The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (32 page)

Glancing to his right, Varsava saw that the inn was crowded, but the revelers had moved back to form a circle around a small group struggling to overcome a black-bearded giant. One fighter—a petty thief and pickpocket Varsava recognized—hung from the giant’s shoulders, his arms encircling the man’s throat. Another was slamming punches into the giant’s midriff, while a third pulled a dagger and ran in. Varsava sipped his wine. It was a good vintage—at least ten years old, dry and yet full-bodied.

The giant hooked one hand over his shoulder, grabbing the jerkin of the fighter hanging there. Spinning, he threw the man into the path of the oncoming knifeman, who stumbled and fell into the giant’s rising boot. There followed a sickening crack and the knifeman slumped to the floor, either his neck or his jaw broken.

The giant’s last opponent threw a despairing punch at the black-bearded chin and the fist landed—to no effect. The giant reached forward and pulled the fighter into a head butt. The sound made even Varsava wince. The fighter took two faltering steps backwards, then keeled over in perfect imitation of a felled tree.

“Anyone else?” asked the giant, his voice deep and cold. The crowd melted away and the warrior strode through the inn, coming to Varsava’s table. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, slumping down to sit opposite the bladesman.

“It is now,” said Varsava. Lifting his hand he waved to a tavern maid and, once he had her attention, pointed to his goblet. She smiled and brought a fresh flagon of wine. The bench table was split down the center, and the flagon sat drunkenly between the two men. “May I offer you some wine?” Varsava asked.

“Why not?” countered the giant, filling a clay goblet. A low moan came from behind the table.

“He must have a hard head,” said Varsava. “I thought he was dead.”

“If he comes near me again, he will be,” promised the man. “What is this place?”

“It’s called the All but One,” Varsava told him.

“An odd name for an inn.”

Varsava looked into the man’s pale eyes. “Not really. It comes from a Ventrian toast:
may all your dreams—save one—come true.”

“What does it mean?”

“Quite simply that a man must always have a dream unfulfilled. What could be worse than to achieve everything one has ever dreamed of? What would one do then?”

“Find another dream,” said the giant.

“Spoken like a man who understands nothing about dreams.”

The giant’s eyes narrowed. “Is that an insult?”

“No, it is an observation. What brings you to Lania?”

“I am passing through,” said the man. Behind him two of the injured men had regained their feet; both drew daggers and advanced toward them, but Varsava’s hand came up from beneath the table with a huge hunting-knife glittering in his fist. He rammed the point into the table and left the weapon quivering there.

“Enough,” he told the would-be attackers, the words softly spoken, a smile upon his face. “Pick up your friend here and find another place to drink.”

“We can’t let him get away with this!” said one of the men, whose eye was blackened and swollen almost shut.

“He did get away with it, my friends. And if you persist in this foolishness, I think he will kill you. Now go away, I am trying to hold a conversation.” Grumbling, the men sheathed their blades and moved back into the crowd. “Passing through to where?” he asked the giant. The fellow seemed amused.

“You handled that well. Friends of yours?”

“They know me,” answered the bladesman, offering his hand across the table. “I am Varsava.”

“Druss.”

“I’ve heard that name. There was an axeman at the siege of Capalis. There’s a song about him, I believe.”

“Song!” snorted Druss. “Aye, there is, but I had no part in the making of it. Damn fool of a poet I was traveling with—he made it up. Nonsense, all of it.”

Varsava smiled
.
“They speak in hushed whispers of Druss and his axe, even demons will scatter when this man attacks.”

Druss reddened. “Asta’s tits! You know there’s a hundred more lines of it?” He shook his head. “Unbelievable!”

“There are worse fates in life than to be immortalized in song. Isn’t there some part of it about a lost wife? Is that also an invention?”

“No, that’s true enough,” admitted Druss, his expression changing as he drained his wine and poured a second goblet. In the silence that followed, Varsava leaned back and studied his drinking companion. The man’s shoulders were truly immense and he had a neck like a bull. But it was not the size that gave him the appearance of a giant, Varsava realized, it was more a power that emanated from him. During the fight he had seemed seven feet tall, the other warriors puny by comparison. Yet here, sitting quietly drinking, Druss seemed no more than a large, heavily muscled young man. Intriguing, thought Varsava.

“If I remember aright, you were also at the relief of Ectanis, and four other southern cities?” he probed. The man nodded, but said nothing. Varsava called for a third flagon of wine and tried to recall all he had heard of the young axeman. At Ectanis, it was said, he had fought the Naashanite champion, Cuerl, and been one of the first to scale the walls. And two years later he had held, with fifty other men, the pass of Kishtay, denying the road to a full legion of Naashanite troops until Gorben could arrive with reinforcements.

“What happened to the poet?” asked Varsava, searching for a safe route to satisfy his curiosity.

Druss chuckled. “He met a woman … several women, in fact. Last I heard he was living in Pusha with the widow of a young officer.” He laughed again and shook his head. “I miss him; he was merry company.” The smile faded from Druss’s face. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Varsava shrugged. “You are an interesting man, and there is not much of interest these days in Lania. The war has made it dull. Did you ever find your wife?”

“No. But I will. What of you? Why are you here?”

“I am paid to be here,” said Varsava. “Another flagon?”

“Aye, and I’ll pay for it,” promised Druss. Reaching out, he took hold of the huge knife embedded in the table and pulled it clear. “Nice weapon, heavy but well balanced. Good steel.”

“Lentrian. I had it made ten years ago. Best money I ever spent. You have an axe, do you not?”

Druss shook his head. “I had one once. It was lost.”

“How does one lose an axe?”

Druss smiled. “
One
falls from a cliff into a raging torrent.”

“Yes, I would imagine that would do it,” responded Varsava. “What do you carry now?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all? How did you cross the mountains to Lania without a weapon?”

“I walked.”

“And suffered no attacks from robbers? Did you travel with a large group?”

“I have answered enough questions. Now it is your turn. Who pays you to sit and drink in Lania?”

“A nobleman from Resha who has estates near here. While he was away fighting alongside Gorben, raiders came down from the mountains and plundered his palace. His wife and son were taken, his servants murdered—or fled. He has hired me to locate the whereabouts—if still alive—of his son.”

“Just the son?”

“Well, he wouldn’t want the wife back, would he?”

Druss’s face darkened. “He would—if he loved her.”

Varsava nodded. “Of course, you are a Drenai,” he said. “The rich here do not marry for love, Druss; they wed for alliances or wealth, or to continue family lines. It is not rare for a man to find that he does love the woman he has been told to marry, but neither is it common. And a Ventrian nobleman would find himself a laughingstock if he took back a wife who had been—shall we say—abused. No, he has already divorced her; it is the son who matters to him. If I can locate him, I receive one hundred gold pieces. If I rescue him, the price goes up to one thousand.”

Another flagon of wine arrived. Druss filled his goblet and offered
the wine to Varsava, who declined. “My head is already beginning to spin, my friend. You must have hollow legs.”

“How many men do you have?” asked Druss.

“None. I work alone.”

“And you know where the boy is?”

“Yes. Deep in the mountains there is a fortress called Valia, a place for thieves, murderers, outlaws, and renegades. It is ruled by Cajivak—you have heard of him?” Druss shook his head. “The man is a monster in every respect. Bigger than you, and terrifying in battle. He is also an axeman. And he is insane.”

Druss drank the wine, belched, and leaned forward. “Many fine warriors are considered mad.”

“I know that—but Cajivak is different. During the last year he has led raids which have seen mindless slaughter that you would not believe. He has his victims impaled on spikes, or skinned alive. I met a man who served him for almost five years; that’s how I found out where the boy was. He said Cajivak sometimes speaks with a different voice, low and chilling, and that when he does so his eyes gleam with a strange light. And always—when such madness is upon him—he kills. It could be a servant or a tavern wench, or a man who looks up just as Cajivak’s eyes meet his. No, Druss, we are dealing with madness … or possession.”

“How do you intend to rescue the boy?”

Varsava spread his hands. “I was contemplating that when you arrived. As yet, I have no answers.”

“I will help you,” said Druss.

Varsava’s eyes narrowed. “For how much?”

“You can keep the money.”

“Then why?” asked the bladesman, mystified.

But Druss merely smiled and refilled his goblet.

Druss found Varsava an agreeable companion. The tall bladesman said little as they journeyed through the mountains and up into the high valleys far above the plain on which Lania sat. Both men carried packs, and Varsava wore a wide-brimmed brown leather hat with an eagle feather tucked into the brim. The hat was old and battered, the feather ragged and without sheen. Druss had laughed when first he saw it, for Varsava was a handsome man—his clothes immaculately styled from fine green wool, his boots of soft lambskin. “Did you lose a wager?” asked Druss.

“A wager?” queried Varsava.

“Aye. Why else would a man wear such a hat?”

“Ah!” said the bladesman. “I imagine that is what passes as humor among you barbarians. I’ll have you know that this hat belonged to my father.” He grinned. “It is a magic hat and it has saved my life more than once.”

“I thought Ventrians never lied,” said Druss.

“Only noblemen,” Varsava pointed out. “However, on this occasion I am telling the truth. The hat helped me escape from a dungeon.” He removed it and tossed it to Druss. “Take a look under the inside band.”

Druss did so and saw that a thin-saw blade nestled on the right side, while on the left was a curved steel pin. At the front he felt three coins and slipped one clear; it was gold. “I take it all back,” said Druss. “It is a fine hat!”

The air was fresh and cool here and Druss felt free. It had been almost four years since he had left Sieben in Ectanis and journeyed alone to the occupied city of Resha, searching for the merchant Kabuchek and, through him, Rowena. He had found the house, only to discover that Kabuchek had left a month before to visit friends in the lands of Naashan. He had followed to the Naashanite city of Pieropolis, and there lost all traces of the merchant.

Back once more in Resha, he discovered that Kabuchek had sold his palace and his whereabouts were unknown. Out of money and supplies, Druss took employment with a builder in the capital who had been commissioned to rebuild the shattered walls of the city. For four months he labored every day until he had enough gold to head back to the south.

In the five years since the victories at Capalis and Ectanis the Ventrian Emperor, Gorben, had fought eight major battles against the Naashanites and their Ventrian allies. The first two had been won decisively, the last also. But the others had been fought to stalemate, with both sides suffering huge losses. Five years of bloody warfare and neither side, as yet, could claim they were close to victory.

“Come this way,” said Varsava. “There is something I want you to see.”

The bladesman left the path and climbed a short slope to where a rusted iron cage had been set into the earth. Within the
domed cage was a pile of moldering bones, and a skull that still had vestiges of skin and hair clinging to it.

Varsava knelt down by the cage. “This was Vashad—the peacemaker,” he said. “He was blinded and his tongue cut out. Then he was chained here to starve to death.”

“What was his crime?” asked Druss.

“I have already told you: he was a peacemaker. This world of war and savagery has no place for men like Vashad.” Varsava sat down and removed his wide-brimmed leather hat.

Druss eased his pack from his shoulders and sat beside the bladesman. “But why would they kill him in such a fashion?” he asked.

Varsava smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Do you see so much and know so little, Druss? The warrior lives for glory and battle, testing himself against his fellows, dealing death. He likes to see himself as noble, and we allow him such vanities because we admire him. We make songs about him; we tell stories of his greatness. Think of all the Drenai legends. How many concern peacemakers or poets? They are stories of
heroes
—men of blood and carnage. Vashad was a philosopher, a believer in something he called the
nobility of man
. He was a mirror, and when warmakers looked into his eyes they saw themselves—their true selves—reflected there. They saw the darkness, the savagery, the lust, and the enormous stupidity of their lives. They could not resist killing him, they had to smash the mirror: so, they put out his eyes and they ripped out his tongue. Then they left him here … and here he lies.”

“You want to bury him? I’ll help with the grave.”

“No,” said Varsava sadly, “I don’t want to bury him. Let others see him, and know the folly of trying to change the world.”

“Did the Naashanites kill him?” asked Druss.

“No, he was killed long before the war.”

“Was he your father?”

Varsava shook his head, his expression hardening. “I only knew him long enough to put out his eyes.” He stared hard at Druss’s face, trying to read his reaction, then he spoke again. “I was a soldier then. Such eyes, Druss—large and shining, blue as a summer sky. And the last sight they had was of my face, and the burning iron that melted them.”