Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

The first of the men moved in front of the poet; it was the warrior who had first lost money at the barrel head. “Get your emerald back, did you?”

“No,” answered Sieben, still angry. “What a bumptious, ill-bred boor!”

“Not a friend, then?”

“Hardly. I don’t even know his name. More to the point, I don’t want to.”

“It’s said you’re crafty with those knives,” said the warrior, pointing to the throwing-blades. “Is it true?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Could be you’ll get the emerald back if you are.”

“You plan to attack him? Why? As far as I could see he carries no wealth.”

“It’s not his wealth!” snapped the second warrior. Sieben stepped back as the man’s body odour reached him. “He’s a madman. He attacked our camp two days ago, stampeded our horses. Never did find my grey. And he killed Harib. Asia’s tits! He must have downed a dozen men with that cursed axe.”

“If he killed a dozen, what makes you think that three of you can deal with him?”

The noxious warrior tapped his nose. “Surprise. When he steps out, Rafin will ask him a question. As he turns, Zhak and I will move in and gut him. But you could help. A knife through the eye would slow him up some, eh?”

“Probably,” agreed Sieben, and he moved away several paces to seat himself on a hitching rail. He drew a knife from its sheath and began to clean his nails.

“You with us?” hissed the first man.

“We’ll see,” said Sieben.

Druss sat at the table and gazed down at the shining blades of the axe. He could see his reflection there, cold-eyed and grim. The features were flat and sullen, the mouth a tight, angry line. He removed the black helm and laid it on the blades, covering the face in the axe.

“Whenever you speak someone gets angry.” The words of his father drifted up from the halls of memory. And it was true. Some men had a knack for friendship, for easy chatter and simple jests. Druss envied them. Until Rowena had walked into his life he had believed such qualities were entirely lacking in him. But with her he felt at ease, he could laugh and joke - and see himself for a moment as others saw him, huge and bear-like, short-tempered and frightening. “It was your childhood, Druss,” Rowena told him one morning, as they sat on the hillside overlooking the village. “Your father moved from place to place, always frightened he would be recognised, never allowing himself to become close to people. It was easier for him, for he was a man. But it must have been hard for a boy who never learned how to make friends.”

“I don’t need friends,” he said.

“I need you.”

The memory of those three softly spoken words made his heart lurch. A tavern maid passed the table and Druss reached out and caught her arm. “Do you have Lentrian Red?” he asked.

“I’ll bring you a goblet, sir.”

“Make it a jug.”

He drank until his senses swam and his thoughts became jumbled and confused. He remembered Alarin, and the punch which broke the man’s jaw, and then, after the raid, hauling Alarm’s body into the meeting hall. He had been stabbed through the back by a lance which had snapped in half in his body. The dead man’s eyes had been open. So many of the dead had open eyes… all accusing.

“Why are you alive and we dead?” they asked him. “We had families, lives, dreams, hopes. Why should you outlive us?”

“More wine!” he bellowed and a young girl with honey-blonde hair leaned over the table.

“I think you’ve had enough, sir. You’ve drunk a quart already.”

“All the eyes were open,” he said. “Old women, children. The children were the worst. What kind of a man kills a child?”

“I think you should go home, sir. Have a little sleep.”

“Home?” He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. “Home to the dead? And what would I tell them? The forge is cold. There is no smell of fresh-baked bread; no laughter among the children. Just eyes. No, not even eyes. Just ashes.”

“We heard there was a raid to the north,” she said. “Was that your home?”

“Bring me more wine, girl. It helps me.”

“It is a false friend, sir,” she whispered.

“It is the only one I have.”

A burly, bearded man in a leather apron moved in close. “What does he want?” he asked the girl.

“More wine, sir.”

“Then fetch it for him - if he can pay.”

Druss reached into the pouch at his side, drawing out one of the six silver pieces Shadak had given him. He flipped it to the innkeeper. “Well, serve him!” the man ordered the maid.

The second jug went the way of the first and, when it was finished, Druss pushed himself ponderously to his feet. He tried to don the helm, but it slipped from his fingers and rolled to the floor. As he bent down, he rammed his brow against the edge of the table. The serving maid appeared alongside him. “Let me help you, sir,” she said, scooping up the helm and gently placing it on his head.

“Thank you,” he said, slowly. He fumbled in his pouch and gave her a silver piece. “For… your… kindness,” he told her, enunciating the words with care.

“I have a small room at the back, sir. Two doors down from the stable. It is unlocked; you may sleep there if you wish.”

He picked up the axe, but it too fell to the floor, the prongs of the blades embedding in a wooden plank. “Go back and sleep, sir. I’ll bring your… weapon with me later.”

“He nodded and weaved his way towards the door.

Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the fading sunlight, his stomach lurching. Someone spoke from his left, asking him a question. Druss tried to turn, but stumbled into the man and they both fell against the wall. He tried to right himself, grabbing the man’s shoulder and heaving himself upright. Through the fog in his mind he heard other men running in. One of them screamed. Druss lurched back and saw a long-bladed dagger clatter to the ground. The former wielder was standing alongside him, his right arm raised unnaturally. Druss blinked. The man’s wrist was pinned to the inn door by a throwing knife.

He heard the rasp of swords being drawn. “Defend yourself, you fool!” came a voice.

A swordsman ran at him and Druss stepped in to meet him, parrying the lunging blade with his forearm and slamming a right cross to the warrior’s chin. The swordsman went down as if poleaxed. Swinging to meet the second attacker, Druss lost his balance and fell heavily. But in mid-swing the swordsman also stumbled and Druss lashed out with his foot, catching his assailant on the heel and catapulting him to the ground. Rolling to his knees, Druss grabbed the fallen man by the hair and hauled him close, delivering a bone-crunching head butt to the warrior’s nose. The man slumped forward, unconscious. Druss released him.

Another man moved alongside him and Druss recognised the handsome young poet. “Gods, you reek of cheap wine,” said Sieben.

“Who… are you?” mumbled Druss, trying to focus on the man with his arm pinned to the door.

“Miscreants,” Sieben told him, moving alongside the stricken warrior and levering his knife clear. The man screamed in pain but Sieben ignored him and returned to the street. “I think you’d better come with me, old horse.”

Druss remembered little of the walk through the town, only that he stopped twice to vomit, and his head began to ache abominably.

He awoke at midnight and found himself lying on a porch under the stars. Beside him was a bucket. He sat up… and groaned as the terrible pounding began in his head. It felt as if an iron band had been riveted to his brow. Hearing sounds from within the house, he stood and moved to the door. Then he halted. The sounds were unmistakable.