Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

He did not reply.

Later, as Evejorda slept again, he lay silently beside her, his passion gone, his thoughts sorrowful. She was without doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever enjoyed. She was bright, intelligent, dynamic and full of passion.

And he was bored….

As a poet he had sung of love, but never known it, and he envied the lovers of legend who looked into each other’s eyes and saw eternity beckoning. He sighed and slipped from the bed, dressing swiftly and leaving the room, padding softly down the back stairs to the garden before pulling on his boots. The servants were not yet awake, and dawn was only just breaking in the eastern sky. A cockerel crowed in the distance.

Sieben walked through the garden and out on to the avenue beyond. As he walked he could smell the fresh bread baking, and he stopped at a bakery to buy some cheese bread which he ate as he strolled home.

Druss was not there, and he remembered the labouring work the young man had undertaken. God, how could a man spend his days digging in the dirt, he wondered? Moving through to the kitchen, he stoked up the iron stove and set a copper pan filled with water atop it.

Making a tisane of mint and herbs, he stirred the brew and carried it to the main sitting room where he found Shadak asleep on a couch. The hunter’s black jerkin and trews were travel-stained, his boots encrusted with mud. He awoke as Sieben entered, and swung his long legs from the couch.

“I was wondering where you were,” said Shadak, yawning. “I arrived last night.”

“I stayed with a friend,” said Sieben, sitting opposite the hunter and sipping his tisane.

Shadak nodded. “Mapek is due in Mashrapur later today. He cut short his visit to Vagria.”

“Why would that concern me?”

“I’m sure that it does not. But now you know it anyway.”

“Did you come to give me a sermon, Shadak?”

“Do I look like a priest? I came to see Druss. But when I got here he was in the garden, sparring with a bald giant. From the way he moved I concluded his wounds are healed.”

“Only the physical wounds,” said Sieben.

“I know,” responded the hunter. “I spoke to him. He still intends to sail for Ventria. Will you go with him?”

Sieben laughed. “Why should I? I don’t know his wife. Gods, I hardly know him.”

“It might be good for you, poet.”

“The sea air, you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” said Shadak gravely. “You have chosen to make an enemy of one of the most powerful men in Mashrapur. His enemies die, Sieben. Poison, or the blade, or a knotted rope around your throat as you sleep.”

“Is my business known all over the city??

“Of course. There are thirty servants in that house. You think to keep secrets from them when her ecstatic cries reverberate around the building in the middle of the afternoon, or the morning, or in the dead of night?”

“Or indeed all three,” said Sieben, smiling.

“I see no humour in this,” snapped Shadak. “You are no more than a rutting dog and you will undoubtedly ruin her life as you have ruined others. Yet I would sooner you lived than died - only the gods know why!”

“I gave her a little pleasure, that’s all. Which is more than that dry stick of a husband could do. But I will think on your advice.”

“Do not think too long. When Mapek returns he will soon find out about his wife’s… little pleasure. Do not be surprised if he has her killed also.”

Sieben paled. “He wouldn’t…”

“He is a proud man, poet. And you have made a profound error.”

“If he touches her I’ll kill him.”

“Ah, how noble. The dog bares its fangs. You should never have wooed her. You do not even have the defence of being in love; you merely wanted to rut.”

“Is that not what love is?” countered Sieben.

“For you, yes.” Shadak shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ll ever understand it, Sieben. To love means giving, not receiving. Sharing your soul. But this argument is wasted on you, like teaching algebra to a chicken.”

“Oh, please, don’t try to spare my feelings with pretty words. Just come right out with it!”

Shadak rose. “Bodasen is hiring warriors, mercenaries to fight in the Ventrian war. He has chartered a ship which will sail in twelve days. Lie low until then, and do not seek to see Evejorda again - not if you want her to live.”

The hunter moved towards the door, but Sieben called out, “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

Shadak half turned. “I think more of you than you think of yourself.”

“I am too tired for riddles.”

“You can’t forget Gulgothir.”

Sieben jerked as if struck, then lunged to his feet. “That is all past. It means nothing to me. You understand? Nothing!”

“If you say so. I’ll see you in twelve days. The ship is called The Thunderchild. She will sail from Quay 12.”

“I may be on it. I may not.”

“A man always has two choices, my friend.”

“No! No! No!” roared Borcha. “You are still thrusting out that chin, and leading with your head.” Stepping back from his opponent, Borcha swept up a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and head. “Try to understand, Druss, that if Grassin gets the opportunity he will take out one - or both - of your eyes. He will step in close, and as you charge he will strike with a sudden thrust, his thumb like a dagger.”

“Let’s go again,” said Druss.

“No. You are too angry and it swamps your thoughts. Come and sit for a while.”

“The light is fading,” Druss pointed out.

“Then let it fade. You are four days from the competition. Four days, Druss. In that time you must learn to control your temper. Winning is everything. It means nothing if an opponent sneers at you, or mocks you, or claims your mother sold herself to sailors. You understand? These insults are merely weapons in a fighter’s armoury. You will be goaded - because every fighter knows that his enemy’s rage is his greatest weakness.”

“I can control it,” snapped Druss.

“A few moments ago you were fighting well - your balance was good, the punches crisp. Then I slapped you with a straight left… then another. The blows were too fast for your defences and they began to irritate you. Then the curve came back to your punches and you exposed your chin, your face.”

Druss sat beside the fighter and nodded. “You are right. But I do not like this sparring, this holding back. It does not feel real.”

“It isn’t real, my friend, but it prepares the body for genuine combat.” He slapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Do not despair; you are almost ready. I think your digging in the dirt has brought back your strength. How goes it at the clearing site?”

“We finished today,” said Druss. “Tomorrow the stonemasons and builders move in.”

“On time. The Overseer must have been pleased - I know I am.”

“Why should it please you?”

“I own a third of the land. The value will rise sharply when the houses are completed.” The bald fighter chuckled. “Were you happy with your bonus?”

“Was that your doing?” asked Druss suspiciously.

“It is standard practice, Druss. The Overseer received fifty raq for completing within the time allocated. The charge-hand is usually offered one tenth of this sum.”

“He gave me ten raq - in gold.”

“Well, well, you must have impressed him.”

“He asked me to stay on and supervise the digging of the footings.”

“But you declined?”

“Yes. There is a ship bound for Ventria. I told him my assistant, Togrin, could take my place. He agreed.”

Borcha was silent for a moment. He knew of Druss’s fight with Togrin on the first day, and how he had welcomed the defeated charge-hand back on the site, training him and giving him responsibility. And the Overseer had told him at their progress meetings how well the men responded to Druss.