death.
The two men climbed the stone steps to the Keep gates, which were open and unguarded. Moving inside, Eskodas heard a roar of laughter from the Hall. They walked to the main doors and looked inside. There were some two hundred men seated around three great tables and, at the far end, on a dais raised some six feet from the floor, sat Cajivak. He was seated in a huge, ornately carved chair of ebony, and he was smiling. Before him, standing on the end table, was Sieben.
The poet’s voice sang out. He was telling them a tale of such mind-bending raunchiness that Eskodas’s jaw dropped. He had heard Sieben tell epic stories, recite ancient poems and discuss philosophy, but never had he heard the poet talk of whores and donkeys. Varsava laughed aloud as Sieben finished the story with an obscene double entendre.
Eskodas gazed around the hall. Above them was a gallery, and he located the recessed stairway that led to it. This might be a good place to hide. He nudged Varsava. “I’ll take a look upstairs,” he whispered. The bladesman nodded and Eskodas strolled unnoticed through the throng and climbed the stairs. The gallery was narrow and flowed round the Hall. There were no doors leading from it, and a man seated here would be invisible to those below.
Sieben was now telling the story of a hero captured by a vicious enemy. Eskodas paused to listen:
“He was taken before the leader, and told that he had one opportunity for life: he must survive four trials by ordeal. The first was to walk barefoot across a trench filled with hot coals. The second to drink a full quart of the most powerful spirit. Thirdly he had to enter a cave and, with a small set of tongs, remove a bad tooth from a mankilling lioness. Lastly, he was told, he had to make love to the ugliest crone in the village.
“Well, he pulled off his boots and told them to bring on the hot coals. Manfully he strode through them to the other side of the trench, where he lifted the quart of spirit and drained it, hurling the pot aside. Then he stumbled into the cave. There followed the most terrible sounds of spitting, growling, and banging and shrieking. The listening men found their blood growing cold. At last the warrior staggered out into the sunlight. “Right,” he said. “Now where’s the woman with the toothache?” “
Laughter echoed around the rafters and Eskodas shook his head in amazement. He had watched Sieben back in Capalis listening to warriors swapping jests and jokes. Not once had the poet laughed, or appeared to find the stories amusing. Yet here he was, performing the same tales with apparent relish.
Transferring his gaze to Cajivak, the archer saw that the leader was no longer smiling, but was sitting back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the arm-rest. Eskodas had known many evil men, and knew well that some could look as fine as angels - handsome, clear-eyed, golden-haired. But Cajivak looked what he was, dark and malevolent. He was wearing Druss’s jerkin of black leather, with the silver shoulder guards, and Eskodas saw him reach down and stroke the black haft of an axe that was resting against the chair. It was Snaga.
Suddenly the colossal warrior rose from his chair. “Enough!” he bellowed and Sieben stood silently before him. “I don’t like your performance, bard, so I’m going to have you impaled on an iron spike.” The Hall was utterly silent now. Eskodas drew a shaft from his quiver and notched it to his bow. “Well? Any more jests before you die?” Cajivak asked.
“Just the one,” answered Sieben, holding to the madman’s gaze. “Last night I had dream, a terrible dream. I dreamt I was beyond the gates of Hell; it was a place of fire and torture, exquisitely ghastly. I was very frightened and I said to one of the demon guards, ‘Is there any way out of here?’ And he said there was only one, and no one had ever achieved the task set. He led me to a dungeon, and through a narrow grille I saw the most loathsome woman. She was leprous, with weeping sores, toothless and old beyond time. Maggots crawled in what was left of her hair. The guard said, ‘If you can make love to her all night, you will be allowed to leave.’ And, you know, I was prepared to have a try. But as I stepped forward I saw a second door, and I glanced through. And you know what I saw,
Lord? I saw you. You were making love to one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. So I said to the guard, ‘Why is it that I have to bed a crone, when Cajivak gets a beauty?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘’tis only fair that the women also have a chance to get out.” “
Even from the gallery Eskodas could see Cajivak’s face lose its colour. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and trembling. “I will make your death last an eternity,” he promised.
Eskodas drew back on his bowstring… and paused. A man had appeared at the back of the dais, his hair and beard matted and filthy, his face blackened with ingrained dirt. He ran forward, throwing his shoulder into the high back ofCajivak’s chair, which hurtled forward to catapult the warlord from the dais. He fell head-first on to the table upon which Sieben stood.
The filth-covered warrior swept up the shining axe, and his voice boomed out through the Hall: “Now do you want me to beg, you miserable whoreson?”
Eskodas chuckled. There were moments in life worth cherishing, he realised.
As he swept up the axe, feeling the cool, black haft in his hand, power surged through him. It felt like fire roaring through his veins to every muscle and sinew. In that moment Druss felt renewed, reborn. Nothing in his life had ever been so exquisite. He felt light-headed and full of life, like a paralysed man who regains the use of his limbs.
His laughter boomed out over the Hall, and he gazed down on Cajivak who was scrambling to his feet amongst the dishes and goblets. The warlord’s face was bloody, his mouth contorted.
“It is mine!” shouted Cajivak. “Give it back!”
The men around him looked surprised at his reaction. Where they had expected fury and violence, they saw instead their dread Lord reaching out, almost begging.
“Come and get it,” invited Druss.
Cajivak hesitated and licked his thin lips. “Kill him!” he screamed suddenly. The warriors surged to their feet, the nearest man drawing his sword and running towards the dais. An arrow slashed into his throat, pitching him from his feet. All movement ceased then as scores of armed men scanned the Hall, seeking the hidden bowman.
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 27
