The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (25 page)

Earin Shad was a tall man, slim and round-shouldered, long of neck, with protruding eyes that glimmered pearl-gray and a lip-less mouth that never smiled. No one aboard the
Darkwind
knew from whence he came, only that he had been a pirate leader for more than two decades. One of the Lords of the Corsairs, mighty men who ruled the seas, he was said to own palaces on several of the Thousand Islands, and to be as rich as one of the eastern kings. This did not show in his appearance. He wore a simple breastplate of shaped bronze, and a winged helm looted from a merchant ship twelve years before. At his hip hung a saber with a simple hilt of polished wood and a fist-guard of plain brass. Earin Shad was not a man who liked extravagance.

He stood at the stern as the steady, rhythmic pound of the drums urged the rowers to greater efforts, and the occasional crack of the whip sounded against the bare skin of a slacker’s
back. His pale eyes narrowed as the merchant vessel swung toward the
Darkwind
.

“What is he doing?” asked the giant Patek.

Earin Shad glanced up at the man. “He has seen Reda’s ship and he is trying to cut by us. He won’t succeed.” Swinging to the steersman, a short toothless old man named Luba, Earin Shad saw that the man was already altering course. “Steady now,” he said. “We don’t want her rammed.”

“Aye, Sea Lord!”

“Make ready with the hooks!” bellowed Patek. The giant watched as the men gathered coiled ropes, attaching them to the three-clawed grappling-hooks. Then he transferred his gaze to the oncoming ship. “Look at that, Sea Lord!” he said, pointing at
The Thunderchild
’s prow. There was a man there, dressed in black; he had raised a double-headed axe above his head in a gesture of defiance.

“They’ll never cut all the ropes,” said Patek. Earin Shad did not reply—he was scanning the decks of the enemy ship, seeking any sign of female passengers. He saw none, and his mood darkened. To compensate for his disappointment he found himself remembering the last ship they had taken three weeks ago, and the Satrap’s daughter she had carried. He licked his lips at the memory. Proud, defiant, and comely—the whip alone had not tamed her, nor the stinging slaps. And even after he had raped her repeatedly, still her eyes shined with murderous intent. Ah, she was lively, no doubt about that. But he had found her weakness; he always did. And when he had, he experienced, as always, both triumph and disappointment. The moment of conquest, when she had begged him to take her—had promised to serve him always, in any way that he chose—had been exquisite. But then sadness had flowed within him, followed by anger. He had killed her quickly, which disappointed the men. But then she had earned that, he thought. She had held her nerve for five days in the darkness of the hold, in the company of the black rats.

Earin Shad sniffed, then cleared his throat. This was no time to be considering pleasures.

A cabin door opened behind him and he heard the soft footfalls of the young sorcerer.

“Good day, Sea Lord,” said Gamara. Patek moved away, avoiding the sorcerer’s gaze.

Earin Shad nodded to the slender Chiatze. “The omens are good, I take it?” he asked.

Gamara spread his hands in an elegant gesture. “It would be a waste of power to cast the stones, Sea Lord. During the storm they lost half their men.”

“And you are sure they are carrying gold?”

The Chiatze grinned, showing a perfect line of small, white teeth. Like a child’s, thought Earin Shad. He looked into the man’s dark, slanted eyes. “How much are they carrying?”

“Two hundred and sixty thousand gold pieces. Bodasen gathered it from Ventrian merchants in Mashrapur.”

“You should have cast the stones,” said Earin Shad.

“We will see much blood,” answered Gamara. “Aha! See, my good Lord, the sharks, as ever, follow in your wake. They are like pets, are they not?”

Earin Shad did not glance at the gray forms slipping effortlessly through the water, fins like raised sword-blades. “They are the vultures of the sea,” he said, “and I like them not at all.”

The wind shifted and
The Thunderchild
swung like a dancer on the white-flecked waves. On the decks of the
Darkwind
scores of warriors crouched by the starboard rail as the two ships moved ever closer. It will be close, thought Earin Shad; they will veer again and try to pull away. Anticipating the move he bellowed an order to Patek, who now stood on the main deck among the men. The giant leaned over the side and repeated the instruction to the oars chief. Immediately the starboard oars lifted from the water, the 120 rowers on the port side continuing to row.
Darkwind
spun to starboard.

The Thunderchild
sped on, then veered toward the oncoming vessel. On the prow the dark-bearded warrior was still waving the gleaming axe—and in that instant Earin Shad knew he had miscalculated. “Bring in the oars!” he shouted.

Patek glanced up, astonished. “What, Lord?”

“The oars, man! They’re attacking us!”

It was too late. Even as Patek leaned over the side to shout the order,
The Thunderchild
leaped to the attack, swinging violently toward
Darkwind
, the prow striking the first rank of oars. Wood snapped violently with explosive cracks, mingled with the screams of the slave rowers as the heavy oars smashed into arms and skulls, shoulders and ribs.

Grappling-lines were hurled out, iron claws biting into wood
or hooking into
The Thunderchild
’s rigging. An arrow slashed into the chest of a corsair; the man pitched back, struggled to rise, then fell again. The corsairs hauled on the grappling-lines and the two ships edged together.

Earin Shad was furious. Half the oars on the starboard side had been smashed, and the gods alone knew how many slaves were crippled. Now he would be forced to limp to port. “Ready to board!” he yelled.

The two ships crashed together. The corsairs rose and clambered to the rails.

In that moment the black-bearded warrior on the enemy ship stepped up to the prow and leaped into the massed ranks of waiting corsairs. Earin Shad could hardly believe what he was seeing. The black-garbed axeman sent several men spinning to the deck, almost fell himself, then swung his axe. A man screamed as blood sprayed from a terrible wound in his chest. The axe rose and fell—and the corsairs scattered back from the apparently deranged warrior.

He charged them, the axe cleaving into their ranks. Farther along the deck other corsairs were still trying to board the merchant ship and meeting ferocious resistance from the Drenai warriors, but at the center of the main deck all was chaos. A man ran in behind the axeman, a curved knife raised to stab him in the back. But an arrow slashed into the assailant’s throat and he stumbled and fell.

Several Drenai warriors leaped to join the axeman. Earin Shad swore and drew his saber, vaulting the rail and landing smoothly on the deck below. When a swordsman ran at him he parried the lunge and sent a riposte that missed the neck but opened the man’s face from cheekbone to chin. As the warrior fell back, Earin Shad plunged his blade into the man’s mouth and up into the brain.

A lithe warrior in black breastplate and helm despatched a corsair and moved in on Earin Shad. The corsair captain blocked a fierce thrust and attempted a riposte, only to leap back as his opponent’s blade slashed by his face. The man was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and a master swordsman.

Earin Shad stepped back and drew a dagger. “Ventrian?” he inquired.

The man smiled. “Indeed I am.” A corsair leaped from behind
the swordsman. He spun and disemboweled the man, then swung back in time to block a thrust from Earin Shad. “I am Bodasen.”

The corsairs were tough, hardy men, long used to battles and the risk of death. But they had never had to face a phenomenon like the man with the axe. Watching from the tiller deck of
The Thunderchild
, Sieben saw them fall back, again and again, from Druss’s frenzied, tireless assaults. Though the day was warm Sieben felt a chill in his blood as he watched the axe cleaving into the hapless pirates. Druss was unstoppable—and Sieben knew why. When swordsmen fought, the outcome rested on skill, but armed with the terrible doubled-headed axe, there was no skill needed, just power and an eagerness for combat—a battle lust that seemed unquenchable. No one could stand against him, for the only way to win was to run within the reach of those deadly blades. Death was not a risk; it was a certainty. And Druss himself seemed to possess a sixth sense. Corsairs circled behind him, but even as they rushed in he swung to face them, the axe-blades slashing through skin, flesh, and bone. Several of the corsairs threw down their weapons, backing away from the huge, blood-smeared warrior. These Druss ignored.

Sieben flicked his gaze to where Bodasen fought with the enemy captain. Their swords, shimmering in the sunlight, seemed fragile and insubstantial against the raw power of Druss and his axe.

A giant figure bearing an iron war hammer leaped at Druss—just as Snaga became embedded in the ribs of a charging corsair. Druss ducked under the swinging weapon and sent a left hook that exploded against the man’s jaw. Even as the giant fell, Druss snatched up his axe and nearly beheaded a daring attacker. Other Drenai warriors ran to join him and the corsairs backed away, dismayed and demoralized.

“Throw your weapons down,” bellowed Druss, “and live!”

There was little hesitation, and swords, sabers, cutlasses, and knives clattered to the deck. Druss turned to see Bodasen block a thrust and send a lightning counter that ripped across the enemy captain’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound. The captain half fell, and tried for one last stab. But his strength fled from him and he pitched face first to the deck.

A man in flowing green robes appeared at the tiller deck rail. Slender and tall, his hair waxed to his skull, he lifted his hands.
Sieben blinked. He seemed to be holding two spheres of glowing brass—no, the poet realized, not brass—but fire!

“Look out, Druss!” he shouted.

The sorcerer threw out his hands and a sheet of flame seared toward the axeman. Snaga flashed up; the flames struck the silver heads.

Time stopped for the poet. In a fraction of a heartbeat he saw a scene he would never forget. At the moment when the flames struck the axe, a demonic figure appeared above Druss, its skin iron-gray and scaled, its long, powerful arms ending in taloned fingers. The flames rebounded from the creature and slashed back into the sorcerer. His robes blazed and his chest imploded—a gaping hole appearing in his torso, through which Sieben could see the sky. The sorcerer toppled from the deck and the demon disappeared.

“Sweet mother of Cires!” whispered Sieben. He turned to Milus Bar. “Did you see it?”

“Aye! The axe saved him right enough.”

“Axe? Did you not see the creature?”

“What are you talking about, man?”

Sieben felt his heart hammering. He saw Eskodas climbing down from the rigging and ran to him. “What did you see when the flames came at Druss?” he asked, grabbing the bowman’s arm.

“I saw him deflect them with his axe. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“We’d better cut free these ropes,” said Eskodas. “The other ships are closing in.”

The Drenai warriors on the
Darkwind
also saw the two battle vessels approaching. With the defeated corsair standing by, they hacked at the ropes and then leaped back to
The Thunderchild
. Druss and Bodasen came last. None tried to stop them.

The giant Druss had felled rose unsteadily, then ran to the rail and leaped after the axeman, landing amidst a group of Drenai warriors and scattering them.

“It’s not over!” he yelled. “Face me!”

The Thunderchild
eased away from the corsair ship, the wind gathering once more in her sails as Druss dropped Snaga to the deck and advanced on the giant. The corsair—almost a foot taller than the blood-drenched Drenai—landed the first blow, a juddering
right that split the skin above Druss’s left eye. Druss pushed through the blow and sent an uppercut that thundered against the man’s rib cage. The corsair grunted and smashed a left hook into Druss’s jaw, making him stumble, then hit him again with lefts and rights. Druss rode them and hammered an overhand right that spun his opponent in a half circle. Following up, he hit him again, clubbing the man to his knees. Stepping back, Druss sent a vicious kick that almost lifted the giant from the deck. He slumped down, tried to rise, then lay still.

“Druss! Druss! Druss!” yelled the surviving Drenai warriors as
The Thunderchild
slipped away from the pursuing vessels.

Sieben sat down and stared at his friend.

No wonder you are so deadly, he thought. Sweet Heaven, Druss, you are possessed!

Druss moved wearily to the starboard rail, not even looking at the pursuing ships which were even now falling farther behind
The Thunderchild
. Blood was clotting on his face, and he rubbed his left eye where the lashes were matted and sticky. Dropping Snaga to the deck Druss peeled off his jerkin, allowing the breeze to cool his skin.

Eskodas appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water. “Is any of that blood yours?” the bowman asked.

Druss shrugged, uncaring. Removing his gauntlets, he dipped his hands into the bucket, splashing water to his face and beard. Then he lifted the bucket and tipped the contents over his head.

Eskodas scanned his body. “You have minor wounds,” he said, probing at a narrow cut on Druss’s shoulder and a gash in the side. “Neither are deep. I’ll get a needle and thread.”

Dress said nothing. He felt a great weariness settle on him, a dullness of the spirit that left him leached of energy. He thought of Rowena, her gentleness and tranquillity, and of the peace he had known when beside her. Lifting his head, he leaned his huge hands on the rail. Behind him he heard laughter, and turned to see some of the warriors baiting the giant corsair. They had tied his hands behind his back and were jabbing at him with knives, forcing him to leap and dance.

Bodasen climbed down from the tiller deck. “Enough of that!” he shouted.