The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (3 page)

Joy. Pure pleasure, of a kind and a power he had not experienced before. He closed his eyes, forcing the scene from his mind.

“I am not my grandfather,” he told himself. “I am not insane.” That night he repeated the words to Rowena as they lay in the broad bed Bress had fashioned for a wedding gift.

Rolling to her stomach, she leaned on his chest, her long hair feeling like silk upon his massive shoulder. “Of course you are not insane, my love,” she assured him. “You are one of the gentlest men I’ve known.”

“That’s not how they see me,” he told her, reaching up and stroking her hair.

“I know. It was wrong of you to break Alarin’s jaw. They were just words—and it matters not a whit if he meant them unpleasantly. They were just noises, blowing into the air.”

Easing her from him, Druss sat up. “It is not that easy, Rowena. The man had been goading me for weeks. He wanted that fight—because he wanted to humble me. But he did not. No man ever will.” She shivered beside him. “Are you cold?” he asked, drawing her into his embrace.

“Deathwalker,”
she whispered.

“What? What did you say?”

Her eyelids fluttered. She smiled and kissed his cheek. “It doesn’t matter. Let us forget Alarin, and enjoy each other’s company.”

“I’ll always enjoy your company,” he said. “I love you.”

Rowena’s dreams were dark and brooding and the following day, at the riverside, she could not force the images from her mind. Druss, dressed in black and silver and bearing a mighty axe, stood upon a hillside. From the axe-blades came a great host of souls, flowing like smoke around their grim killer.
Deathwalker!
The vision had been powerful. Squeezing the last of the water from the shirt she was washing, she laid it over a flat rock alongside the drying blankets and the scrubbed woolen dress. Stretching her back, she rose from the water’s edge and walked to the tree line, where she sat, her right hand closing on the brooch Druss had fashioned for her in his father’s workshop—soft copper strands entwined around a moonstone, misty and
translucent. As her fingers touched the stone, her eyes closed and her mind cleared. She saw Druss sitting alone by the high stream.

“I am with you,” she whispered. But he could not hear her and she sighed.

No one in the village knew of her Talent, for her father, Voren, had impressed upon her the need for secrecy. Only last year four women in Drenan had been convicted of sorcery and burnt alive by the priests of Missael. Voren was a careful man. He had brought Rowena to this remote village, far from Drenan, because, as he told her, “Secrets cannot live quietly among a multitude. Cities are full of prying eyes and attentive ears, vengeful minds and malevolent thoughts. You will be safer in the mountains.”

And he had made her promise to tell no one of her skills. Not even Druss. Rowena regretted that promise as she gazed with the eyes of Spirit upon her husband. She could see no harshness in his blunt, flat features, no swirling storm clouds in those gray-blue eyes, no hint of sullenness in the flat lines of his mouth. He was Druss—and she loved him. With a certainty born of her Talent, she knew she would love no other man as she loved Druss. And she knew why … he needed her. She had gazed through the window of his soul and had found there a warmth and a purity, an island of tranquillity set in a sea of roaring violent emotions. While she was with him Druss was tender, his turbulent spirit at peace. In her company he smiled. Perhaps, she thought, with my help he may be kept at peace. Perhaps the grim killer will never know life.

“Dreaming again, Ro,” said Mari, moving to sit alongside Rowena. The young woman opened her eyes and smiled at her friend. Mari was short and plump, with honey-colored hair and a bright, open smile.

“I was thinking of Druss,” said Rowena.

Mari nodded and looked away and Rowena could feel her concern. For weeks her friend had tried to dissuade her from marrying Druss, adding her arguments to those of Voren and others.

“Will Pilan be your partner at the Solstice Dance?” asked Rowena, changing the subject.

Mari’s mood changed abruptly, and she giggled. “Yes. But he doesn’t know yet.”

“When will he find out?”

“Tonight.” Mari lowered her voice, though there was no one else within earshot. “We’re meeting in the lower meadow.”

“Be careful,” warned Rowena.

“Is that the advice of the old married woman? Didn’t you and Druss make love before you were wed?”

“Yes, we did,” Rowena admitted, “but Druss had already made his pledge before the Oak. Pilan hasn’t.”

“Just words, Ro. I don’t need them. Oh, I know Pilan’s been flirting with Tailia, but she’s not for him. No passion, you see. All she thinks about is wealth. She doesn’t want to stay in the wilderness, she yearns for Drenan. She’ll not want to keep a mountain man warm at night, nor make the beast with two backs in a wet meadow, with the grass tickling her …”

“Mari! You really are too frank,” admonished Rowena.

Mari giggled and leaned in close. “Is Druss a good lover?”

Rowena sighed, all tension and sadness disappearing. “Oh, Mari! Why is it that you can talk about forbidden subjects and make them seem so … so wonderfully ordinary? You are like the sunshine that follows rain.”

“They’re not forbidden here, Ro. That’s the trouble with girls born in cities and surrounded by stone walls and marble, and granite. You don’t feel the earth any more. Why did you come here?”

“You know why,” said Rowena uneasily. “Father wanted a life in the mountains.”

“I know that’s what you’ve always said—but I never believed it. You’re a terrible liar—your face goes red and you always look away!”

“I … can’t tell you. I made a promise.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mari. “I love mysteries. Is he a criminal? He was a bookkeeper, wasn’t he? Did he steal some rich man’s money?”

“No! It was nothing to do with him. It was me! Don’t ask me any more. Please?”

“I thought we were friends,” said Mari. “I thought we could trust one another.”

“We can. Honestly!”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I know,” said Rowena sadly. “But it would spoil our friendship.”

“Nothing could do that. How long have you been here—two
seasons? Have we ever fought? Oh, come on, Ro. Where’s the harm? You tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine.”

“I know yours already,” whispered Rowena. “You gave yourself to the Drenai captain when he and his men passed through here on patrol in the summer. You took him to the low meadow.”

“How did you find out?”

“I didn’t. It was in your mind when you told me you would share a secret with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can see what people are thinking. And I can sometimes tell what is going to happen. That’s my secret.”

“You have the Gift? I don’t believe it! What am I thinking now?”

“A white horse with a garland of red flowers.”

“Oh, Ro! That’s wonderful. Tell my fortune,” she pleaded, holding out her hand.

“You won’t tell anyone else?”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t work.”

“Try anyway,” urged Mari, thrusting out her plump hand. Rowena reached out, her slender fingers closing on Mari’s palm, but suddenly she shuddered and the color faded from her face.

“What is it?”

Rowena began to tremble. “I … I must find Druss. Can’t … talk …” Rising, she stumbled away, the washed clothes forgotten.

“Ro! Rowena, come back!”

On the hillside above, a rider stared down at the women by the river. Then he turned his horse and rode swiftly toward the north.

Bress closed the door of the cabin and moved through to his work room, where from a small box he took a lace glove. It was old and yellowed, and several of the pearls which had once graced the wrist were now missing. It was a small glove and Bress sat at his bench staring down at it, his huge fingers stroking the remaining pearls.

“I am a lost man,” he said softly, closing his eyes and picturing Alithae’s sweet face. “He despises me. Gods, I despise myself.” Leaning back in his chair he gazed idly at the walls, and the many shelves bearing strands of copper and brass, work tools, jars of dye, boxes of beads. It was rare now for Bress to find the
time to make jewelry; there was little call for such luxuries here in the mountains. Now it was his skills as a carpenter which were valued; he had become merely a maker of doors and tables, chairs and beds.

Still nursing the glove, he moved back into the hearth room.

“I think we were born under unlucky stars,” he told the dead Alithae. “Or perhaps Bardan’s evil stained our lives. Druss is like him, you know. I see it in the eyes, in the sudden rages. I don’t know what to do. I could never convince father. And I cannot reach Druss.”

His thoughts drifted back—memories, dark and painful, flooding his mind. He saw Bardan on that last day, blood-covered, his enemies all around him. Six men were dead, and that terrible axe was still slashing left and right … Then a lance had been thrust into Bardan’s throat. Blood bubbled from the wound, but Bardan slew the lance wielder before falling to his knees. A man ran in behind him and delivered a terrible blow to Bardan’s neck.

From his hiding place high in the oak, the fourteen-year-old Bress had watched his father die, and heard one of the killers say: “The old wolf is dead—now where is the pup?”

He had stayed in the tree all night, high above the headless body of Bardan. Then, in the cold of the dawn he had climbed down and stood by the corpse. There was no sadness, only a terrible sense of relief combined with guilt. Bardan was dead: Bardan the Butcher. Bardan the Slayer. Bardan the Demon.

He had walked sixty miles to a settlement, and there had found employment, apprenticed to a carpenter. But just as he was settling down, the past came back to torment him when a traveling tinker recognized him: he was the son of the Devil! A crowd gathered outside the carpenter’s shop, an angry mob armed with clubs and stones.

Bress had climbed from the rear window and fled from the settlement. Three times during the next five years he had been forced to run—and then he had met Alithae.

Fortune smiled on him then and he remembered Alithae’s father, on the day of the wedding, approaching him and offering him a goblet of wine. “I know you have suffered, boy,” said the old man. “But I am not one who believes that a father’s evil is visited upon the souls of his children. I know you, Bress. You are a good man.”

Aye, thought Bress, as he sat by the hearth, a good man.

Lifting the glove he kissed it softly. Alithae had been wearing it when the three men from the south had arrived at the settlement where Bress and his wife and new son had made their home. Bress had a small but thriving business making brooches and rings and necklets for the wealthy. He was out walking one morning, Alithae beside him carrying the babe.

“It’s Bardan’s son!” he heard someone shout and he glanced round. The three riders had stopped their horses, and one of the men was pointing at him; they spurred their mounts and rode at him. Alithae, struck by a charging horse, fell heavily, and Bress had leapt at the rider, dragging him from the saddle. The other men hurled themselves from their saddles. Bress struck left and right, his huge fists clubbing them to the ground.

As the dust settled he turned back to Alithae.…

Only to find her dead, the babe crying beside her.

From that moment he lived like a man with no hope. He rarely smiled and he never laughed.

The ghost of Bardan was upon him, and he took to traveling, moving through the lands of the Drenai with his son beside him. Bress took what jobs he could find: a laborer in Drenan, a carpenter in Delnoch, a bridge-builder in Mashrapur, a horse-handler in Corteswain. Five years ago he had wed a farmer’s daughter named Patica—a simple lass, plain of face and none too bright. Bress cared for her, but there was no room left for love in his heart, for Alithae had taken it with her when she died. He had married Patica to give Druss a mother, but the boy had never taken to her.

Two years ago, with Druss now fifteen, they had come to Skoda. But even here the ghost remained—born again, it seemed, into the boy.

“What can I do, Alithae?” he asked.

Patica entered the cabin, holding three fresh loaves in her arms. She was a large woman with a round pleasant face framed by auburn hair. She saw the glove and tried to mask the hurt she felt. “Did you see Druss?” she asked.

“Aye, I did. He says he’ll try to curb his temper.”

“Give him time. Rowena will calm him.”

Hearing the thunder of hooves outside, Bress placed the glove on the table and moved to the door. Armed men were riding into the village, swords in their hands.

Bress saw Rowena running into the settlement, her dress
hitched up around her thighs. She saw the raiders and tried to turn away, but a horseman bore down on her. Bress ran into the open and leapt at the man, pulling him from the saddle. The rider hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his sword. Bress snatched it up, but a lance pierced his shoulder and with roar of anger he twisted round and the lance snapped. Bress lashed out with the sword. The rider fell back, and the horse reared.

Riders surrounded him, with lances leveled.

In that instant Bress knew he was about to die. Time froze for him. He saw the sky, filled with lowering clouds, and smelled the new-mown grass of the meadows. Other raiders were galloping through the settlement, and he heard the screams of the dying villagers. Everything they had built was for nothing. A terrible anger raged inside him. Gripping the sword, he let out the battle-cry of Bardan.

“Blood and death!” he bellowed.

And charged.

Deep within the woods, Druss leaned on his axe, a rare smile on his normally grim face. Above him the sun shone through a break in the clouds, and he saw an eagle soaring, golden wings seemingly aflame. Druss removed his sweat-drenched linen headband, laying it on a stone to dry. Lifting a waterskin, he took a long drink. Nearby, Pilan and Yorath laid aside their hatchets.

Soon Tailia and Berys would arrive with the haul-horses and the work would begin again, attaching the chains and dragging the timbers down to the village. But for now there was little to do but sit and wait. Druss opened the linen-wrapped package Rowena had given him that morning; within was a wedge of meat pie, and a large slice of honey cake.