The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (38 page)

Eskodas drew back on his bowstring … and paused. A man had appeared at the back of the dais, his hair and beard matted and filthy, his face blackened with ingrained dirt. He ran forward, throwing his shoulder into the high back of Cajivak’s chair, which hurtled forward to catapult the warlord from the dais. He fell headfirst on to the table upon which Sieben stood.

The filth-covered warrior swept up the shining axe, and his voice boomed out through the Hall: “Now do you want me to beg, you miserable whoreson?”

Eskodas chuckled. There were moments in life worth cherishing, he realized.

As he swept up the axe, feeling the cool, black haft in his hand, power surged through him. It felt like fire roaring through his veins to every muscle and sinew. In that moment Druss felt renewed, reborn. Nothing in his life had ever been so exquisite. He felt light-headed and full of life, like a paralyzed man who regains the use of his limbs.

His laughter boomed out over the Hall, and he gazed down on Cajivak who was scrambling to his feet among the dishes and goblets. The warlord’s face was bloody, his mouth contorted.

“It is mine!” shouted Cajivak. “Give it back!”

The men around him looked surprised at his reaction. Where
they had expected fury and violence, they saw instead their dread Lord reaching out, almost begging.

“Come and get it,” invited Druss.

Cajivak hesitated and licked his thin lips. “Kill him!” he screamed suddenly. The warriors surged to their feet, the nearest man drawing his sword and running toward the dais. An arrow slashed into his throat, pitching him from his feet. All movement ceased then as scores of armed men scanned the Hall, seeking the hidden bowman.

“What a man you chose to follow!” said Druss, his voice booming in the sudden silence. “He stands with his feet in your stew, too frightened to face a man who has been locked in his dungeon and fed on scraps. You want the axe?” he asked Cajivak. “I say again, Come and get it.” Twisting the weapon, he slammed it down into the boards of the dais, where it stood quivering, the points of the butterfly blades punching deep into the wood. Druss stepped away from the axe and the warriors waited.

Suddenly Cajivak moved, taking two running steps and leaping toward the dais. He was a huge man, with immense shoulders and powerful arms; but he leaped into a straight left from the former champion of Mashrapur which smashed his lips into his teeth, and a right cross that hit his jaw like a thunderbolt. Cajivak fell to the dais and rolled back to the floor, landing on his back. He was up fast, and this time he slowly mounted the steps to the dais.

“I’ll break you, little man! I’ll rip out your entrails and feed them to you!”

“In your dreams!” mocked Druss. As Cajivak charged, Druss stepped in to meet him, slamming a second straight left into Cajivak’s heart. The larger man grunted, but then sent an overhand right that cannoned against Druss’s brow, forcing him back. Cajivak’s left hand snapped forward with fingers extended to rip out Druss’s eyes. Druss dropped his head so that the fingers stabbed into his brow, the long nails gashing the skin. Cajivak grabbed for him, but as his hands closed around Druss’s shirt, the rotted material gave way. As Cajivak staggered back, Druss stepped in to thunder two blows to his belly. It felt as if he were beating his hands against a wall. The giant warlord laughed and struck out with an uppercut that almost lifted Druss from his feet. His nose was broken and streaming blood, but as Cajivak leaped in for the
kill, Druss sidestepped, tripping the larger man. Cajivak hit the floor hard, then rolled and came up swiftly.

Druss was tiring now, the sudden surge of power from the axe fading away from his muscles. Cajivak lunged forward, but Druss feinted with a left and Cajivak swayed back from it—straight into the path of a right hook that hammered into his mouth, impaling his lower lip on his teeth. Druss followed this with a left, then another right. A cut opened above Cajivak’s right eye, blood spilling to the cheek, and he fell back. Then he pulled the punctured lip from his teeth—and gave a bloody grin. For a moment Druss was nonplussed, then Cajivak leaned over and dragged Snaga from the boards.

The axe shone red in the lantern light. “Now you die, little man!” Cajivak snarled.

He raised the axe as Druss took one running step and leaped, his right foot coming down hard on Cajivak’s knee. The joint gave way with an explosive crack and the giant fell screaming to the ground, losing his hold on the axe. The weapon twisted in the air—then plunged down, the twin points striking the warlord just below the shoulder blades, lancing through the leather jerkin and the skin beyond. Cajivak twisted and the axe ripped clear of his body. Druss knelt and retrieved the weapon.

Cajivak, his face twisted in pain, pushed himself into a sitting position and stared at the axeman with undisguised hatred. “Let the blow be a clean one,” he said softly.

Still kneeling, Druss nodded, then swept Snaga in a horizontal arc. The blades bit into Cajivak’s bull neck, slicing through the muscle, sinew, and bone. The body toppled to the right, the head falling left, where it bounced once on the dais before rolling to the hall floor below. Druss stood and turned to face the stunned warriors. Suddenly weary, he sat down on Cajivak’s throne. “Someone bring me a goblet of wine!” he ordered.

Sieben grabbed a pitcher and a goblet and moved slowly to where the axeman sat.

“You took your damned time getting here,” said Druss.

4

F
ROM THE BACK
of the Hall, Varsava watched the scene with fascination. Cajivak’s body lay on the dais, blood staining the floor around it. In the Hall itself the warriors stood with their eyes locked to the man sitting slumped on Cajivak’s throne. Varsava glanced up at the gallery, where Eskodas waited, an arrow still strung to his bow.

What now, thought Varsava, scanning the Hall. There must be over a hundred killers here. His mouth was dry. At any moment the unnatural calm would vanish. What then? Would they rush the dais? And what of Druss? Would he take up his axe and attack them all?

I don’t want to die here, he thought, wondering what he would do if they did attack Druss. He was close to the rear door—no one would notice if he just slipped away into the night. After all, he owed the man nothing. Varsava had done more than his share, locating Sieben and setting up the rescue attempt. To die now, in a meaningless skirmish, would be nonsense.

Yet he did not move but stood silently, waiting, with all the other men, and watched Druss drain a third goblet of wine. Then the axeman rose and wandered down into the hall, leaving his axe on the dais. Druss moved to the first table and tore a chunk of bread from a fresh-baked loaf. “None of you hungry?” he asked the men.

A tall, slim warrior wearing a crimson shirt stepped forward. “What are your plans?” he asked.

“I’m going to eat,” Druss told him. “Then I’m going to bathe. After that I think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“And then?” The Hall was silent, the warriors milling closer to hear the axeman’s answer.

“One thing at a time, laddie. When you sit in a dungeon, in the
dark, with only rats for company, you learn never to make too many plans.”

“Are you seeking to take his place?” persisted the warrior, pointing to the severed head.

Druss laughed. “By the gods, look at him! Would
you
want to take his place?” Chewing on the bread, Druss returned to the dais and sat. Then he leaned forward and addressed the men. “I am Druss,” he said. “Some of you may remember me from the day I was brought here. Others may know of my service with the Emperor. I have no ill will toward any of you … but if any man here wishes to die, then let him take up his weapons and approach me. I’ll oblige him.” He stood and hefted the axe. “Anyone?” he challenged. No one moved and Druss nodded. “You are all fighting men,” he said, “but you fight for pay. That is sensible. Your leader is dead—best you finish your meal, and then choose another.”

“Are you putting yourself forward?” asked the man in the crimson shirt.

“Laddie, I’ve had enough of this fortress. And I have other plans.”

Druss turned back to Sieben, and Varsava could not hear their conversation. The warriors gathered together in small groups, discussing the various merits and vices of Cajivak’s under-leaders, and Varsava strolled out of the Hall, confused by what he had seen. Beyond the Hall was a wide antechamber where the bladesman sat on a long couch—his feelings mixed, his heart heavy. Eskodas joined him.

“How did he do it?” asked Varsava. “A hundred killers, and they just accepted his murder of their leader. Incredible!”

Eskodas shrugged and smiled. “That’s Druss.”

Varsava swore softly. “You call that an answer?”

“It depends what you are looking for,” responded the bowman. “Perhaps you should be asking yourself why you are angry. You came here to rescue a friend, and now he is free. What more did you want?”

Varsava laughed, but the sound was dry and harsh. “You want the truth? I half desired to see Druss broken. I wanted confirmation of his stupidity! The great
hero!
He rescued an old man and child—that’s why he’s spent a year or more in this cesspit. You understand? It was meaningless. Meaningless!”

“Not for Druss.”

“What is so special about him?” stormed Varsava. “He’s not blessed with a fine mind, he has no intellect to speak of. Any other man who has just done what he did would be ripped to pieces by that mangy crew. But no, not Druss! Why? He could have become their leader—just like that! They would have accepted it.”

“I can give you no definitive answers,” said Eskodas. “I watched him storm a ship filled with blood-hungry corsairs—they threw down their weapons. It is the nature of the man, I suppose. I had a teacher once, a great bowman, who told me that when we see another man we instinctively judge him as either threat or prey. Because we are hunting, killing animals. Carnivores. We are a deadly breed, Varsava. When we look at Druss we see the ultimate threat—a man who does not understand compromise. He breaks the rules. No, more than that, I think. For him there
are
no rules. Take what happened back there. An ordinary man might well have killed Cajivak—though I doubt it. But he would not have hurled aside the axe and fought the monster hand to hand. And when he’d slain the leader he would have looked out at all those killers and, in his heart, he would have expected death. They would have sensed it … and they would have killed him. But Druss didn’t sense it; he didn’t care. One at a time, or all at once. He’d have fought them all.”

“And died,” put in Varsava.

“Probably. But that’s not the point. After he killed Cajivak he sat down and called for a drink. A man doesn’t do that if he expects further battles. That left them confused, uncertain—no rules, you see. And when he walked down among them he left the axe behind.
He
knew he wouldn’t need it—and they knew too. He played them like a harp. But he didn’t do it consciously, it is just the nature of the man.”

“I can’t be like him,” said Varsava sadly, remembering the peacemaker and the terrible death he suffered.

“Few can,” agreed Eskodas. “That’s why he is becoming a legend.”

Laughter echoed from the Hall. “Sieben is entertaining them again,” said Eskodas. “Come on, let’s go and listen. We can get drunk.”

“I don’t want to get drunk. I want to be young again. I want to change the past, wipe a wet rag over the filthy slate.”

“It’s a fresh day tomorrow,” said Eskodas softly.

“What does that mean?”

“The past is dead, bladesman, the future largely unwritten. I was on a ship once with a rich man when we hit a storm, and the ship went down. The rich man gathered as much gold as he could carry. He drowned. I left behind everything I owned. I survived.”

“You think my guilt weighs more than his gold?”

“I think you should leave it behind,” said Eskodas, rising. “Now, come and see Druss—and let’s get drunk.”

“No,” said Varsava sadly. “I don’t want to see him.” He stood and placed his wide leather hat upon his head. “Give him my best wishes, and tell him … tell him …” His voice faded away.