Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“I’ll think on it.”

“I’ll leave you to your rest, lad. You look like you need it.”

Druss watched the old man leave, then walked out into the garden once more. His muscles ached, and his heart was beating to a ragged drum. But Borcha’s face was fixed before his mind’s eye and he forced himself to walk to the gate and back.

Three times….

Vintar rose from his bed, moving quietly so as not to wake the four priests who shared the small room in the southern wing. Dressing himself in a long white habit of rough wool, he padded barefoot along the cold stone of the corridor and up the winding steps to the ancient battlements.

From here he could see the mountain range that separated Lentria from the lands of the Drenai. The moon was high, half full, the sky cloudless. Beyond the temple the trees of the forest shimmered in the spectral light.

“The night is a good time for meditation, my son,” said the Abbot, stepping from the shadows. “But you will need your strength for the day. You are falling behind in your sword work.” The Abbot was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who had once been a mercenary. His face bore a jagged scar from his right cheekbone down to his rugged jaw.

“I am not meditating, Father. I cannot stop thinking about the woman.”

“The one taken by slavers?”

“Yes. She haunts me.”

“You are here because your parents gave you into my custody, but you remain of your own free will. Should you desire to leave and find this girl you may do so. The Thirty will survive, Vintar.”

The young man sighed. “I do not wish to leave, Father. And it is not that I desire her.” He smiled wistfully. “I have never desired a woman. But there was something about her that I cannot shake from my thoughts.”

“Come with me, my boy. It is cold here, and I have a fire. We will talk.”

Vintar followed the burly Abbot into the western wing and the two men sat in the Abbot’s study as the sky paled towards dawn. “Sometimes,” said the Abbot, as he hung a copper kettle over the flames, “it is hard to define the will of the Source. I have known men who wished to travel to far lands. They prayed for guidance. Amazingly they found that the Source was guiding them to do just what they wished for. I say amazingly because, in my experience, the Source rarely sends a man where he wants to go. That is part of the sacrifice we make when we serve Him. I do not say it never happens, you understand, for that would be arrogance. No, but when one prays for guidance it should be with an open mind, all thoughts of one’s own desires put aside.”

The kettle began to hiss, clouds of vapour puffing from the curved spout. Shielding his hands with a cloth, the Abbot poured the water into a second pot, in which he had spooned dried herbs. Placing the kettle in the hearth, he sat back in an old leather chair.

“Now the Source very rarely speaks to us directly, and the question is: How do we know what is required? These matters are very complex. You chose to absent yourself from study, and soar across the Heavens. In doing so you rescued the spirit of a young girl and led her home to her abused body. Coincidence? I distrust coincidence. Therefore it is my belief, though I may be wrong, that the Source led you to her. And that is why she now haunts your mind. Your dealings with her are not yet concluded.”

“You think I should seek her out?”

“I do. Take yourself to the south wing library. There is a small cell beyond it. I will excuse you from all studies tomorrow.”

“But how shall I find her again, Lord Abbot? She was a slave. She could be anywhere.”

“Start with the man who was abusing her. You know his name - Collan. You know where he was planning to take her - Mashrapur. Let your spirit search begin there.”

The Abbot poured tea into two clay cups. The aroma was sweet and heady. “I am the least talented of all the priests,” said Vintar sorrowfully. “Surely it would be better to pray for the Source to send someone stronger?”

The Abbot chuckled. “It is so strange, my boy. Many people say they wish to serve the Lord of All Peace. But in an advisory capacity: ‘Ah, my God, you are most wondrous, having created all the planets and the stars. However, you are quite wrong to choose me. I know this, for I am Vintar, and I am weak.’”

“You mock me, father.”

“Of course I mock you. But I do so with at least a modicum of love in my heart. I was a soldier, a killer, a drunkard, a womaniser. How do you think I felt when He chose me to become a member of the Thirty? And when my brother priests stood facing death, can you imagine my despair at being told I was the one who must survive? I was to be the new Abbot. I was to gather the new Thirty. Oh Vintar, you have much to learn. Find this girl. I rather believe that in doing so you will find something for yourself.”

The young priest finished his tea and stood. “Thank you, Father, for your kindness.”

“You told me she has a husband who was searching for her,” said the Abbot.

“Yes. A man named Druss.”

“Perhaps he will still be in Mashrapur.”

An hour later, in the bright sky above the city, the spirit of the young priest hovered. From here, despite the distance that made the buildings and palaces seem tiny, like the building bricks of an infant, he could feel the pulsing heart of Mashrapur, like a beast upon wakening; ravenous, filled with greed and lust. Dark emotions radiated from the city, filling his thoughts and swamping the purity he fought so hard to maintain. He dropped closer, closer still.

Now he could see the dock-workers strolling to work, and the whores plying the early-morning trade and the merchants opening their shops and stalls.

Where to begin? He had no idea.

For hours he flew aimlessly, touching a mind here, a thought there, seeking knowledge of Collan, Rowena or Druss. He found nothing save greed, or want, hunger or dissipation, lust or, so rarely, love.

Tired and defeated, he was ready to return to the Temple when he felt a sudden pull on his spirit, as if a rope had attached itself to him. In panic he tried to pull away, but though he used all his strength he was drawn inexorably down into a room where all the windows had been barred. An elderly woman was sitting before a red lantern. She gazed up at him as he floated just below the ceiling.

“Ah, but you are a treat to these old eyes, my pretty,” she said. Suddenly shocked, Vintar realised that his form was naked and he clothed himself in an instant in robes of white. She gave a dry laugh. “And modest too.” The smile faded, and with it her good humour. “What are you doing here? Hmmm? This is my city, child.”

“I am a priest, lady,” he said. “I am seeking knowledge of a woman called Rowena, the wife of Druss, the slave of Collan.”

“Why?”

“My Abbot instructed me to find her. He believes the Source may want her protected.”

“By you?” Her good humour returned. “Boy, you can’t even protect yourself from an old witch. Were I to desire it, I could send your soul flaming into Hell.”

“Why would you desire such a terrible thing?”

She paused for a moment. “It might be a whim, or a fancy. What will you give me for your life?”

“I don’t have anything to give.”

“Of course you do,” she said. Her old eyes closed and he watched her spirit rise from her body. She took the form of a beautiful woman, young and shapely, with golden hair and large blue eyes. “Does this form please you?”

“Of course. It is flawless. Is that how you looked when younger?”

“No, I was always ugly. But this is how I choose for you to see me.” She glided in close to him and stroked his face. Her touch was warm, and he felt a ripple of arousal.