The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (19 page)

“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.

“Please do not continue,” he said.

“Why? Is it not pleasurable?” Her hand touched his robes and they disappeared.

“Yes, it is. Very. But my vows … do not allow for the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Silly boy,” she whispered into his ear. “We are not flesh. We are spirit.”

“No,” he said sternly. Instantly he transformed himself into the image of the old woman sitting at the table.

“Clever boy,” said the beautiful vision. “Yes, very clever. And virtuous too. I don’t know if I like that, but it does have the charm of being novel. Very well. I will help you.”

He felt the invisible chains holding him disappear, as did the vision. The old woman opened her eyes.

“She was at sea, heading for Ventria, when the ship came under attack. She leaped into the water, and the sharks took her.”

Vintar reeled back and cried out, “It’s my fault! I should have sought her sooner.”

“Go back to your Temple, boy. My time is precious, and I have clients waiting.”

Her laughter rang out and she waved her hand dismissively. Once more he felt the pull on his spirit. It dragged him out, hurling him high into the sky over Mashrapur.

Vintar returned to the tiny cell at the Temple, merging once more with his body. As always he felt nauseous and dizzy and lay still for a few moments, experiencing the weight of his flesh, feeling the rough blanket beneath his skin. A great sadness fell upon him. His talents were far beyond those of normal men, yet they had brought him no pleasure. His parents had treated him with cold reverence, frightened by his uncanny skills. They had been both delighted and relieved when the Abbot came to them one autumn evening, offering to take the boy into his custody. It mattered nothing to them that the Abbot represented a Temple of the Thirty, where men with awesome talents trained and studied with one purpose only—to die in some battle, some distant war, and thus become one with the Source. The prospect of his death could not grieve his parents, for they had never treated him as a human being, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood. They saw him as a changeling, a demonic presence.

He had no friends. Who wants to be around a boy who can read minds, who can peek into the darkest corners of your soul and know all your secrets? Even in the Temple he was alone, unable to share in the simple camaraderie of others with talents the equal of his.

And now he had missed an opportunity to help a young woman, indeed to save her life.

He sat up and sighed. The old woman had been a witch, and he had felt the malevolence of her personality. Even so, the vision she created had aroused him. He could not even withstand such a petty evil.

And then the thought struck him, like a blow between the eyes. Evil! Malice and deceit walked hand in hand beneath the darkness of evil. Perhaps she lied!

He lay back and forced his mind to relax, loosening the spirit once more. Soaring from the Temple, he sped across the ocean, seeking the ship and praying that he was not too late.

Clouds were gathering in the east, promising a storm. Vintar swooped low over the water, spirit eyes scanning the horizon.
Forty miles from the coast of Ventria he saw the ships, a trireme with a huge black sail and a slender merchant vessel seeking to avoid capture.

The merchant ship swung away, but the trireme plowed on, its bronze-covered ram striking the prey amidships, smashing the timbers and ripping into the heart of the vessel. Armed men swarmed over the trireme’s prow. On the rear deck Vintar saw a young woman dressed in white, with two men—one tall and dark-skinned, the other small and slightly built. The trio leaped into the waves. Sharks glided through the water toward them.

Vintar flew to Rowena, his spirit hand touching her shoulder as she bobbed in the water, clinging to a length of timber, the two men on either side of her. “Stay calm, Rowena,” he pulsed.

A shark lunged up at the struggling trio and Vintar entered its mind, tasting the bleakness of its nonthoughts, the coldness of its emotions, the hunger that consumed it. He felt himself becoming the shark, seeing the world through black, unblinking eyes, tasting the environment through a sense of smell a hundred, perhaps a thousand times more powerful than Man’s. Another shark glided below the three people, its jaws opening as it swept up toward them.

With a flick of his tail Vintar rammed the beast, which turned and snapped at his side, barely missing his dorsal fin.

Then came a scent in the water, sweet and beguiling, promising infinite pleasure and a cessation of hunger. Almost without thinking, Vintar swam for it, sensing and seeing the other sharks racing toward it.

And then he knew, and his soaring lust was quelled as swiftly as it had risen.

Blood. The victims of the pirates were being thrown to the sharks.

Releasing control of the sea beast, he flew back to where Rowena and the others were clinging to the beam. “Get your friends to kick out. You must swim away from here,” he told her. He heard her tell the others, and slowly the three of them began to move away from the carnage.

Vintar soared high into the sky and scanned the horizon. Another ship was just in sight, a merchant vessel, and the young priest sped toward it. Dropping to where the captain stood by the tiller, Vintar entered the man’s mind, screening out his thoughts of wife, family, pirates, and bad winds. The ship was
manned by two hundred rowers and thirty seamen; it was carrying wine from Lentria to the Naashanite port of Virinis.

Vintar flowed through the captain’s body, seeking control. In the lungs he found a small, malignant cancer. Swiftly Vintar neutralized it, accelerating the body’s healing mechanism to carry away the corrupt cells. Moving up once more into the brain, he made the captain swing the ship toward the northwest.

The captain was a kindly man, his thoughts mellow. He had seven children, and one of them—the youngest daughter—had been sick with yellow fever when he set sail. He was praying for her recovery.

Vintar imprinted the new course on the man’s unsuspecting mind and flew back to Rowena, telling her of the ship that would soon arrive. Then he moved to the pirate trireme. Already they had sacked the merchant vessel and were backing oars, pulling clear the ram and allowing the looted ship to sink.

Vintar entered the captain’s mind—and reeled with the horror of his thoughts. Swiftly he made the man see the distant merchant ship and filled his mind with nameless fears. The approaching ship, he made the captain believe, was filled with soldiers. It was an ill omen, it would be the death of him. Then Vintar left him, and listened with satisfaction as Earin Shad bellowed orders to his men to turn about and make for the northwest.

Vintar floated above Rowena and the two men until the merchant ship arrived and hauled them aboard. Then he departed for the Lentrian port of Chupianin, where he healed the captain’s daughter.

Only then did he return to the Temple, where he found the Abbot sitting beside his bed.

“How are you feeling, my boy?” he asked.

“Better than I have in years, Father. The girl is safe now. And I have enhanced two lives.”

“Three,” said the Abbot. “You have enhanced your own.”

“That is true,” admitted Vintar, “and it is good to be home.”

Druss could hardly believe the chaos at the clearing site. Hundreds of men scurried here and there without apparent direction, felling trees, digging out roots, hacking at the dense, overgrown vegetation. There was no order to the destruction. Trees were hacked down, falling across paths used by men with wheelbarrows
who were trying to clear the debris. Even while he waited to see the Overseer he watched a tall pine topple onto a group of men digging out tree roots. No one was killed, but one worker suffered a broken arm and several others showed bloody gashes to face or arm.

The Overseer, a slender yet potbellied man, called him over. “Well, what are your skills?” he asked.

“Woodsman,” answered Druss.

“Everyone here claims to be a woodsman,” said the man wearily. “I’m looking for men with skill.”

“You certainly need them,” observed Druss.

“I have twenty days to clear this area, then another twenty to prepare footings for the new buildings. The pay is two silver pennies a day.” The man pointed to a burly, bearded man sitting on a tree stump. “That’s Togrin, the charge-hand. He organizes the workforce and hires the men.”

“He’s a fool,” said Druss, “and he’ll get someone killed.”

“Fool he may be,” admitted the Overseer, “but he’s also a very tough man. No one shirks when he’s around.”

Druss gazed at the site. “That may be true; but you’ll never finish on time. And I’ll not work for any man who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“You’re a little young to making such sweeping comments,” observed the Overseer. “So tell me, how would you reorganize the work?”

“I’d move the axemen farther west and allow the rest of the men to clear behind them. If it carries on like this, all movement will cease. Look there,” said Druss, pointing to the right. Trees had been felled in a rough circle, at the center of which were men digging out huge roots. “Where will they take the roots?” asked the axeman. “There is no longer a path. They will have to wait while the trees are hauled away. Yet how will you move horses and trace chains through to them?”

The Overseer smiled. “You have a point, young man. Very well. The charge-hand earns four pennies a day. Take his place and show me what you can do.”

Druss took a deep breath. His muscles were already tired from the long walk to the site, and the wounds in his back were aching. He was in no condition to fight, and had been hoping to ease himself in to the work. “How do you signal a break in the work?” he asked.

“We ring the bell for the noon break. But that’s three hours away.”

“Have it rung now,” said Druss.

The Overseer chuckled. “This should break the monotony,” he said. “Do you want me to tell Togrin he has lost his job?”

Druss looked into the man’s brown eyes. “No. I’ll tell him myself,” he said.

“Good. Then I’ll see to the bell.”

The Overseer strolled away and Druss picked his way through the chaos until he was standing close to the seated Togrin. The man glanced up. He was large and round-shouldered, heavy of arm and sturdy of chin. His eyes were dark, almost black under heavy brows. “Looking for work?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then get off my site. I don’t like idlers.”

The clanging of a bell sounded through the wood. Togrin swore and rose as everywhere men stopped working. “What the …?” He swung around. “Who rang that bell?” he bellowed.

Men began to gather around the charge-hand and Druss approached the man. “I ordered the bell rung,” he said.

Togrin’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?” he asked.

“The new charge-hand,” replied Druss.

“Well, well,” said Togrin, with a wide grin. “Now there are two charge-hands. I think that’s one too many.”

“I agree,” Druss told him. Stepping in swiftly, he delivered a thundering blow to the man’s belly. The air left Togrin’s lungs with a great whoosh and he doubled up, his head dropping. Druss’s left fist chopped down the man’s jaw and Togrin hit the ground face first. The charge-hand twitched, then lay still.

Druss sucked in a great gulp of air. He felt unsteady, and white lights danced before his eyes as he looked around at the waiting men. “Now we are going to make some changes,” he said.

Day by day Druss’s strength grew, the muscles of his arms and shoulders swelling with each sweeping blow of the axe, each shovelful of hard clay, each wrenching lift that tore a stubborn tree root clear of the earth. For the first five days Druss slept at the site in a small canvas tent supplied by the Overseer. He had not the energy to walk the three miles back to the rented house. And each lonely night two faces hovered in his mind as he
drifted to sleep: Rowena, whom he loved more than life, and Borcha, the fistfighter he knew he had to face.

In the quiet of the tent his thoughts were many. He saw his father differently now and wished he had known him better. It took courage to live down a father like Bardan the Slayer, and to raise a child and build a life on the frontier. He remembered the day when the wandering mercenary had stopped at the village. Druss had been impressed by the man’s weapons, knife, short sword and hand-axe, and by his battered breastplate and helm. “He lives a life of real courage,” he had observed to his father, putting emphasis on the word
real
. Bress had merely nodded. Several days later, as they were walking across the high meadow, Bress had pointed toward the house of Egan the farmer. “You want to see courage, boy,” he said. “Look at him working in that field. Ten years ago he had a farm on the Sentran Plain, but Sathuli raiders came in the night, burning him out. Then he moved to the Ventrian border, where locusts destroyed his crops for three years. He had borrowed money to finance his farm and he lost everything. Now he is back on the land, working from first light to last. That’s
real
courage. It doesn’t take much for a man to abandon a life of toil for a sword. The real heroes are those who battle on.”

The boy had known better. You couldn’t be a hero and a farmer.

“If he was so brave, why didn’t he fight off the Sathuli?”

“He had a wife and three children to protect.”

“So he ran away?”

“He ran away,” agreed Bress.

“I’ll never run from a fight,” said Druss.

“Then you’ll die young,” Bress told him.

Druss sat up and thought back to the raid. What would he have done if the choice had been to fight the slavers—or run with Rowena?

His sleep that night was troubled.

On the sixth night as he walked from the site a tall, burly figure stepped into his path. It was Togrin, the former charge-hand. Druss had not seen him since the fight. The young axeman scanned the darkness, seeking other assailants, but there were none.