Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“Oh, Sieben… Oh… Oh… !”

Druss swore and returned to the edge of the porch. A breath of wind touched his face, bringing with it an unpleasant smell, and he gazed down at himself. His jerkin was soiled with vomit, and he stank of stale sweat and travel. To his left was a well. Forcing himself upright, he walked to it, and slowly raised the bucket. Somewhere deep within his head a demon began to strike at his skull with a red-hot hammer. Ignoring the pain, Druss stripped to the waist and washed himself with the cold water.

He heard the door open and turned to see a dark-haired young woman emerge from the house. She looked at him, smiled, then ran off through the narrow streets. Lifting the bucket, Druss tipped the last of the contents over his head.

“At the risk of being offensive,” said Sieben from the doorway, “I think you need a little soap. Come inside. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and I’ve heated some water. Gods, it’s freezing out here.”

Gathering his clothes, Druss followed the poet inside. The house was small, only three rooms, all on the ground floor - a cook-room with an iron stove, a bedroom and a square dining-room with a stone-built hearth in which a fire was blazing. There was a table with four wooden chairs and on either side of the hearth were comfort seats of padded leather stuffed with horsehair.

Sieben led him to the cloakroom where he filled a bowl with hot water. Handing Druss a slab of white soap and a towel, he opened a cupboard door and removed a plate of sliced beef and a loaf of bread. “Come in and eat when you’re ready,” said the poet, as he walked back to the dining-room.

Druss scrubbed himself with the soap, which smelled of lavender, then cleaned his jerkin and dressed. He found the poet sitting by the fire with his long legs stretched out, a goblet of wine in one hand. The other slender hand swept through the shoulder-length blond hair, sweeping it back over his head. Holding it in place, he settled a black leather headband over his brow; at the centre of the band was a glittering opal. The poet lifted a small oval mirror and studied himself. “Ah, what a curse it is to be so good-looking,” he said, laying aside the mirror. “Care for a drink?” Druss felt his stomach heave and shook his head. “Eat, my large friend. You may feel as if your stomach will revolt, but it is the best thing for you. Trust me.”

Druss tore off a hunk of bread and sat down, slowly chewing it. It tasted of ashes and bile, but he finished it manfully. The poet was right. His stomach settled. The salted beef was harder to take but, washed down with cool water, he soon began to feel his strength returning. “I drank too much,” he said.

“No, really? Two quarts, I understand.”

“I don’t remember how much. Was there a fight?”

“Not much of one, by your standards.”

“Who were they?”

“Some of the raiders you attacked.”

“I should have killed them.”

“Perhaps - but in the state you were in you should consider yourself lucky to be alive.”

Druss filled a clay cup with water and drained it. “You helped me, I remember that. Why?”

“A passing whim. Don’t let it concern you. Now, tell me again about your wife and the raid.”

“To what purpose? It’s done. All I care about is finding Rowena.”

“But you will need my help - otherwise Shadak wouldn’t have sent you to me. And I like to know the kind of man I’m expected to travel with. You understand? So tell me.”

“There isn’t a great deal to tell. The raiders…”

“How many?”

“Forty or so. They attacked our village, killed all the men, the old women, the children. They took the younger women prisoner. I was in the woods, felling timber. Some killers came to the woods and I dealt with them. Then I met Shadak, who was also following them; they raided a town and killed his son. We freed the women. Shadak was captured. I stampeded their horses and attacked the camp. That’s it.”

Sieben shook his head and smiled. “I think you could tell the entire history of the Drenai in less time than it takes to boil an egg. A story-teller you are not, my friend - which is just as well, since that is my main source of income and I loathe competition.”

Druss rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, resting his head on the high padded leather cushion. The heat from the fire was soothing and his body was weary beyond anything he had known before. The days of the chase had taken their toll. He felt himself drifting on a warm sea. The poet was speaking to him, but his words failed to penetrate.

He awoke with the dawn to find the fire was burned down to a few glowing coals and the house empty. Druss yawned and stretched, then walked to the kitchen, helping himself to stale bread and a hunk of cheese. He drank some more water, then heard the main door creak open. Wandering out, he saw Sieben and a young, blonde woman. The poet was carrying his axe and his gauntlets.

“Someone to see you, old horse,” said Sieben, laying the axe in the doorway and tossing the gauntlets to a chair. The poet smiled and walked back out into the sunlight.

The blonde woman approached Druss, smiling shyly. “I didn’t know where you were. I kept your axe for you.”

“Thank you. You are from the inn.” She was dressed now in a woollen dress of poor quality, that once had been blue but was now a pale grey. Her figure was shapely, her face gentle and pretty, her eyes warm and brown.

“Yes. We spoke yesterday,” she said, moving to a chair and sitting down with her hands on her knees. “You seemed… very sad.”

“I am… myself now,” he told her gently.

“Sieben told me your wife was taken by slavers.”

“I will find her.”

“When I was sixteen raiders attacked our village. They killed my father and wounded my husband. I was taken, with seven other girls, and we were sold in Mashrapur. I was there two years. I escaped one night, with another girl, and we fled into the wilderness. She died there, killed by a bear, but I was found by a company of pilgrims on their way to Lentria. I was almost dead from starvation. They helped me, and I made my way home.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Druss softly, seeing the sadness in her eyes.

“My husband had married someone else. And my brother, Loric, who had lost an arm in the raid, told me I was no longer welcome. He said I was a fallen woman, and if I had any pride I would have taken my own life. So I left.”

Druss reached out and took her hand. “Your husband was a worthless piece of dung, and your brother likewise. But I ask again, why are you telling me this?”

“When Sieben told me you were hunting for your wife… it made me remember. I used to dream Karsk was coming for me. But a slave has no rights, you know, in Mashrapur. Anything the Lord wishes, he can have. You cannot refuse. When you find your… lady… she may well have been roughly used.” She fell silent and sat staring at her hands. “I don’t know how to say what I mean…When I was a slave I was beaten, I was humiliated. I was raped and abused. But nothing was as bad as the look on my husband’s face when he saw me, or the disgust in my brother’s voice when he cast me out.”

Still holding to her hand, Druss leaned in towards her. “What is your name?”

“Sashan.”

“If I had been your husband, Sashan, I would have followed you. I would have found you. And when I did I would have taken you in my arms and brought you home. As I will bring Rowena home.”

“You will not judge her?”

He smiled. “No more than I judge you, save to say that you are a brave woman and any man - any true man - would be proud to have you walk beside him.”

She reddened and rose. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,” she said, then turned away and walked to the doorway. She looked back once, but said nothing; then she stepped from the house.