The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (13 page)

The interior was windowless and high-ceilinged, lit by lanterns which hung from the beams. The tavern smelled 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. An 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 Thom, would you?”

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

“Follow me, lad,” said Thom, and he pushed his way through the crowd toward 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 center. 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.”

Thom 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.”

“Pah! I’m not a robber, lad. Used to be, but then I got old and slow. Now I live on my wits. You look like a man who could stand up for himself. At first I mistook you for Grassin the Lentrian—that’s him over there, by the far door.” Druss followed the old man’s pointing finger and saw a powerfully built young man with short-cropped black hair. He was talking to another heavily-muscled man, a blond warrior with a dangling moustache. “The other one is Skatha, he is a Naashanite sailor. And the big fellow at the back is Borcha. He’ll win tonight. No question. Deadly, he is. Most likely someone will be crippled by him before the evening is out.”

Druss gazed at the man and felt the hackles on his neck rise. Borcha was enormous, standing some seven inches above six feet tall. He was bald, his head vaguely pointed as if his skin was stretched over a Vagrian helm. His shoulders were massively muscled, his neck huge with muscles swollen and bulging.

“No good looking at him like that, boy. He’s too good for you. Trust me on that. He’s skilled and very fast. He won’t even step up for the warming bouts. No one would face him—not even for twenty golden raq. But that Grassin now, I think you could stand against him for a turn of the glass. And if you’ve some coin to wager, I’ll find takers.”

“What do you get, old man?”

“Half of what we make.”

“What odds could you bargain for?”

“Two to one. Maybe three.”

“And if I went against Borcha?”

“Put it from your mind, boy. We want to make money—not coffin fuel.”

“How much?” persisted Druss.

“Ten to one—twenty to one. The gods alone know!”

Druss opened the pouch at his side, removing ten silver pieces. Casually he dropped them into the old man’s outstretched hand. “Let it be known that I wish to stand against Borcha for a turn of the glass.”

“Asta’s tits, he’ll kill you.”

“If he doesn’t, you could make a hundred pieces of silver. Maybe more.”

“There is that, of course,” said Old Thom, with a crooked grin.

Crowds slowly began to fill the warehouse arena. Rich nobles clad in silks and fine leathers, their ladies beside them in lace and satin, were seated on high tiers overlooking the sand circle. On the lower levels were the merchants and traders in their conical caps and long capes. Druss felt uncomfortable, hemmed in by the mass. The air was growing foul, the temperature rising as more and more people filed in.

Rowena would hate this place, with its noise and its pressing throng. His mood darkened as he thought of her—a prisoner somewhere, a slave to the whims and desires of Collan. He forced such thoughts from his mind, and concentrated instead on his conversation with the poet. He had enjoyed irritating the man; it had eased his own anger, an anger generated by the unwilling acceptance that much of what the speaker in the park had said was true. He loved Rowena, heart and soul. But he needed her also and he often wondered which was the stronger, love or
need. And was he trying to rescue her because he loved her, or because he was lost without her? The question tormented him.

Rowena calmed his turbulent spirit in a way no other living soul ever could. She helped him to see the world through gentle eyes. It was a rare and beautiful experience. If she had been with him now, he thought, he too would have been filled with distaste at the sweating multitude waiting for blood and pain. Instead the young man stood amidst the crowd and felt his heartbeat quicken, his excitement rise at the prospect of combat.

His pale eyes scanned the crowd, picking out the fat figure of Old Thom talking to a tall man in a red velvet cloak. The man was smiling. He turned from Thom and approached the colossal figure of Borcha. Druss saw the fighter’s eyes widen, then the man laughed. Druss could not hear the sound above the chatter and noise about him, but he felt his anger grow. This was Borcha, one of Collan’s men—perhaps one of those who had taken Rowena.

Old Thom returned through the crowd and led Druss to a fairly quiet corner. “I’ve set events in motion,” he said. “Now listen to me—don’t try for the head. Men have broken their hands on that skull. He has a habit of dipping into punches so that the other man’s knuckles strike bone. Go for the lower body. And watch his feet—he’s a skilled kicker, lad … what’s your name, by the way?”

“Druss.”

“Well, Druss, you’ve grabbed a bear by the balls this time. If he hurts you, don’t try to hold on; he’ll use that head on you, and cave in the bones of your face. Try backing away and covering up.”

“Let him try backing away,” snarled Druss.

“Ah, you’re a cocky lad, for sure. But you’ve never faced a man like Borcha. He’s like a living hammer.”

Druss chuckled. “You really know how to lift a man’s spirits. What odds did you find?”

“Fifteen to one. If you hold to your feet, you’ll have seventy-five pieces of silver—plus your original ten.”

“Is that enough to buy a slave?”

“What would you want with a slave?”

“Is it enough?”

“Depends on the slave. Some girls fetch upwards of a hundred. You have someone in mind?”

Druss dipped into his pouch, removing the last four silver pieces. “Wager these also.”

The old man took the money. “I take it this is your entire wealth?”

“It is.”

“She must be a very special slave?”

“She’s my wife. Collan’s men took her.”

“Collan takes lots of women. Your wife’s not a witch, is she?”

“What?” snarled Druss.

“No offense, lad. But Collan sold a witch woman to Kabuchek the Ventrian today. Five thousand silver pieces she brought.”

“No, she is not a witch. Just a mountain girl, sweet and gentle.”

“Ah well, a hundred should be enough,” said Thom. “But first you have to win it. Have you ever been hit?”

“No. But a tree fell on me once.”

“Knock you out?”

“No. I was dazed for a while.”

“Well, Borcha will feel like a mountain fell on you. I hope you’ve the strength to withstand it.”

“We’ll see, old man.”

“If you go down, roll under the ropes. Otherwise he’ll stomp you.”

Druss smiled. “I like you, old man. You don’t honey the medicine, do you?”

“Does you no good unless it tastes bad,” replied Thom, with a crooked grin.

Borcha enjoyed the admiring glances from the crowd—fear and respect from the men and healthy lust from the women. He felt he had earned such silent accolades during the past five years. His blue eyes scanned the tiers and he picked out Mapek, the First Minister of Mashrapur, Bodasen the Ventrian envoy, and a dozen more notables from the Emir’s government. He kept his face impassive as he gazed around the converted warehouse. It was well known that he never smiled, save in the sand circle when his opponent began to weaken under his iron fists.

He glanced at Grassin, watching the man move through a series of loosening exercises. He had to hold back his smile then. Others might believe Grassin was merely stretching tight muscles, but Borcha could read fear in the man’s movements. He
focused on the other fighters, staring at them. Few looked his way, and those who did cast fleeting glances, avoiding his eyes.

Losers, all of them, he thought.

He took a deep breath, filling his massive lungs. The air was hot and damp. Signaling to one of his aides, Borcha told the man to open the wide windows at either end of the warehouse. A second aide approached him. “There is a yokel who wants to try a turn of the glass with you, Borcha.” The fighter was irritated and he surreptitiously studied the crowd. All eyes were on him. So the word was already out! He threw back his head and forced a laugh. “Who is this man?”

“A stranger from the mountains. Youngster—around twenty, I’d say.”

“That explains his stupidity,” hissed Borcha. No man who had ever seen him fight would relish the prospect of four minutes in the sand circle with the champion of Mashrapur. But still he was annoyed.

Winning involved far more skills than with fists and feet, he knew. It was a complex mix of courage and heart, allied to the planting of the seeds of doubt in the minds of opponents. A man who believed his enemy was invincible had already lost, and Borcha had spent years building such a reputation.

No one in two years had dared to risk a turn of the glass with the champion.

Until now. Which threw up a second problem. Arena fights were without rules: a fighter could legitimately gouge out an opponent’s eyes or, after downing him, stamp upon his neck. Deaths were rare, but not unknown, and many fighters were crippled for life. But Borcha would not be able to use his more deadly array of skills against an unknown youngster. It would suggest he feared the boy.

“They’re offering fifteen to one against him surviving,” whispered the aide.

“Who is negotiating for him?”

“Old Thom.”

“How much has he wagered?”

“I’ll find out.” The man moved away into the crowd.

The tournament organizer, a huge, obese merchant named Bilse, stepped into the sand circle. “My friends,” he bellowed, his fat chins wobbling, “welcome to the Blind Corsair. Tonight you will be privileged to witness the finest fistfighters in Mashrapur.”

Borcha closed his mind to the man’s droning voice. He had heard it all before. Five years ago his mood had been different. His wife and son sick from dysentery, the young Borcha had finished his work on the docks and run all the way to the Corsair to win ten silver pieces in a warm-up contest. To his surprise he had beaten his opponent, and had taken his place in the tournament. That night, after hammering six fighters to defeat, he had taken home sixty golden raq. He had arrived at their rooms triumphant, only to find his son dead and his wife comatose. The best doctor in Mashrapur was summoned. He had insisted Caria be removed to a hospital in the rich northern district—but only after Borcha had parted with all his hard-won gold. There Caria rallied for a while, only to be struck down with consumption.

The treatment over the next two years cost three hundred raq.

And still she died, her body ravaged by sickness.

Borcha’s bitterness was colossal, and he unleashed it in every fight, focusing his hatred and his fury on the men who faced him.

He heard his name called and raised his right arm. The crowd cheered and clapped.

Now he had a house in the northern quarter, built of marble and the finest timber, with terra-cotta tiles on the roof. Twenty slaves were on hand to do his bidding, and his investments in slaves and silks brought him an income to rival any of the senior merchants. Yet still he fought, the demons of the past driving him on.

Bilse announced that the warm-up contest would begin and Borcha watched as Grassin stepped into the circle to take on a burly dockworker. The bout lasted barely a few seconds, Grassin lifting the man from his feet with an uppercut. Borcha’s aide approached him. “They have wagered around nine silver pieces. Is it important?”

Borcha shook his head. Had there been large sums involved it would have indicated trickery of some kind, perhaps a foreign fighter drafted in, a tough man from another city, a bruiser unknown in Mashrapur. But no. This was merely stupidity and arrogance combined.

Bilse called his name and Borcha stepped into the circle. He tested the sand beneath his feet. Too thick and it made for clumsy movement, too thin and a fighter could slide and lose balance. It was well raked. Satisfied, Borcha turned his gaze on the man who had entered the circle from the other side.

He was young and some inches shorter than Borcha, though his shoulders were enormous. His chest was thick, the pectoral muscles well developed, and his biceps were huge. Watching him move, Borcha saw that he was well balanced and lithe. His waist was thick, but carried little fat, and his neck was large and well protected by the powerful, swollen muscles of the trapezius. Borcha transferred his gaze to his opponent’s face. Strong cheekbones and a good chin. The nose was wide and flat, the brows heavy. The champion looked into the challenger’s eyes; they were pale, and they showed no fear. Indeed, thought Borcha, he looks as if he hates me.