The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (20 page)

“Can we talk?” asked Togrin.

“Why not?” countered Druss.

The man took a deep breath. “I need work,” he said. “My wife’s sick. The children have not eaten in two days.”

Druss looked hard into the man’s face, seeing the hurt pride and instantly sensing what it had cost him to ask for help. “Be on the site at dawn,” he said, and strolled on. He felt uncomfortable as he made his way home, telling himself he would never have allowed his own dignity to be lost in such a way. But even as he thought the words, a seed of doubt came to him. Mashrapur was a harsh, unforgiving city. A man was valued only so long as he contributed to the general well-being of the community. And how dreadful it must be, he thought, to watch your children starve.

It was dusk when he arrived at the house. He was tired, but the bone-weariness he had experienced for so long had faded. Sieben was not home. Druss lit a lantern and opened the rear door to the garden, allowing the cool sea breeze to penetrate the house.

Removing his money-pouch, he counted out the twenty-four silver pennies he had earned thus far. Twenty was the equivalent of a single raq, and that was one month’s rent on the property. At this rate he would never earn enough to settle his debts. Old Thom was right: he could make far more in the sand circle.

He recalled the bout with Borcha, the terrible pounding he had received. The memory of the punches he had taken was strong within him—but so too was the memory of those he had thundered into his opponent.

He heard the iron gate creak at the far end of the garden and saw a shadowly figure making his way toward the house. Moonlight glinted from the man’s bald pate, and he seemed colossal as he strode through the shadowed trees. Druss rose from his seat, his pale eyes narrowing.

Borcha halted just before the door. “Well,” he asked, “are you going to invite me in?”

Druss stepped into the garden. “You can take your beating out here,” he hissed. “I’ve not the money to pay for broken furniture.”

“You’re a cocky lad,” said Borcha amiably, stepping into the house and draping his green cloak across the back of a couch. Nonplussed, Druss followed him inside. The big man stretched out in a padded chair, crossing his legs and leaning his head back against the high back. “A good chair,” he said. “Now how about a drink?”

“What do you want here?” demanded Druss, fighting to control his rising temper.

“A little hospitality, farm boy. I don’t know about you, but where I come from we normally offer a guest a goblet of wine when he takes the trouble to call.”

“Where I’m from,” responded Druss, “uninvited guests are rarely welcome.”

“Why such hostility? You won your wager and you fought well. Collan did not take my advice—which was to return your wife—and now he is dead. I had no part in the raid.”

“And I suppose you haven’t been looking for me, seeking your revenge?”

Borcha laughed. “Revenge? For what? You stole nothing from me. You certainly did not beat me—nor could you. You have the strength but not the skill. If that had been a genuine bout I would have broken you, boy—eventually. However, you are quite right—I have been looking for you.”

Druss sat opposite the giant. “So Old Thom told me. He said you were seeking to destroy me.”

Borcha shook his head and grinned. “The drunken fool misunderstood, boy. Now tell me, how old do you think I am?”

“What? How in the name of Hell should I know?” stormed Druss.

“I’m thirty-eight, thirty-nine in two months. And yes, I could still beat Grassin, and probably all the others. But you showed me the mirror of time, Druss. No one lasts forever—not in the sand circle. My day is over; my few minutes with you taught me that. Your day is beginning. But it won’t last long unless you learn how to fight.”

“I need no instruction in that,” said Druss.

“You think not? Every time you throw a right-hand blow, you drop your left shoulder. All of your punches travel in a curve. And your strongest defense is your chin which, though it may appear to be made of granite, is in fact merely bone. Your footwork is adequate, though it could be improved, but your weaknesses are many. Grassin will exploit them; he will wear you down.”

“That’s one opinion,” argued Druss.

“Don’t misunderstand me, lad. You are good. You have heart and great strength. But you also know how you felt after four minutes with me. Most bouts last ten times that long.”

“Mine won’t.”

Borcha chuckled. “It will with Grassin. Do not let arrogance blind you to the obvious, Druss. They say you were a woodsman. When you first picked up an axe, did it strike with every blow?”

“No,” admitted the younger man.

“It is the same with combat. I can teach you many styles of punch, and even more defenses. I can show you how to feint, and lure an opponent in to your blows.”

“Perhaps you can—but why would you?”

“Pride,” said Borcha.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it—after you beat Grassin.”

“I won’t be here long enough,” said Druss. “As soon as a ship bound for Ventria docks in Mashrapur, I shall sail on her.”

“Before the war such a journey would cost ten raq. Now …? Who knows? But in one month there is a small tournament at Visha, with a first prize of one hundred raq. The rich have palaces in Visha, and a great deal of money can be made on side wagers. Grassin will be taking part, and several of the other notable figures. Agree to let me train you and I will enter your name in my place.”

Druss stood and poured a goblet of wine, which he passed to the bald fighter. “I have taken employment, and I promised the Overseer I would see the work done. It will take a full month.”

“Then I will train you in the evenings.”

“On one condition,” said Druss.

“Name it!”

“The same one I gave the Overseer. If a ship bound for Ventria docks and I can get passage, then I will up and go.”

“Agreed.” Borcha thrust out his hand. Druss clasped it and Borcha stood. “I’ll leave you to your rest. By the way, warn your poet friend that he is taking fruit from the wrong tree.”

“He is his own man,” said Druss.

Borcha shrugged. “Warn him anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

2

S
IEBEN LAY AWAKE
, staring at the ornate ceiling. Beside him the woman slept, and he could feel the warmth of her skin against his side and legs. There was a painting on the ceiling, a hunting scene showing men armed with spears and bows pursuing a red-maned lion. What kind of man would have such a composition above the marital bed? he thought. Sieben smiled. The First Minister of Mashrapur must have an enormous ego since, whenever he and his wife made love, she would be gazing up at a group of men more handsome than her husband.

Rolling to his side, he looked down at the sleeping woman. Her back was turned toward him, her arm thrust under the pillow, her legs drawn up. Her hair was dark, almost black against the creamy-white of the pillow. He could not see her face, but he pictured again the full lips and the long, beautiful neck. When first he had seen her she was standing beside Mapek in the marketplace. The minister was surrounded by underlings and sycophants, Evejorda looking bored and out of place.

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 recognized 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 womanizer, 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 laboring 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 humor 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!”