The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (16 page)

Thom faded back into the shadows and was gone. Drawing in a deep breath, Druss moved on to the quay. Above and ahead of him he saw a window open. Altering his line, he moved in toward the walls of the moonlit buildings.

“Where are you, Collan?” he shouted.

Armed men moved out of the shadows and he saw the tall, handsome figure of Collan among them. Druss walked forward. “Where is my wife?” he called.

“That’s the beauty of it,” answered Collan, pointing at the ship. “She’s on board—sold to the merchant Kapuchek, who is even now sailing for his home in Ventria. Maybe she will even see you die!”

“In your dreams!” snarled Druss as he charged the waiting men. Behind them the drunken dockworker suddenly rose, two knives in his hands. One blade flashed by Collan’s head, burying itself to the hilt in Kotis’s neck.

A dagger swept toward Druss’s belly, but he brushed the attacker’s arm aside and delivered a bone-crunching blow to the man’s chin, spinning him into the path of the warriors behind him. A knife plunged into Druss’s back. Twisting, he grabbed the wielder by the throat and groin and hurled him into the remaining men.

Sieben pulled Snaga from the work-sack and threw it through the air. Druss caught the weapon smoothly. Moonlight glittered from the terrible blades, and the attackers scattered and ran.

Druss ran toward the ship, which was gliding slowly away from the quayside.

“Rowena!” he yelled. Something struck him in the back and he staggered, then fell to his knees. He saw Sieben run forward. The poet’s arm went back, then swept down. Druss half turned to
see a crossbowman outlined against a windowframe; the man dropped his bow, then tumbled from the window with a knife embedded in his eye.

Sieben knelt alongside Druss. “Lie still,” he said. “You’ve a bolt in your back!”

“Get away from me!” shouted Druss, levering himself to his feet. “Rowena!”

He stumbled forward, but the ship was moving away from the quay more swiftly now, the wind catching the sail. Druss could feel blood from his wounds streaming down his back and pooling above his belt. A terrible lethargy swept over him and he fell again.

Sieben came alongside. “We must get you to a surgeon,” he heard Sieben say. Then the poet’s voice receded from him, and a great roaring filled his ears. Straining his eyes, he saw the ship angle toward the east, the great sail filling.

“Rowena!” he shouted. “Rowena!” The stone of the quay was cold against his face, and the distant cries of the gulls mocked his anguish. Pain flowed through him as he struggled to rise.…

And fell from the edge of the world.

Collan raced along the quay, then glanced back. He saw the giant warrior down, his companion kneeling beside him. Halting his flight, he sat down on a mooring post to recover his breath. It was unbelievable! Unarmed, the giant had attacked armed men, scattering them. Borcha was right. The charging bull analogy had been very perceptive. Tomorrow Collan would move to a hiding place in the south of the city and then, as Borcha had advised, seek out the old woman. That was the answer. Pay her to cast a spell, or send a demon, or supply poison. Anything.

Collan rose—and saw a dark figure standing in the moon shadows by the wall. The man was watching him. “What are you staring at?” he said.

The shadowy figure moved toward him, moonlight bathing his face. He wore a tunic shirt of soft black leather, and two short swords were scabbarded at his hips. His hair was black and long, and tied in a ponytail. “Do I know you?” asked Collan.

“You will, renegade,” said the man, drawing his right-hand sword.

“You’ve chosen the wrong man to rob,” Collan told him. His
saber came up and he slashed the air to left and right, loosening his wrist.

“I’m not here to rob you, Collan,” said the man, advancing. “I’m here to kill you.”

Collan waited until his opponent was within a few paces and then he leaped forward, lunging his saber toward the man’s chest. There was a clash of steel as their blades met. Collan’s saber was parried and a lightning riposte swept at the swordsman’s throat. Collan jumped back, the point of the sword missing his eye by less than an inch. “You are swift, my friend. I underestimated you.”

“It happens,” said the man.

Collan attacked again, this time with a series of sweeps and thrusts aiming for neck and belly. Their blades glittered in the moonlight and all around them windows were opened as the discordant clashing of steel echoed along the quay. Whores leaned out over the windowsills, yelling encouragement; beggars appeared from alleyways; a nearby tavern emptied and a crowd gathered in a large circle around the dueling men. Collan was enjoying himself. His attacks were forcing his opponent back, and he had now taken the measure of the man. The stranger was fast and lithe, cool under pressure; but he was no longer young and Collan could sense he was tiring. At first he had made several counterattacks, but these were fewer now as he desperately fended off the younger man’s blade. Collan feinted a cut, then rolled, his wrist lunging forward on to his right foot. The stranger blocked too late, the point of the saber piercing the man’s left shoulder. Collan leaped back, his blade sliding clear. “Almost time to die, old man,” said Collan.

“Yes. How does it feel?” countered his opponent.

Collan laughed. “You have nerve, I’ll say that for you. Before I kill you, will you tell me why you are hunting me? A wronged wife, perhaps? A despoiled daughter? Or are you a hired assassin?”

“I am Shadak,” said the man.

Collan grinned. “So the night is not a total waste.” He glanced at the crowd. “The great Shadak!” he said, his voice rising. “This is the famed hunter, the mighty swordsman. See him bleed? Well, my friends, you can tell your children how you saw him die! How Collan slew the man of legend.”

He advanced on the waiting Shadak, then raised his saber in a mock salute. “I have enjoyed this duel, old man,” he said, “but
now it is time to end it.” Even as he spoke he leaped, sending a fast reverse cut toward Shadak’s right side. As his opponent parried, Collan rolled his wrist, the saber rolling over the blocking blade and sweeping up toward Shadak’s unprotected neck. It was the classic killing stroke, and one Collan had employed many times, but Shadak swayed to his left, the saber cutting into his right shoulder. Collan felt a searing pain in his belly and glanced down. Horrified, he saw Shadak’s sword jutting there.

“Burn in Hell!” hissed Shadak, wrenching the blade clear. Collan screamed and fell to his knees, his saber clattering against the stones of the quay. He could feel his heart hammering, and agony, red-hot acid pain, scorched through him. He cried out: “Help me!”

The crowd was silent now. Collan fell facedown on the stones. I can’t be dying, he thought. Not me. Not Collan.

The pain receded, replaced by a soothing warmth that stole across his tortured mind. He opened his eyes and could see his saber glinting on the stones just ahead. He reached out for it, his fingers touching the hilt.

I can still win! he told himself. I can …

Shadak sheathed his sword and stared down at the dead man. Already the beggars were around him, pulling at his boots and ripping at his belt. Shadak turned away and pushed through the crowd.

He saw Sieben kneeling beside the still figure of Druss, and his heart sank. Moving more swiftly, he came alongside the body and knelt down.

“He’s dead,” said Sieben.

“In your … dreams,” hissed Druss. “Get me to my feet.”

Shadak chuckled. “Some men take a sight of killing,” he told the poet. The two men hauled Druss upright.

“She’s out there,” said Druss, staring at the ship that was slowly shrinking against the distant horizon.

“I know, my friend,” said Shadak softly. “But we’ll find her. Now let’s get you to a surgeon.”

The Demon in the Axe

Prologue

T
HE SHIP GLIDED
from the harbor, the early evening swell rippling against the hull. Rowena stood on the aft deck, the tiny figure of Pudri beside her. Above them, unnoticed on the raised tiller deck, stood the Ventrian merchant Kabuchek. Tall and cadaverously thin, he stared at the dock. He had seen Collan cut down by an unknown swordsman, and had watched the giant Drenai warrior battle his way through Collan’s men. Interesting, he thought, what men will do for love.

His thoughts flew back to his youth in Varsipis and his desire for the young maiden Harenini. Did I love her then? he wondered. Or has time added colors to the otherwise gray days of youth?

The ship lifted on the swell as the vessel approached the harbor mouth and the surging tides beyond. Kabuchek glanced down at the girl; Collan had sold her cheaply. Five thousand pieces of silver for a talent such as hers? Ludicrous. He had been prepared for a charlatan, or a clever trickster. But she had taken his hand, looked into his eyes, and said a single word:
Harenini
. Kabuchek had kept the shock from his face. He had not heard her name in twenty-five years, and certainly there was no way that the pirate Collan could have known of his juvenile infatuation. Though already convinced of her talents, Kabuchek asked many questions until finally he turned to Collan. “It appears she has a modicum of talent,” he said. “What price are you asking?”

“Five thousand.”

Kabuchek swung to his servant, the eunuch Pudri. “Pay him,” he said, concealing the smile of triumph and contenting himself with the tormented look which appeared on Collan’s face. “I will take her to the ship myself.”

Now, judging by how close the axeman had come, he congratulated himself upon his shrewdness. He heard Pudri’s gentle voice speaking to the girl.

“I pray your husband is not dead,” said Pudri. Kabuchek glanced back at the dock and saw two Drenai warriors were kneeling beside the still figure of the axeman.

“He will live,” said Rowena, tears filling her eyes. “And he will follow me.”

If he does, thought Kabuchek, I will have him slain.

“He has a great love for you,
Pahtai
,” said Pudri soothingly. “So it should be between husband and wife. It rarely happens that way, however. I myself have had three wives—and none of them loved me. But then a eunuch is not the ideal mate.”

The girl watched the tiny figures on the dock until the ship had slipped out of the harbor and the lights of Mashrapur became distant twinkling candles. She sighed and sank down on the rail seat, her head bowed, tears spilling from her eyes.

Pudri sat beside her, his slender arm on her shoulders. “Yes,” he whispered, “tears are good. Very good.” Patting her back as if she were a small child, he sat beside her and whispered meaningless platitudes.

Kabuchek climbed down the deck steps and approached them. “Bring her to my cabin,” he ordered Pudri.

Rowena glanced up at the harsh face of her new master. His nose was long and hooked, like the beak of an eagle, and his skin was darker than any she had seen, almost black. His eyes, however, were a bright blue beneath thick brows. Beside her Pudri stood, helping her to her feet, and together they followed the Ventrian merchant down the steps to the aft cabin. Lanterns were lit here, hanging on bronze hooks from low oak beams.