Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

On the first night, when Collan had taken her from the camp, he had raped her twice. On the second occasion she had tried to empty her mind, losing herself in dreams of the past. In doing so she had unlocked the doors to her Talent. Rowena had floated free of her abused body and hurtled through darkness and Time. She saw great cities, huge armies, mountains that breached the clouds. Lost, she sought for Druss and could not find him.

Then a voice came to her, a gentle voice, warm and reassuring. “Be calm, sister. I will help you.”

She paused in her flight, floating above a night-dark ocean. A man appeared alongside her; he was slim of build and young, perhaps twenty. His eyes were dark, his smile friendly. “Who are you?” she asked him.

“I am Vintar of the Thirty.”

“I am lost,” she said.

“Give me your hand.”

Reaching out she felt his spirit fingers, then his thoughts washed over hers. On the verge of panic Rowena felt herself swamped by his memories, seeing a temple of grey stone, a dwelling-place of white-clad monks. He withdrew from her as swiftly as he had entered her thoughts. “Your ordeal is over,” he said. “He has left you and now sleeps beside you. I shall take you home.”

“I cannot bear it. He is a vile man.”

“You will survive, Rowena.”

“Why should I wish to?” she asked him. “My husband is changing, becoming day by day as vicious as the men who took me. What kind of life will I face?”

“I will not answer that, though probably I could,” he told her. “You are very young, and you have experienced great pain. But you are alive, and while living can achieve great good. You have the Talent, not only to Soar but also to Heal, to Know. Few are blessed with this gift. Do not concern yourself with Collan; he raped you only because Harib Ka said that he should not and he will not touch you again.”

“He has defiled me.”

“No,” said Vintar sternly, “he has defiled himself. It is important to understand that.”

“Druss would be ashamed of me, for I did not fight.”

“You fought, Rowena, in your own way. You gave him no pleasure. To have tried to resist would have increased his lust, and his satisfaction. As it was - and you know this to be true - he felt deflated and full of melancholy. And you know his fate.”

“I don’t want any more deaths!”

“We all die. You… me… Druss. The measure of us all is established by how we live.”

He had returned her to her body, taking care to instruct her in the ways of Spirit travel, and the routes by which she could return by herself in the future. “Will I see you again?” she asked him.

“It is possible,” he answered.

Now, as she sat on the satin-covered bed, she wished she could speak with him again.

The door opened and a huge warrior entered. He was bald and heavily muscled. There were scars around his eyes and his nose was flattened against his face. He moved towards the bed but there was no threat, she knew. Silently he laid a gown of white silk upon the bed. “Collan has asked that you wear this for Kabuchek.”

“Who is Kabuchek?” she enquired.

“A Ventrian merchant. If you do well he will buy you. It won’t be a bad life, girl. He has many palaces and treats his slaves with care.”

“Why do you serve Collan?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed. “I serve no one. Collan is a friend. I help him sometimes.”

“You are a better man than he.”

“That is as may be. But several years ago, when I was first champion, I was waylaid in an alley by supporters of the vanquished champion. They had swords and knives. Collan ran to my aid. We survived. I always pay my debts. Now put on the gown, and prepare your skill. You need to impress the Ventrian.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Collan will not be pleased and I don’t think you would like that. Trust me on this, lady. Do your best and you will be clear of this house.”

“My husband is coming for me,” she said softly. “When he does, he will kill any who have harmed me.”

“Why tell me?”

“Do not be here when he comes, Borcha.”

The giant shrugged. “The Fates will decide,” he said.

Druss strolled across to the wharf buildings. They were old, a series of taverns created from derelict warehouses and there were recesses and alley entrances everywhere. Garishly dressed women lounged against the walls and ragged men sat close by, playing knucklebones or talking in small groups.

A woman approached him. “All the delights your mind can conjure for just a silver penny,” she said wearily.

“Thank you, but no,” he told her.

“I can get you opiates, if you desire them?”

“No,” he said, more sternly, and moved on. Three bearded men pushed themselves to their feet and walked in front of him. “A gift for the poor, my lord?” asked the first.

Druss was about to reply when he glimpsed the man to his left edge his hand into the folds of a filthy shirt. He chuckled. “If that hand comes out with a knife in it - I’ll make you eat it, little man.” The beggar froze.

“You shouldn’t be coming here with threats,” said the first man. “Not unarmed as you are. It’s not wise, my lord.” Reaching behind his back, he drew a long-bladed dagger.

As the blade appeared Druss stepped forward and casually backhanded the man across the mouth. The robber cartwheeled to the left, scattering a group of watching whores and colliding with a wall of brick. He moaned once, then lay still. Ignoring the other two beggars, Druss strode to the nearest tavern and stepped inside.

The interior was windowless and high-ceilinged, lit by lanterns which hung from the beams. The tavern smelt of burning oil and stale sweat. It was crowded, and Druss eased his way to a long trestle table on which several barrels of ale were set. And old man in a greasy apron approached him. “You don’t want to be drinking before the bouts begin; it’ll fill you with wind,” he warned.

“What bouts?”

The man looked at him appraisingly, and his glittering eyes held no hint of warmth. “You wouldn’t be trying to fool Old Thorn, would you?”

“I’m a stranger here,” said Druss. “Now, what bouts?”

“Follow me, lad,” said Thorn, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the tavern and on through a narrow doorway. Druss followed him and found himself standing in a rectangular warehouse where a wide circle of sand had been roped off at the centre. By the far walls were a group of athletes, moving through a series of exercises to loosen the muscles of shoulders and back.

“You ever fought?”

“Not for money.”

Thorn nodded, then reached out and lifted Druss’s hand. “A good size, and flat knuckles. But are you fast, boy?”

“What is the prize?” countered the young man.

“It won’t work that way - not for you. This is a standard contest and all the entrants are nominated well in advance so that sporting gentlemen can have opportunities to judge the quality of the fighter. But just before the start of the competition there’ll be offers to men in the crowd to earn a few pennies by taking on various champions. A golden raq, for example, to the man who can stay on his feet for one turn of the sandglass. They do it to allow the fighters to warm up against low-quality opposition.”

“How long is one turn?” asked Druss.

“About as long as it’s been since you first walked into the Blind Corsair.”

“And what if a man won?”

“It doesn’t happen, lad. But if it did, then he’d take the loser’s place in the main event. No, the main money is made on wagers among the crowd. How much coin are you carrying?”

“You ask a lot of questions, old man.”