Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Then he heard the sounds of men upon the stairs, stealthy footfalls. Drawing one of his knives he moved to the door, opening it a fraction and peering out. At the other end of the gallery some seven men were crowding around the door of their previous quarters; the landlord was with them. The door was wrenched open and the men surged inside, but moments later they returned. One of the newcomers took hold of the landlord by his shirt and pushed him against the wall. The frightened man’s voice rose, and Sieben could just make out some of his words: “They were… honestly… lives of my children… they… without paying…” Sieben watched as the man was hurled to the floor. The would-be assassins then trooped down the gallery stairs and out into the night.

Pushing shut the door, Sieben returned to the fire.

And slept.

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Six

Borcha sat quietly while Collan berated the men he had sent in search of Druss. They stood shamefaced before him, heads down. “How long have you been with me, Kotis?” he asked one of them, his voice low and thick with menace.

“Six years,” answered the man at the centre of the group, a tall, wide-shouldered bearded fist-fighter. Borcha remembered his destruction of this man; it had taken no more than a minute.

“Six years,” echoed Collan. “And in that time have you seen other men fall foul of me?”

“Aye, I have. But we got the information from Old Thorn. He swore they were staying in the Tree of Bone - and so they were. But they went into hiding after the fight with Borcha. We’ve men still looking; they won’t be hard to find tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” said Collan. “They won’t be hard to find; they’ll be coming here!”

“You could give his wife back,” offered Bodasen, who was lounging on a couch on the far side of the room.

“I don’t give women back. I take them! Anyway, I don’t know which farm wench he’s talking about. Most of those we took were freed when the madman attacked the camp. I expect his wife took a welcome opportunity to escape from his clutches.”

“He’s not a man I’d want hunting me,” said Borcha. “I’ve never hit anyone so hard - and seen them stay on their feet.”

“Get back out on the streets, all of you. Scour the inns and taverns near the docks. They won’t be far. And understand this, Kotis, if he does walk into my home tomorrow I’ll kill you!”

The men shuffled out and Borcha leaned back on the couch, suppressing a groan as his injured rib lanced pain into his side. He had been forced to withdraw from the tournament, and that hurt his pride. Yet he felt a grudging admiration for the young fighter; he, too, would have taken on an army for Caria. “You know what I think?” he offered.

“What?” snapped Collan.

“I think she’s the witch you sold to Kabuchek. What was her name?”

“Rowena.”

“Did you rape her?”

“I didn’t touch her,” lied Collan. “And anyway, I’ve sold her to Kabuchek. He gave me five thousand in silver - just like that. I should have asked for ten.”

“I think you should see the Old Woman,” advised Borcha.

“I don’t need a prophet to tell me how to deal with one country bumpkin and an axe. Now to business.” He turned to Bodasen. “It is too early to have received word on our demands, so why are you here tonight?”

The Ventrian smiled, his teeth startlingly white against the black trident beard. “I came because I told the young fighter that we were acquainted. I said I might be able to secure the release of his wife. But if you have already sold her, then I have wasted my time.”

“What concern is it of yours?”

Bodasen rose and flung his black cloak around his shoulders. “I am a soldier, Collan - as you once were. And I know men. You should have seen his fight with Borcha. It wasn’t pretty, it was brutal and almost terrifying. You are not dealing with a country bumpkin, you are facing a terrible killer. I don’t believe you have the men to stop him.”

“Why should you care?”

“Ventria needs the Free Traders and you are my link to them. I don’t want to see you dead just yet.”

“I am a fighter too, Bodasen,” said Collan.

“Indeed you are, Drenai. But let us review what we know. Harib Ka, according to those of his men who survived the raid, sent six men into the woods. They did not return. I spoke to Druss tonight and he told me he killed them. I believe him. Then he attacked a camp where forty armed men were based. The men ran away. Now he has fought Borcha, whom most men, including myself, believed to be invincible. The rabble you just sent out will have no chance against him.”

“True,” admitted Collan, “but as soon as he kills them the City Watch will take him. And I have only four more days to spend here; then I sail for the Free Trading ports. However, I take it you have some advice to offer?”

“Indeed I do. Get the woman back from Kabuchek and deliver her to Druss. Buy her or steal her - but do it, Collan.” With a short, perfunctory bow the Ventrian officer left the room.

“I’d listen to him if I were you,” advised Borcha.

“Not you as well!” stormed Collan. “By the gods, did he scramble your brains tonight? You and I both know what keeps us at the top of this filthy pile. Fear. Awe. Sometimes sheer terror. Where would my reputation be if I gave back a stolen woman?”

“You are quite right,” said Borcha, rising, “but a reputation can be rebuilt. A life is something else. He said he’d tear off your head and he’s a man who could do just that.”

“I never thought to see you running scared, my friend. I thought you were impervious to fear.”

Borcha smiled. “I am strong, Collan. I use my reputation because it makes it easier to win but I don’t live it. If I were to be in the path of a charging bull, then I would step aside, or turn and run, or climb a tree. A strong man should always know his limitations.”

“Well, he’s helped you know yours, my friend,” said Collan, with a sneer.

Borcha smiled and shook his head. He left Collan’s house and wandered through the northern streets. They were wider here, and lined with trees. Officers of the Watch marched by him, the captain saluting as he recognised the champion.

Former champion, thought Borcha. Now it was Grassin who would win the accolades.

Until next year. “I’ll be back,” whispered Borcha. “I have to. It is all I have.”

Sieben floated to consciousness through layers of dreams. He was drifting on a blue lake, yet his body was dry; he was standing on an island of flowers, but could not feel the earth beneath his feet; he was lying on a satin bed, beside a statue of marble. At his touch she became flesh, but remained cold.

He opened his eyes and the dreams whispered away from his memory. Druss was still asleep. Sieben rose from the chair and stretched his back, then he gazed down on the sleeping warrior.

The stitches on Druss’s brows were tight and puckered, dried blood had stained both eyelids and his nose was swollen and discoloured. Yet despite the wounds his face radiated strength and Sieben felt chilled by the almost inhuman power of the youth.

Druss groaned and opened his eyes.

“How are you feeling this morning?” asked the poet.

“Like a horse galloped over my face,” answered Druss, rolling from the bed and pouring himself a goblet of water. Someone tapped at the door.

Sieben rose from his chair and drew a knife from its sheath. “Who is it?”

“It is me, sir,” came the voice of the tavern-maid. “There is a man to see you; he is downstairs.”

Sieben opened the door and the maid curtsied. “Do you know him?” asked Sieben.