The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (40 page)

“There is no man alive who could defeat Michanek,” she said.

“So far. But Gorben had another champion once … Druss, I think his name was. Axeman. He was rather deadly, as I recall.”

Rowena shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly solicitous. “You’re not getting a fever, are you?” Lifting his hand, he laid his palm on her brow. As he touched her she saw him die, fighting upon the battlements, black-cloaked warriors all around him, swords and knives piercing his flesh.

Closing her eyes, she forced the images back. “You are unwell,” she heard him say, as if from a great distance.

Rowena took a deep breath. “I am a little weak,” she admitted.

“Well, you must be strong for your celebration. Michanek has found three singers and a lyre player—it should be quite an entertainment. And I have a full barrel of the finest Lentrian Red, which I shall have sent over.”

At the thought of the anniversary Rowena brightened. It was almost a year since she had recovered from the plague … A year since Michanek had made her happiness complete. She smiled at Darishan. “You will join us tomorrow? That is good. I know Michanek values your friendship.”

“And I his.” Darishan rose. “He’s a good man, you know, far better than the rest of us. I’m proud to have known him.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

“I have to admit, old horse, that life without you was dull,” said Sieben. Druss said nothing, but sat staring into the flames of the small fire, watching them dance and flicker. Snaga was laid beside him, the blades upward, resting against the trunk of a young oak, the haft wedged against a jutting root. On the other side of the fire Eskodas was preparing two rabbits for the spit. “When we have dined,” continued Sieben, “I shall regale you with the further adventures of Druss the Legend.”

“No, you damned well won’t,” grunted Druss.

Eskodas laughed. “You really should hear it, Druss. He has you descending into Hell to rescue the soul of a princess.”

Druss shook his head, but a brief smile showed through the black beard and Sieben was heartened. In the month since Druss had killed Cajivak, the axeman had said little. For the first two weeks they had rested at Lania, then they had journeyed across the mountains, heading east. Now, two days from Resha, they were camped on a wooded hillside above a small village. Druss had regained much of his lost weight, and his shoulders almost filled the silver-embossed jerkin he had removed from Cajivak’s body.

Eskodas placed the spitted rabbits across the fire and sat back, wiping grease and blood from his fingers. “A man can starve to death eating rabbit,” he observed. “Not a lot of goodness there. We should have gone down to the village.”

“I like being outside,” said Druss.

“Had I known, I would have come sooner,” said Sieben softly, and Druss nodded.

“I know that, poet. But it is in the past now. All that matters is that I find Rowena. She came to me in a dream while I was in that dungeon; she gave me strength. I’ll find her.” He sighed. “Some day.”

“The war is almost over,” said Eskodas. “Once it is won, I think you’ll find her. Gorben will be able to send riders to every city, village, and town. Whoever owns her will know that the Emperor wants her returned.”

“That’s true,” said Druss, brightening, “and he did promise to help. I feel better already. The stars are bright, the night is cool. Ah, but it’s good to be alive! All right, poet, tell me how I rescued the princess from Hell. And put in a dragon or two!”

“No,” said Sieben, with a laugh, “you are now in altogether too good a mood. It is only amusing when your face is dark as thunder and your knuckles are clenched white.”

“There is truth in that,” muttered Druss. “I think you only invent these tales to annoy me.”

Eskodas lifted the spit and turned the roasting meat. “I rather liked the tale, Druss. And it had the ring of truth. If the Chaos Spirit did drag your soul into Hell, I’m sure you’d twist his tail from him.”

Conversation ceased as they heard movement from the woods. Sieben drew one of his knives; Eskodas took up his bow and notched a shaft to the string; Druss merely sat silently, waiting. A man appeared. He was wearing long flowing robes of dusty gray, though they shined like silver in the bright moonlight.

“I was waiting for you in the village,” said the priest of Pashtar Sen, sitting down alongside the axeman.

“I prefer it here,” said Druss, his voice cold and unwelcoming.

“I am sorry, my son, for your suffering, and I feel a weight of shame for asking you to take up the burden of the axe. But Cajivak was laying waste to the countryside, and his power would have grown. What you did …”

“I did what I did,” snarled Druss. “Now live up to your side of the bargain.”

“Rowena is in Resha. She … lives … with a soldier named Michanek. He is a Naashanite general, and the Emperor’s champion.”

“
Lives
with?”

The priest hesitated. “She is married to him,” he said swiftly.

Druss’s eyes narrowed. “That is a lie. They might force her to do many things, but she would never marry another man.”

“Let me tell this in my own way,” pleaded the priest. “As you know I searched long and hard for her, but there was nothing. It was as if she had ceased to exist. When I did find her it was by chance—I saw her in Resha just before the siege and I touched her mind. She had no memory of the lands of Drenai, none whatever. I followed her home and saw Michanek greet her. Then I entered his mind. He had a friend, a mystic, and he employed him to take away Rowena’s Talent as a seeress. In doing this they also robbed her of her memories. Michanek is now all she has ever known.”

“They tricked her with sorcery. By the gods, I’ll make them pay for that! Resha, eh?” Reaching out, Druss curled his hand around the haft of the axe, drawing the weapon to him.

“No, you still don’t understand,” said the priest. “Michanek is a fine man. What he …”

“Enough!” thundered Druss. “Because of you I have spent more than a year in a hole in the ground, with only rats for company. Now get out of my sight—and never,
ever
cross my path again.”

The priest slowly rose and backed away from the axeman. He seemed about to speak, but Druss turned his pale eyes upon the man, and the priest stumbled away into the darkness.

Sieben and Eskodas said nothing.

High in the cliffs, far to the east, the Naashanite Emperor sat, his woolen cloak wrapped tightly around him. He was fifty-four years of age and looked seventy, his hair white and wispy, his eyes sunken. Beside him sat his staff officer, Anindais; he was unshaven, and the pain of defeat was etched into his face.

Behind them, down the long pass, the rearguard had halted the advancing Ventrians. They were safe … for the moment.

Nazhreen Connitopa, Lord of the Eyries, Prince of the Highlands, Emperor of Naashan, tasted bile in his mouth, and his heart was sick with frustration. He had planned the invasion of Ventria for almost eleven years, and the Empire had been his for the taking. Gorben was beaten—everyone knew it, from the lowliest
peasant to the highest Satraps in the land. Everyone, that is, except Gorben.

Nazhreen silently cursed the gods for snatching away his prize. The only reason he was still alive was because Michanek was holding Resha and tying down two Ventrian armies. Nazhreen rubbed at his face and saw, in the firelight, that his hands were grubby, the paint on his nails cracked and peeling.

“We must kill Gorben,” said Anindais suddenly, his voice harsh and cold as the winds that hissed through the peaks.

Nazhreen gazed sullenly at his cousin. “And how do we do that?” he countered. “His armies have vanquished ours. His Immortals are even now harrying our rearguard.”

“We should do now what I urged two years ago, cousin. Use the Darklight. Send for the Old Woman.”

“No! I will not use sorcery.”

“Ah, you have so many other choices then, cousin?” The tone was derisive, contempt dripping from every word. Nazhreen swallowed hard. Anindais was a dangerous man, and Nazhreen’s position as a losing Emperor left him exposed.

“Sorcery has a way of rebounding on those who use it,” he said softly. “When you summon demons they require payment in blood.”

Anindais leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering in the firelight. “Once Resha falls, you can expect Gorben to march into Naashan. Then there’ll be blood aplenty. Who will defend you, Nazhreen? Our troops have been cut to pieces, and the best of our men are trapped in Resha and will be butchered. Our only hope is for Gorben to die; then the Ventrians can fight amongst themselves to choose a successor and that will give us time to rebuild, to negotiate. Who else can guarantee his death? The Old Woman has never failed, they say.”

“They say,”
mocked the Emperor. “Have you used her yourself then? Is that why your brother died in so timely a fashion?” As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, for Anindais was not a man to offend, not even in the best of times. And these were certainly not the best of times.

Nazhreen was relieved to see his cousin smile broadly, as Anindais leaned in and placed his arm around the Emperor’s shoulder. “Ah, cousin, you came so close to victory. It was a brave gamble and I honor you for it. But times change, needs change.”

Nazhreen was about to answer when he saw the firelight glint
from the dagger blade. There was no time to struggle or to scream, and the blade plunged in between his ribs, cutting through his heart.

There was no pain, only release as he slumped sideways, his head resting on Anindais’s shoulder. The last feeling he experienced was of Anindais stroking his hair.

It was soothing …

Anindais pushed the body from him and stood. A figure shuffled from the shadows, an old woman in a wolfskin cloak. Kneeling by the body, she dipped her skeletal fingers into the blood and licked them. “Ah, the blood of kings,” she said. “Sweeter than wine.”

“Is that enough of a sacrifice?” Anindais asked.

“No—but it will suffice as a beginning,” she said. She shivered. “It is cold here. Not like Mashrapur. I think I shall return there when this is over. I miss my house.”

“How will you kill him?” asked Anindais.

She glanced up at the general. “We shall make it poetic. He is a Ventrian nobleman, and the sign of his house is the Bear. I shall send Kalith.”

Anindais licked his dry lips. “Kalith is just a dark legend, surely?”

“If you want to see him for yourself I can arrange it,” hissed the Old Woman.

Anindais fell back. “No, I believe you.”

“I like you, Anindais,” she said softly. “You do not have a single redeeming virtue—that is rare. So I will give you a gift, and charge nothing for it. Stay by me and you will see the Kalith kill the Ventrian.” She stood and walked to the cliff-face. “Come,” she called and Anindais followed. The Old Woman gestured at the gray rock and the wall became smoke. Taking the general’s hand, she led him through.

A long dark tunnel beckoned and Anindais shrank back. “Not a single redeeming feature,” she repeated, “not even courage. Stay by me, General, and no harm will befall you.”

The walk was not long, but to Anindais it stretched on for an eternity. He knew they were passing through a world that was not his own, and in the distance he could hear screams and cries that were not human. Great bats flew in a sky of dark ash, and not a living plant could be seen. The Old Woman followed a slender path, and took him across a narrow bridge that spanned an awesome
chasm. At last she came to a fork in the path, and moved to the left toward a small cave. A three-headed dog guarded the entrance, but it backed away from her and they passed through. Within was a circular room stacked with tomes and scrolls. Two skeletons were hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their joints bound with golden wire. A cadaver lay across a long table, its chest and belly cut open, the heart lying beside the body like a gray stone about the size of a human fist.

The Old Woman lifted the heart and showed it to Anindais. “Here it is,” she said, “the secret of life. Four chambers and a number of valves, arteries, and veins. Just a pump. No emotions, no secret storehouse for the soul.” She seemed disappointed. Anindais said nothing. “Blood,” she went on, “is pumped into the lungs to pick up oxygen, then distributed through the atria and the ventricles. Just a pump. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the Kalith.”

She sniffed loudly and threw the heart back toward the table; it hit the cadaver, then fell to the dusty floor. Swiftly she rummaged through the books on a high shelf, pulling one clear and flicking through the yellowed pages. Then she sat at a second desk and laid the book on the table. The left-hand page bore a neat script, the letters tiny. Anindais could not read, but he could see the picture painted on the right-hand page. It showed a huge bear, with claws of steel, its eyes of fire, its fangs dripping venom.

“It is a creature of earth and fire,” said the Old Woman, “and it will take great energy to summon it. That is why I need your assistance.”

“I know no sorcery,” said Anindais.

“You need to know none,” she snapped. “I will say the words, you will repeat them. Follow me.”

She led him farther back into the cave, to an altar stone surrounded by gold wire fastened to a series of stalagmites. The stone sat at the center of a circle of gold, and she bade Anindais step over the wires and approach the altar, upon which was a silver bowl full of water.

“Look into the water,” she said, “and repeat the words I speak.”

“Why do you stay outside the wire?” he asked.

“There is a seat here and my old legs are tired,” she told him. “Now let us begin.”

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