The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (17 page)

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 scrutinized her face for any sign of anger or defiance, but he found himself gazing into calm hazel eyes which appeared to be appraising him. Curiously he felt like apologizing 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 realized 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 startled. “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 toward them. Rowena floated closer … closer. Armed men filled the trireme’s deck.

Silver-gray 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 gray fish rising up toward 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.”

1

S
IEBEN 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 toward 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 shuttered window. No light shined 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 multicolored—green, gray, 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 toward 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 callused 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. 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 gray 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 toward 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 gray 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?”

“Of course he understands. But he’s Druss—he’s not like you or me, surgeon.” The poet chuckled and threw another pebble. “He’s an old-fashioned hero. You don’t see many these days. He’ll find a way.”

Calvar cleared his throat. “Hmmm. Well, your old-fashioned hero is currently as strong as a three-day lamb. He is deep in a melancholic state, and until he recovers from it I cannot see him improving. Feed him red meat and dark green vegetables. He needs food for the blood.” He cleared his throat again, and stood silently.

“Was there something else?” asked the poet.