Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“I will,” promised Druss. The two men shook hands again, and Shadak strolled away.

“What code?” Sieben asked.

Druss watched as the black-garbed hunter vanished into the crowd. “He once told me that all true warriors live by a code: Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into the pursuit of evil.”

“Very true, I’m sure,” said Sieben, with a dry, mocking laugh. “Ah well, Druss, I can hear the call of the fleshpots and the taverns. And with the money I won on you, I can live like a lord for several months.” He thrust out his slender hand and Druss clasped it.

“Spend your money wisely,” he advised.

“I shall… on women and wine and gambling.” Laughing, he swung away.

Druss turned to Borcha. “I thank you for your training, and your kindness.”

“The time was well spent, and it was gratifying to see Grassin humbled. But he still almost took out your eye. I don’t think you’ll ever learn to keep that chin protected.”

“Hey, Druss! Are you coming aboard?” yelled Bodasen from the deck and Druss waved.

“I’m on my way,” he shouted. The two men clasped hands in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “I hope we meet again,” said Druss.

“Who can say what the fates will decree?”

Druss hefted his axe and turned for the gangplank. “Tell me now why you helped me?” he asked suddenly.

Borcha shrugged. “You frightened me, Druss. I wanted to see just how good you could be. Now I know. You could be the best. It makes what you did to me more palatable. Tell me, how does it feel to leave as champion?”

Druss chuckled. “It hurts,” he said, rubbing his swollen jaw.

“Move yourself, dog-face!” yelled a warrior, leaning over the rail.

The axeman glanced up at the speaker, then turned back to Borcha. “Be lucky, my friend,” he said, then strode up the gangplank. With the ropes loosed, The Thunderchild eased away from the quayside.

Warriors were lounging on the deck, or leaning over the rail waving goodbye to friends and loved ones. Druss found a space by the port rail and sat, laying his axe on the deck beside him. Bodasen was standing beside the mate at the tiller; he waved and smiled at the axeman.

Druss leaned back, feeling curiously at peace. The months trapped in Mashrapur had been hard on the young man. He pictured Rowena.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered.

Sieben strolled away from the quay, and off into the maze of alleys leading to the park. Ignoring the whores who pressed close around him, his thoughts were many. There was sadness at the departure of Druss. He had come to like the young axeman; there were no hidden sides to him, no cunning, no guile. And much as he laughed at the axeman’s rigid morality, he secretly admired the strength that gave birth to it. Druss had even sought out the surgeon Calvar Syn, and settled his debt. Sieben had gone with him and would long remember the surprise that registered on the young doctor’s face.

But Ventria? Sieben had no wish to visit a land torn by war.

He thought of Evejorda and regret washed over him. He’d like to have seen her just one more time, - to have felt those slim thighs sliding up over his hips. But Shadak was right; it was too dangerous for both of them.

Sieben turned left and started to climb the Hundred Steps to the park gateway. Shadak was wrong about Gulgothir. He remembered the filth-strewn streets, the limbless beggars and the cries of the dispossessed. But he remembered them without bitterness. And was it his fault that his father had made such a fool of himself with the Duchess? Anger flared briefly. Stupid fool, he thought. Stupid, stupid man!

She had stripped him first of his wealth, then his dignity, and finally his manhood. They called her the Vampire Queen and it was a good description, save that she didn’t drink blood. No, she drank the very life force from a man, sucked him dry and left him thanking her for doing it, begging her to do it again.

Sieben’s father had been thrown aside - a useless husk, an empty, discarded shell of a man. While Sieben and his mother had almost starved, his father was sitting like a beggar outside the home of the Duchess. He sat there for a month, and finally cut his own throat with a rusty blade.

Stupid, stupid man!

But I am not stupid, thought Sieben as he climbed the steps. I am not like my father.

He glanced up to see two men walking down the steps towards him. They wore long cloaks that were drawn tightly across their bodies. Sieben paused in his climb. It was a hot morning, so why would they be dressed in such a manner? Hearing a sound, he turned to see another man climbing behind him. He also wore a long cloak.

Fear flared suddenly in the poet’s heart and, spinning on his heel, he descended towards the single man. As he neared the climber the cloak flashed back, a long knife appearing in the man’s hand. Sieben leapt feet first, his right boot cracking into the man’s chin and sending him tumbling down the steps. Sieben landed heavily but rose swiftly and began to run, taking the steps three at a time. He could hear the men behind him also running.

Reaching the bottom, he set off through the alleyways. A hunting horn sounded and a tall warrior leapt into his path with a sword in hand. Sieben, at full run, turned his shoulder into the man, barging him aside. He swerved right, then left. A knife sliced past his head to clatter against a wall.

Increasing his speed, he raced across a small square and into a side street. He could see the docks ahead. It was more crowded here and he pushed his way through. Several men shouted abuse, and a young woman fell behind him. He glanced back - there were at least half a dozen pursuers.”

Close to panic now, he emerged on to the quay. To his left he saw a group of men emerge from a side street; they were all carrying weapons and Sieben swore.

The Thunderchild was slipping away from the quayside as Sieben ran across the cobbles and launched himself through the air, reaching out to grab at a trailing rope. His fingers curled around it, and his body cracked against the ship’s timbers. Almost losing his grip, he clung to the rope as a knife thudded into the wood beside his head. Fear gave him strength and he began to climb.

A familiar face loomed above him and Druss leaned over, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him on to the deck.

“Changed your mind, I see,” said the axeman. Sieben gave a weak smile and glanced back at the quay. There were at least a dozen armed men there now.

“I thought the sea air would be good for me,” said Sieben.

The captain, a bearded man in his fifties, pushed his way through to them. “What’s going on?” he said. “I can only carry fifty men. That’s the limit.”

“He doesn’t weigh much,” said Druss goodnaturedly.

Another man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a dented breastplate, two short swords and a baldric boasting four knives. “First you keep us waiting, dogface, and now you bring your boyfriend aboard. Well, Kelva the Swordsman won’t sail with the likes of you.”

“Then don’t!” Druss’s left hand snaked out, his fingers locking to the man’s throat, his right slamming home into the warrior’s groin. With one surging heave Druss lifted the struggling man into the air and tossed him over the side. He hit with a great splash and came up struggling under the weight of his armour.

The Thunderchild pulled away and Druss turned to the captain. “Now we are fifty again,” he said, with a smile.

“Can’t argue with that,” the captain agreed. He swung to the sailors standing by the mast. “Let loose the mainsail!” he bellowed.