The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (23 page)

“I would have lost some of my best lines. Especially the end, where the warriors wonder if they will ever see the gods again.”

“Yes, I remember … the eldritch rhymes, the wizard spells, the ringing of sweet Elven bells
. That one.”

“Precisely.”

“I prefer the grit and the reality of your earlier pieces:

He lapsed into silence.

“Do you know all my work?” asked Sieben, clearly astonished.

Eskodas smiled. “After you performed at Corteswain I sought out your books of poetry. There were five, I think. I have two still—the earliest works.”

“I am at a loss for words.”

“That’ll be the day,” grunted Druss.

“Oh, be quiet. At last we meet a man of discernment on a ship full of rascals. Perhaps this voyage will not be so dreadful. So, tell me, Eskodas, what made you sign on for Ventria?”

“I like killing people,” answered Eskodas.

Druss’s laughter bellowed out.

For the first few days the novelty of being at sea kept most of the mercenaries amused. They sat up on the deck during daylight hours, playing dice or telling stories. At night they slept under a tarpaulin that was looped and tied to the port and starboard rails.

Druss was fascinated by the sea and the seemingly endless horizons. Berthed at Mashrapur,
The Thunderchild
had looked colossal, unsinkable. But here on the open sea she seemed fragile as a flower stem in a river torrent. Sieben had grown bored with the voyage very swiftly. Not so Druss. The sighing of the wind, the plunging and the rising of the ship, the call of the gulls high above—all these fired the young axeman’s blood.

One morning he climbed the rigging to the giant crossbeam
that held the mainsail. Sitting astride it he could see no sign of land, only the endless blue of the sea. A sailor walked along the beam toward him, barefoot, and using no handholds. He stood in delicate balance with hands on hips and looked down at Druss.

“No passengers should be up here,” he said.

Druss grinned at the young man. “How can you just stand there, as if you were on a wide road? A puff of breeze could blow you away.”

“Like this?” asked the sailor, stepping from the beam. He twisted in midair, his hands fastening to a sail rope. For a moment he hung there, then lithely pulled himself up alongside the axeman.

“Very good,” said Druss. His eye was caught by a silver-blue flash in the water below and the sailor chuckled.

“The gods of the sea,” he told the passenger. “Dolphins. If they are in the mood, you should see some wonderful sights.” A gleaming shape rose out of the water, spinning into the air before entering the sea again with scarcely a splash. Druss clambered down the rigging, determined to get a closer look at the sleek and beautiful animals performing in the water. High-pitched cries echoed around the ship as the creatures bobbed their heads above the surface.

Suddenly an arrow sped from the ship, plunging into one of the dolphins as it soared out of the water.

Within an instant the creatures had disappeared.

Druss glared at the archer while other men shouted at him, their anger sudden, their mood ugly.

“It was just a fish!” said the archer.

Milus Bar pushed his way through the crowd. “You fool!” he said, his face almost gray beneath his tan. “They are the gods of the sea; they come for us to pay homage. Sometimes they will even lead us through treacherous waters. Why did you have to shoot?”

“It was a good target,” said the man. “And why not? It was my choice.”

“Aye, it was, lad,” Milus told him, “but if our luck turns bad now it will be my choice to cut out your innards and feed them to the sharks.” The burly skipper stalked back to the tiller deck. The earlier good mood had evaporated now and the men drifted back to their pursuits with little pleasure.

Sieben approached Druss. “By the gods, they were wondrous,” said the poet. “According to legend, Asta’s chariot is drawn by six white dolphins.”

Druss sighed. “Who would have thought that anyone would consider killing one of them? Do they make good food, do you know?”

“No,” said Sieben. “In the north they sometimes become entangled in the nets and drown. I have known men who cooked the meat; they say it tastes foul, and is impossible to digest.”

“Even worse then,” Druss grunted.

“It is no different from any other kind of hunting for sport, Druss. Is not a doe as beautiful as a dolphin?”

“You can eat a doe. Venison is fine meat.”

“But most of them don’t hunt for food, do they? Not the nobles. They hunt for
pleasure
. They enjoy the chase, the terror of the prey, the final moment of the kill. Do not blame this man alone for his stupidity. He comes, as do we all, from a cruel world.”

Eskodas joined them. “Not very inspiring, was he?” said the bowman.

“Who?”

“The man who shot the fish.”

“We were just talking about it.”

“I didn’t know you understood the skills of archery,” said Eskodas, surprised.

“Archery? What are you talking about?”

“The bowman. He drew and loosed in a single movement. No hesitation. It is vital to pause and sight your target; he was overanxious for the kill.”

“Be that as it may,” said Sieben, his irritation rising, “we were talking about the morality of hunting.”

“Man is a killer by nature,” said Eskodas amiably. “A natural hunter. Like him there!” Sieben and Druss both turned to see a silver-white fin cutting through the water. “That’s a shark. He scented the blood from the wounded dolphin. Now he’ll hunt him down, following the trail as well as a Sathuli scout.”

Druss leaned over the side and watched the shimmering form slide by. “Big fellow,” he said.

“They come bigger than that,” said Eskodas. “I was on a ship once that sank in a storm off the Lentrian coast. Forty of us survived the wreck, and struck out for shore. Then the sharks arrived.
Only three of us made it—and one of those had his right leg ripped away. He died three days later.”

“A storm, you say?” ventured Druss.

“Aye.”

“Like that one?” asked Druss, pointing to the east, where massive dark clouds were bunching. A flash of lightning speared across the sky, followed by a tremendous roll of thunder.

“Yes, like that. Let’s hope it is not blowing our way.”

Within minutes the sky darkened, the sea surging and rising.
The Thunderchild
rolled and rose on the crests of giant waves, sliding into ever larger valleys of water. Then the rain began, faster and faster, icy needles that came from the sky like arrows.

Crouching by the port rail Sieben glanced to where the unfortunate archer was huddled. The man who had shot the dophin was alone, and holding fast to a rope. Lightning flashed above the ship.

“I would say our luck has changed,” observed Sieben.

But neither Druss nor Eskodas could hear him above the screaming of the wind.

Eskodas hooked his arms around the port rail and clung on as the storm raged. A huge wave crashed over the side of the ship, dislodging several men from their precarious holds on ropes and bales, sweeping them across the deck to crash into the dipping starboard rail. A post cracked, but no one heard it above the ominous roll of thunder booming from the night-dark sky.
The Thunderchild
rode high on the crest of an enormous wave, then slid down into a valley of raging water. A sailor carrying a coiled rope ran along the deck trying to reach the warriors at the starboard rail. A second wave crashed over him, hurling him into the struggling men. The port rail gave way, and within the space of a heartbeat some twenty men were swept from the deck. The ship reared like a frightened horse. Eskodas felt his grip on the rail post weaken. He tried to readjust his hold, but the ship lurched again. Torn from his position of relative safety, he slid headlong toward the yawning gap in the starboard rail.

A huge hand clamped down around his ankle, then he was hauled back. The axeman grinned at him, then handed him a length of rope. Swiftly Eskodas slipped it around his waist, fastening the other end to the mast. He glanced at Druss. The big man was
enjoying
the storm. Secure now, Eskodas scanned the deck. The poet was clinging to a section of the starboard rail that
seemed none too secure, and high on the tiller deck the bowman could see Milus Bar wrestling with the tiller, trying to keep
The Thunderchild
ahead of the storm.

Another massive wave swept over the deck. The starboard rail cracked and Sieben slid over the edge of the deck. Druss untied his rope and rose. Eskodas shouted at him, but the axeman either did not hear, or ignored him. Druss ran across the heaving deck, fell once, then righted himself until he came alongside the shattered rail. Dropping to his knees, Druss leaned over, dragging Sieben back to the deck.

Just behind them the man who had shot the dolphin was reaching for a rope with which to tie himself to a hauling ring set in the deck. The ship reared once more. The man tumbled to the deck, then slid on his back, cannoning into Druss, who fell heavily. Still holding Sieben with one hand, the axeman tried to reach the doomed archer, but the man vanished into the raging sea.

Almost at that instant, the sun appeared through broken clouds and the rain lessened, the sea settling. Druss rose and gazed into the water. Eskodas untied the rope that held him to the mast and stood, his legs unsteady. He walked to where Druss stood with Sieben.

The poet’s face was white with shock. “I’ll never sail again,” he said. “Never!”

Eskodas thrust out his hand. “Thank you, Druss. You saved my life.”

The axeman chuckled. “Had to, laddie. You’re the only one on this boat who can leave our saga-master speechless.”

Bodasen appeared from the tiller deck. “That was a reckless move, my friend,” he told Druss, “but it was well done. I like to see bravery in the men who fight alongside me.”

As the Ventrian moved on, counting the men who were left, Eskodas shivered. “I think we lost nearly thirty men,” he said.

“Twenty-seven,” said Druss.

Sieben crawled back to the edge of the deck and vomited into the sea. “Make that twenty-seven and a half,” Eskodas added.

4

T
HE YOUNG EMPEROR
climbed down from the battlement walls and strode along the quayside, his staff officers following; his aide, Nebuchad, beside him. “We can hold for months, Lord,” said Nebuchad, squinting his eyes against the glare from the Emperor’s gilded breastplate. “The walls are thick and high, and the catapults will prevent any attempt to storm the harbor mouth from the sea.”

Gorben shook his head. “The walls will not protect us,” he told the young man. “We have fewer than three thousand men here. The Naashanites have twenty times that number. Have you ever seen tiger ants attack a scorpion?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“They swarm all over it—that is how the enemy will storm Capalis.”

“We will fight to the death,” promised an officer.

Gorben halted and turned. “I know that,” he said, his dark eyes angry now. “But dying will not bring us victory, will it, Jasua?”

“No, Lord.”

Gorben strode on, along near-empty streets, past boarded, deserted shops and empty taverns. At last he reached the entrance to the Magister’s Hall. The City Elders had long since departed and the ancient building had become the headquarters of the Capalis militia. Gorben entered the hallway and stalked to his chambers, waving away his officers and the two servants who ran toward him—one bearing wine in a golden goblet, the second carrying a towel soaked with warm, scented water.

Once inside, the young Emperor kicked off his boots and hurled his white cloak across a nearby chair. There was one large window facing east, and before it was a desk of oak upon which were laid many maps, and reports from scouts and spies. Gorben
sat down and stared at the largest map; it was of the Ventrian Empire and had been commissioned by his father six years ago.