The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (11 page)

Druss glanced down. “Dried blood. But it’s not mine.”

“Well, what a relief. I shall sleep more soundly tonight for knowing that.”

For the first hour of the journey the poet tried to give helpful advice to the young axeman. “Don’t grip the horse with your calves, just your thighs. And straighten your back.” Finally he gave up. “You know, Druss, my dear, some men are born to ride. You on the other hand have no feel for it. I’ve seen sacks of carrots with more grace than you.”

The axeman’s reply was short and brutally obscene. Sieben chuckled and gazed up at the sky which was cloudless and gloriously blue. “What a day to set off in search of a kidnapped princess,” he said.

“She’s not a princess.”

“All kidnapped women are princesses,” Sieben told him. “Have you never listened to the stories? Heroes are tall, golden-haired, and wondrously handsome. Princesses are demure and beautiful, spending their lives waiting for the handsome prince who will free them. By the gods, Druss, no one would want to hear tales of the truth. Can you imagine? The young hero unable to ride in search of his sweetheart because the large boil on his
buttocks prevents him from sitting on a horse?” Sieben’s laughter rippled out.

Even normally grim Druss smiled and Sieben continued. “It’s the romance, you see. A woman in stories is either a goddess or a whore. The princess, being a beautiful virgin, falls into the former category. The hero must also be pure, waiting for the moment of his destiny in the arms of the virginal princess. It’s wonderfully quaint—and quite ridiculous of course. Lovemaking, like playing the lyre, requires enormous practice. Thankfully the stories always end before we see the young couple fumbling their way through their first coupling.”

“You talk like a man who has never been in love,” said Druss.

“Nonsense. I have been in love scores of times,” snapped the poet.

Druss shook his head. “If that were true, then you would know just how … how fine the
fumbling
can be. How far is it to Mashrapur?”

“Two days. But the slave markets are always held on Missael or Manien, so we’ve time. Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“No? You don’t like talking about your wife?”

“Not to strangers. Have you ever been wed?”

“No—nor ever desired to be. Look around you, Druss. See all those flowers on the hillsides? Why would a man want to restrict himself to just one bloom? Just one scent? I had a horse once, Shadira, a beautiful beast, faster than the north wind. She could clear a four-bar fence with room to spare. I was ten when my father gave her to me, and Shadira was fifteen. But by the time I was twenty Shadira could no longer run as fast, and she jumped not at all. So I got a new horse. You understand what I am saying?”

“Not a word of it,” grunted Druss. “Women aren’t horses.”

“That’s true,” agreed Sieben. “Most horses you want to ride more than once.”

Druss shook his head. “I don’t know what it is that you call love. And I don’t want to know.”

The trail wound to the south, the hills growing more gentle as the mountain range receded behind them. Ahead on the road they saw an old man shuffling toward them. He wore robes of faded blue and he leaned heavily on a long staff. As they neared, Sieben saw that the man was blind.

The old man halted as they rode closer. “Can we help you, old one?” asked Sieben.

“I need no help,” answered the man, his voice surprisingly strong and resonant. “I am on my way to Drenan.”

“It is a long walk,” said Sieben.

“I am in no hurry. But if you have food, and are willing to entertain a guest at your midday meal, I would be glad to join you.”

“Why not?” said Sieben. “There is a stream some little way to your right; we will see you there.” Swinging his mount, Sieben cantered the beast across the grass, leaping lightly from the saddle and looping the reins over the horse’s head as Druss rode up and dismounted.

“Why did you invite him to join us?”

Sieben glanced back. The old man was out of earshot and moving slowly toward them. “He is a seeker, Druss. A mystic. Have you not heard of them?”

“No.”

“Source Priests who blind themselves in order to increase their powers of prophecy. Some of them are quite extraordinary. It’s worth a few oats.”

Swiftly the poet prepared a fire over which he placed a copper pot half filled with water. He added oats and a little salt. The old man sat cross-legged nearby. Druss removed his helm and jerkin and stretched out in the sunshine. After the porridge had cooked, Sieben filled a bowl and passed it to the priest.

“Do you have sugar?” asked the Seeker.

“No. We have a little honey. I will fetch it.”

After the meal was concluded the old man shuffled to the stream and cleaned his bowl, returning it to Sieben. “And now you wish to know the future?” asked the priest, with a crooked smile.

“That would be pleasant,” said Sieben.

“Not necessarily. Would you like to know the day of your death?”

“I take your point, old man. Tell me of the next beautiful woman who will share my bed.”

The old man chuckled. “A talent so large, yet men only require such infinitesimal examples of it. I could tell you of your sons, and of moments of peril. But no, you wish to hear of matters inconsequential. Very well. Give me your hand.”

Sieben sat opposite him and extended his right hand. The old
man took it, and sat silently for several minutes. Finally he sighed. “I have walked the paths of your future, Sieben the Poet, Sieben the Saga-master. The road is long. The next woman? A whore in Mashrapur, who will ask for seven silver pennies. You will pay it.”

He released Sieben’s hand and turned his blind eyes toward Druss. “Do you wish your future told?”

“I will make my own future,” answered Druss.

“Ah, a man of strength and independent will. Come. Let me at least see, for my own interest, what tomorrow holds for you.”

“Come on, lad,” pleaded Sieben. “Give him your hand.”

Druss rose and walked to where the old man sat. He squatted down before him and thrust out his hand. The priest’s fingers closed around his own. “A large hand,” he said. “Strong … very strong.” Suddenly he winced, his body stiffening. “Are you yet young, Druss the Legend? Have you stood at the pass?”

“What pass?”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Of course. Seventeen. And searching for Rowena. Yes … Mashrapur. I see it now. Not yet the
Deathwalker
, the Silver Slayer, the Captain of the Axe. But still mighty.” He released his hold and sighed. “You are quite right, Druss, you will make your own future; you will need no words from me.” The old man rose and took up his staff. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

Sieben stood also. “At least tell us what awaits in Mashrapur,” he said.

“A whore and seven silver pennies,” answered the priest with a dry smile. He turned his blind eyes toward Druss. “Be strong, axeman. The road is long and there are legends to be made. But Death awaits, and he is patient. You will see him as you stand beneath the gates in the fourth Year of the Leopard.”

He walked slowly away. “Incredible,” whispered Sieben.

“Why?” responded Druss. “I could have foretold that the next woman you meet will be a whore.”

“He knew our names, Druss; he knew everything. Now, when is the fourth Year of the Leopard?”

“He told us nothing. Let’s move on.”

“How can you say that it was nothing? He called you Druss the Legend. What Legend? How will you build it?”

Ignoring him, Druss walked to his horse and climbed into the
saddle. “I don’t like horses,” he said. “Once we reach Mashrapur I’ll sell it. Rowena and I will walk back.”

Sieben looked up at the pale-eyed young man. “It meant nothing to you, did it? His prophecy, I mean.”

“They were just words, poet. Noises on the air. Let’s ride.”

After a while Sieben spoke. “The Year of the Leopard is forty-three years away. Gods, Druss, you’ll live to be an old man. I wonder where the gates are.”

Druss ignored him and rode on.

5

B
ODASEN THREADED HIS
way through the crowds milling on the dock, past the gaudily dressed women with their painted faces and insincere smiles, past the stallholders bellowing their bargains, past the beggars with their deformed limbs and their pleading eyes. Bodasen hated Mashrapur, loathed the smell of the teeming multitudes who gathered here seeking instant wealth. The streets were narrow and choked with the detritus of humanity, the houses built high—three, four, and five stories—all linked by alleyways and tunnels and shadowed pathways where robbers could plunge their blades into unsuspecting victims and flee through the labyrinthine back streets before the undermanned city guards could apprehend them.

What a city, thought Bodasen. A place of filth and painted women, a haven for thieves, smugglers, slavers, and renegades.

A woman approached him. “You look lonely, my love,” she said, flashing a gold-toothed smile. He gazed down at her and her smile faded. She backed away swiftly and Bodasen rode on.

He came to a narrow alleyway and paused to push his black cloak above his left shoulder. The hilt of his saber shined in the fading sunlight. As Bodasen walked on, three men stood in the shadows. He felt their eyes upon him and turned his face toward them, his stare challenging; they looked away, and he continued along the alley until it broadened out to a small square with a fountain at the center, constructed around a bronze statue of a boy riding a dolphin. Several whores were sitting beside the fountain, chatting to one another. They saw him, and instantly their postures changed. Leaning back to thrust out their breasts, they assumed their customary smiles. As he passed he heard their chatter begin again.

The inn was almost empty. An old man sat at the bar, nursing a jug of ale, and two maids were cleaning tables, while a third prepared
the night’s fire in the stone hearth. Bodasen moved to a window table and sat, facing the door. A maid approached him.

“Good evening, my lord. Are you ready for your usual supper?”

“No. Bring me a goblet of good red wine and a flagon of fresh water.”

“Yes, my lord.” She curtsied prettily and walked away. Her greeting eased his irritation. Some, even in this disgusting city, could recognize nobility. The wine was of an average quality, no more than four years old and harsh on the tongue, and Bodasen drank sparingly.

The inn door opened and two men entered. Bodasen leaned back in his chair and watched them approach. The first was a handsome man, tall and wide-shouldered; he wore a crimson cloak over a red tunic, and a saber was scabbarded at his hip. The second was a huge, bald warrior, heavily muscled and grim of feature.

The first man sat opposite Bodasen, the second standing alongside the table. “Where is Harib Ka?” Bodasen asked.

“Your countryman will not be joining us,” replied Collan.

“He said he would be here; that is the reason I agreed to this meeting.”

Collan shrugged. “He had an urgent appointment elsewhere.”

“He said nothing of it to me.”

“I think it was unexpected. You wish to do business, or not?”

“I do not
do business
, Collan. I seek to negotiate a treaty with the … free traders of the Ventrian Sea. My understanding is that you have … shall we say, contacts, among them?”

Collan chuckled. “Interesting. You can’t bring yourself to say
pirates
, can you? No, that would be too much for a Ventrian nobleman. Well, let us think the situation through. The Ventrian fleet has been scattered or sunk. On land your armies are crushed, and the Emperor slain. Now you pin your hopes on the pirate fleet; only they can ensure that the armies of Naashan do not march all the way to the capital. Am I in error on any of these points?”

Bodasen cleared his throat. “The Empire is seeking friends. The Free Traders are in a position to aid us in our struggle against the forces of evil. We always treat our friends with great generosity.”

“I see,” said Collan, his eyes mocking. “We are fighting the forces of
evil
now? And there I was believing that Naashan and
Ventria were merely two warring empires. How naive of me. However, you speak of generosity. How generous is the Prince?”