The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (6 page)

“Not going to try for the ear?” he asked conversationally. Jonacin gave an angry growl, and launched a new attack. Shadak blocked a thrust, then thundered a punch to the Sathuli’s face. It glanced from his cheekbone, but the man staggered. Shadak followed up with a disemboweling thrust and the Sathuli swayed to his right, the blade slashing the skin of his waist. Now it was Jonacin’s turn to jump backwards. Blood gushed from the shallow wound in his side; he touched the cut with his fingers, staring down amazed.

“Yes,” said Shadak, “you bleed too. Come to me. Bleed some more.”

Jonacin screamed and rushed forward, but Shadak sidestepped and cleaved his saber through the Sathuli’s neck. As the dying man fell to the ground, Shadak felt a tremendous sense of relief, and a surging realization. He was alive!

But his career was ruined. The treaty talks came to nothing, and his commission was revoked upon his return to Drenan.

Then Shadak had found his true vocation: Shadak the Hunter. Shadak the Tracker. Outlaws, killers, renegades—he hunted them all, following like a wolf on the trail.

In all the years since the fight with Jonacin he had never again known such fear. Until today, when the young axeman had stepped into the sunlight.

He is young and untrained. I would have killed him
, he told himself.

But then he pictured again the ice-blue eyes and the shining axe.

Druss sat under the stars. He was tired, but he could not sleep. A fox moved out into the open, edging toward a corpse. Druss threw a stone at it and the creature slunk away … but not far.

By tomorrow the crows would be feasting here, and the other carrion beasts would tear at the dead flesh. Only hours ago this had been a living community, full of people enjoying their own hopes and dreams. Druss stood and walked along the main street of the settlement, past the home of the baker, whose body was stretched out in the doorway with his wife beside him. The smithy was open, the fires still glowing faintly. There were three bodies here. Tetrin the Smith had managed to kill two of the raiders, clubbing them down with his forge hammer. Tetrin himself lay beside the long anvil, his throat cut.

Druss swung away from the scene.

What was it for? Slaves and gold. The raiders cared nothing for the dreams of other men. “I will make you pay,” said Druss. He glanced at the body of the smith. “I will avenge you. And your sons. I will avenge you all,” he promised.

And he thought of Rowena and his throat went dry, his heartbeat increasing. Forcing back his fears, he gazed around at the settlement.

In the moonlight the village still seemed strangely alive, its buildings untouched. Druss wondered at this. Why did the raiders not put the settlement to the torch? In all the stories he had heard of such attacks, the plunderers usually fired the buildings. Then he remembered the troop of Drenai cavalry patrolling the wilderness. A column of smoke would alert them, were they close.

Druss knew then what he had to do. Moving to the body of Tetrin, he hauled it across the street to the meeting hall, kicking open the door and dragging the corpse inside, laying it at the center of the hall. Then he returned to the street and began to gather, one by one, all the dead of the community. He was tired when he began, and bone-weary by the finish. Forty-four bodies he placed in the long hall, making sure that husbands were beside wives and their children close. He did not know why he did this, but it seemed right.

Lastly he carried the body of Bress into the building, and laid it beside Patica. Then he knelt by the woman and, taking the dead hand in his own, he bowed his head. “I thank you,” he said quietly, “for your years of care, and for the love you gave my father. You deserved better than this, Patica.” With all the bodies accounted for, he began to fetch wood from the winter store, piling it against the walls and across the bodies. At last he carried a large barrel of lantern oil from the main storehouse and poured it over the wood, splashing it to the dry walls.

As dawn streaked the eastern sky, he struck a flame to the pyre and blew it into life. The morning breeze licked at the flames in the doorway, caught at the tinder beyond, then hungrily roared up the first wall.

Druss stepped back into the street. At first the blaze made little smoke, but as the fire grew into an inferno, a black column of oily smoke billowed into the morning sky, hanging in the light wind, flattening and spreading like an earthborn storm cloud. “You have been working hard,” said Shadak, moving silently alongside the young axeman.

Druss nodded. “There was no time to bury them,” he said. “Now maybe the smoke will be seen.”

“Perhaps,” agreed the hunter, “but you should have rested. Tonight you will need your strength.” As Shadak moved away, Druss watched him; the man’s movements were sure and smooth, confident and strong.

Druss admired that—as he admired the way that Shadak had comforted Tailia in the doorway. Like a father or a brother might. Druss had known that she needed such consolation, but had been unable to provide it. He had never possessed the easy touch of a Pilan or a Yorath, and had always been uncomfortable in the company of women or girls.

But not Rowena. He remembered the day when she and her father
had come to the village, a spring day three seasons ago. They had arrived with several other families, and he had seen Rowena standing beside a wagon helping to unload furniture. She had seemed so frail. Druss had approached the wagon.

“I’ll help if you want,” offered the fifteen-year-old Druss, more gruffly than he had intended. She turned and smiled. Such a smile, radiant and friendly. Reaching up, he took hold of the chair her father was lowering and carried it into the half-built dwelling. He helped them unload and arrange the furniture, then made to leave. But Rowena brought him a goblet of water.

“It was kind of you to help us,” she said. “You are very strong.”

He had mumbled some inanity, listened as she told him her name, and left without telling her his own. That evening she had seen him sitting by the southern stream and had sat beside him. So close that he had felt remarkably uncomfortable.

“The land is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

It was. The mountains were huge, like snow-haired giants, the sky the color of molten copper, the setting sun a dish of gold, the hills bedecked with flowers. But Druss had not seen the beauty until the moment she observed it. He felt a sense of peace, a calm that settled over his turbulent spirit in a blanket of warmth.

“I am Druss.”

“I know. I asked your mother where you were.”

“Why?”

“You are my first friend here.”

“How can we be friends? You do not know me.”

“Of course I do. You are Druss, the son of Bress.”

“That is not knowing. I … I am not popular here,” he said, though he did not know why he should admit it so readily. “I am disliked.”

“Why do they dislike you?” The question was innocently asked, and he turned to look at her. Her face was so close that he blushed. Twisting, he put space between them.

“My ways are rough, I suppose. I don’t … talk easily. And I … sometimes … become angry. I don’t understand their jests and their humor. I like to be … alone.”

“Would you like me to go?”

“No! I just … I don’t know what I am saying.” He shrugged, and blushed a deeper crimson.

“Shall we be friends then?” she asked him, holding out her hand.

“I have never had a friend,” he admitted.

“Then take my hand, and we will start now.” Reaching out, he felt the warmth of her fingers against his callused palm. “Friends?” she asked with a smile.

“Friends,” he agreed. She made as if to withdraw her hand, but he held it for a moment longer. “Thank you,” he said softly, as he released his hold.

She laughed then. “Why would you thank me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It is just that … you have given me a gift that no one else ever offered. And I do not take it lightly. I will be your friend, Rowena. Until the stars burn out and die.”

“Be careful with such promises, Druss. You do not know where they might lead you.”

One of the roof timbers cracked and crashed into the blaze. Shadak called out to him. “Better choose yourself a mount, axeman. It’s time to go.”

Gathering his axe, Druss turned his gaze toward the south. Somewhere out there was Rowena.

“I’m on my way,” he whispered.

And she heard him.

3

T
HE WAGONS ROLLED
on through the first afternoon, and on into the night. At first the captured women were silent, stunned, disbelieving. Then grief replaced shock, and there were tears. These were harshly dealt with by the men riding alongside the wagons, who ordered silence and, when it was not forthcoming, dismounted and leapt aboard the wagons, dealing blows and brutal slaps, and issuing threats of whip and lash.

Rowena, her hands tied before her, sat beside the equally bound Mari. Her friend had swollen eyes, both from weeping and from a blow that had caught her on the bridge of the nose. “How are you feeling now?” Rowena whispered.

“All dead,” came the response. “They’re all dead.” Mari’s eyes gazed unseeing across the wagon, where other young women were sitting.

“We are alive,” continued Rowena, her voice low and gentle. “Do not give up hope, Mari. Druss is alive also. And there is a man with him—a great hunter. They are following us.”

“All dead,” said Mari. “They’re all dead.”

“Oh, Mari!” Rowena reached out with her bound hands but Mari screamed and pulled away.

“Don’t touch me!” She swung round to face Rowena, her eyes fierce and gleaming. “This was a punishment. For you. You are a witch! It is all your fault!”

“No, I did nothing!”

“She’s a witch,” shouted Mari. The other women stared. “She has powers of Second Sight. She knew the raid was coming, but she didn’t warn us.”

“Why did you not tell us?” shouted another woman. Rowena swung and saw the daughter of Jarin the Baker. “My father is dead. My brothers are dead. Why did you not warn us?”

“I didn’t know. Not until the last moment!”

“Witch!” screamed Mari. “Stinking witch!” She lashed out with her tied hands, catching Rowena on the side of the head. Rowena fell to her left, into another woman. Fists struck, as all around her in the wagon women surged upright, lashing out with hands and feet. Riders galloped alongside the wagon and Rowena felt herself lifted clear and flung to the ground. She hit hard, the breath knocked out of her.

“What is going on here?” she heard someone yell.

“Witch! Witch! Witch!” chanted the women.

Rowena was hauled to her feet, then a filthy hand caught her by the hair. She opened her eyes and looked up into a gaunt, scarred face. “Witch, are you?” grunted the man. “We’ll see about that!” He drew a knife and held it before her, the point resting against the woolen shirt she wore. “Witches have three nipples, so it’s said,” he told her.

“Leave her be!” came another voice, and a horseman rode close alongside. The man sheathed his knife.

“I wasn’t going to cut her, Harib. Witch or no, she’ll still bring a pretty price.”

“More if she is a witch,” said the horseman. “Let her ride behind you.”

Rowena gazed up at the rider. His face was swarthy, his eyes dark, his mouth partly hidden by the bronze earflaps of his battle helm. Touching spurs to his mount, the rider galloped on. The man holding her stepped into the saddle, pulling her up behind him. He smelled of stale sweat and old dirt, but Rowena scarcely noticed it. Glancing at the wagon where her former friends now sat silently, she felt afresh the terrible sense of loss.

Yesterday the world was full of hope. Their home was almost complete, her husband coming to terms with his restless spirit, her father relaxed and free from care, Mari preparing for a night of passion with Pilan.

In the space of a few hours it had all changed. Reaching up, she touched the brooch at her breast …

And saw the axeman her husband was becoming.
Deathwalker!

Tears flowed then, silently coursing down her cheeks.

Shadak rode ahead, following the trail, while Druss and Tailia traveled side by side, the girl on a bay mare, the young man on a chestnut gelding. Tailia said little for the first hour, which suited
Druss, but as they topped a rise before a long valley, she leaned in close and touched his arm.