The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (27 page)

“Have you ever seen it become solid?”

“No. And I have been a servant here for thirty-seven years.”

“Fascinating. What happened to Pashtar Sen?”

“He refused to fight for the Emperor and was impaled on a spike of iron.”

“Not a good ending.”

“Indeed not, but he was a man of principle and believed the Emperor to be in the wrong. Are you here to fight for Ventria?”

“No. We are visitors.”

The priest nodded and turned to Druss. “Your mind is far away, my son,” he said. “Are you troubled?”

“He has suffered a great loss,” said Sieben swiftly.

“A loved one? Ah, I see. Would you wish to commune with her, my son?”

“What do you mean?” growled Druss.

“I could summon her spirit. It might bring you peace.”

Druss stepped forward. “You could do that?”

“I could try. Follow me.” The priest led them into the shadowed recesses at the rear of the temple, then along a narrow corridor to a small, windowless room. “You must leave your weapons outside,” said the priest. Druss leaned Snaga against the wall, and Sieben hung his baldric of knives to the haft. Inside the room there were two chairs facing one another; the priest sat in the first, beckoning Druss to take the second. “This room,” said the priest, “is a place of harmony. No profane language has ever
been heard here. It is a room of prayer and kind thoughts. It has been so for a thousand years. Whatever happens, please remember that. Now give me your hand.”

Druss stretched out his arm and the priest took hold of his hand, asking who it was that he wished to call. Druss told him. “And your name, my son?”

“Druss.”

The man licked his lips and sat, eyes closed, for several minutes. Then he spoke. “I call to thee, Rowena, child of the mountains. I call to thee on behalf of Druss. I call to thee across the plains of Heaven, I speak to thee across the vales of Earth. I reach out to thee, even unto the dark places below the oceans of the world, and the arid deserts of Hell.” For a moment nothing happened. Then the priest stiffened and cried out. He slumped down in the chair, head dropping to his chest.

His mouth opened and a single word issued forth: “Druss!” It was a woman’s voice. Sieben was startled. He glanced at the axeman; all color faded from Druss’s face.

“Rowena!”

“I love you, Druss. Where are you?”

“In Ventria. I came for you.”

“I am here waiting. Druss! Oh no, everything is fading. Druss, can you hear …?”

“Rowena!” shouted Druss, storming to his feet. The priest jerked and awoke. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not find her.”

“I spoke to her,” said Druss, hauling the man to his feet. “Get her again!”

“I cannot. There was no one. Nothing happened!”

“Druss! Let him go!” shouted Sieben, grabbing Druss’s arm. The axeman released his hold on the priest’s robes and walked from the room.

“I don’t understand,” whispered the man. “There was nothing!”

“You spoke with the voice of a woman,” Sieben told him. “Druss recognized it.”

“It is most peculiar, my son. Whenever I commune with the dead I know their words. But it was as if I slept.”

“Do not concern yourself,” said Sieben, fishing in his money-pouch for a silver coin.

“I take no money,” said the man, with a shy smile. “But I am perplexed and I will think on what just happened.”

“I’m sure he will too,” said Sieben.

*   *   *

He found Druss standing by the altar, reaching out to the shimmering golden horn, his huge fingers trying to close around it. The axeman’s face was set in concentration, the muscles of his jaw showing through the dark beard.

“What are you doing?” asked Sieben, his voice gentle.

“He said it could bring back the dead.”

“No, my friend. He said that was the
legend
. There is a difference. Come away. We’ll find a tavern somewhere in this city, and we’ll drink.”

Druss slammed his hand down on to the altar, the golden horn apparently growing through the skin of his fist. “I don’t need to drink! Gods, I need to fight!” Snatching up the axe, the big man strode from the temple.

The priest appeared alongside Sieben. “I fear that, despite my good intentions, the result of my labor was not as I had hoped,” he said.

“He’ll survive, Father.” Sieben turned to the priest. “Tell me, what do you know of demon possession?”

“Too much—and too little. You think you are possessed?”

“No, not I. Druss.”

The priest shook his head. “Had he been so … afflicted … I would have sensed it when I touched his hand. No, your friend is his own man.”

Sieben sat down on a bench seat and told the priest what he had seen on the deck of the corsair trireme. The priest listened in silence. “How did he come by the axe?” he asked.

“Family heirloom, I understand.”

“If there is a demonic presence, my son, I believe you will find it hidden within the weapon. Many of the ancient blades were crafted with spells, in order to give the wielder greater strength or cunning. Some even had the power to heal wounds, so it is said. Look to the axe.”

“What if it is just the axe? Surely that will only help him in times of combat?”

“Would that were true,” said the priest, shaking his head. “But evil does not exist in order to serve, but to rule. If the axe is possessed it will have a history—a dark history. Ask him of its past. And when you hear it, and of the men who wielded it, you will understand my words.”

Sieben thanked the man and left the temple. There was no sign of Druss, and the poet had no wish to venture near the walls. He strolled through the nearly deserted city until he heard the sound of music coming from a courtyard nearby. He approached a wrought-iron gate and saw three women sitting in a garden. One of them was playing a lyre, the others were singing a gentle love song as Sieben stepped into the gateway.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, offering them his most dazzling smile. The music ceased and the three all gazed at him. They were young and pretty—the oldest, he calculated, around seventeen. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, full-lipped and slender. The other two were smaller, their hair blond, their eyes blue. They were dressed in shimmering gowns of satin, the dark-haired beauty in blue and the others in white.

“Have you come to see our brother, sir?” asked the dark-haired girl, rising from her seat and placing the lyre upon it.

“No, I was drawn here by the beauty of your playing and the sweet voices which accompanied it. I am a stranger here, and a lover of all things beautiful, and I can only thank the fates for the vision I find here.” The younger girls laughed, but the older sister merely smiled.

“Pretty words, sir, well phrased, and I don’t doubt well rehearsed. They have the smooth edges of weapons that have seen great use.”

Sieben bowed. “Indeed, my lady, it has been my pleasure and my privilege to observe beauty wherever I can find it; to pay homage to it; to bend the knee before it. But it makes my words no less sincere.”

She gave a full smile, then laughed aloud. “I think you are a rascal, sir, and a libertine, and in more interesting times I would summon a servant to see you from the premises. However, since we are at war and that makes for the dullest entertainment, I shall welcome you—but only for so long as you are entertaining.”

“Sweet lady, I think I can promise you entertainment enough, both in word and deed.” He was delighted that she did not blush at his words, though the younger sisters reddened.

“Such fine promises, sir. But then perhaps you would feel less secure in your boasting were you aware of the quality of entertainment I have enjoyed in the past.”

Now it was Sieben’s turn to laugh. “Should you tell me that
Azhral, the Prince of Heaven, came to your chambers and transported you to the Palace of Infinite Variety, then truly I might be mildly concerned.”

“Such a book should not be mentioned in polite company,” she chided.

He stepped closer and took her hand, raising it to his lips and turning it to kiss her palm. “Not so,” he said softly, “the book has great merit, for it shines like a lantern in the hidden places. It parts the veils and leads us to the paths of pleasure. I recommend the sixteenth chapter for all new lovers.”

“My name is Asha,” she said, “and your deeds will need to be as fine as your words, for I react badly to disappointment.”

“You were dreaming,
Pahtai
,” said Pudri as Rowena opened her eyes and found herself sitting in the sunshine beside the lake.

“I don’t know what happened,” she told the little eunuch. “It was as if my soul were dragged from my body. There was a room, and Druss was sitting opposite me.”

“Sadness gives birth to many visions of hope,” quoted Pudri.

“No, it was real, but the hold loosened and I came back before I could tell him where I was.”

He patted her hand. “Perhaps it will happen again,” he said reassuringly, “but for now you must compose yourself. The master is entertaining the great Satrap, Shabag. He is being sent to command the forces around Capalis and it is very important that you give him good omens.”

“I can offer only the truth.”

“There are many truths,
Pahtai
. A man may have only days to live, yet in that time will find great love. The seeress who tells him he is about to die will cause him great sorrow—but it will be the truth. The prophet who says that love is only a few hours away will also be telling the truth, but will create great joy in the doomed man.”

Rowena smiled. “You are very wise, Pudri.”

He shrugged and smiled. “I am old, Rowena.”

“That is the first time you have used my name.”

He chuckled. “It is a good name, but so is
Pahtai
; it means
gentle dove
. Now we must go to the shrine. Shall I tell you something of Shabag? Would it help your talent?”

She sighed. “No. Tell me nothing. I will see what there is to see—and I will remember your advice.”

Arm in arm they strolled into the palace, along the richly carpeted corridors, past the beautifully carved staircase that led to the upper apartments. Statues and busts of marble were set into recesses every ten feet on both sides of the corridor, and the ceiling above them was embellished with scenes from Ventrian literature, the architraves covered with gold leaf.

As they approached the shrine room, a tall warrior stepped out from a side door. Rowena gasped, for at first she took the man to be Druss. He had the same breadth of shoulder and jutting jaw, and his eyes beneath thick brows were startlingly blue. Seeing her, he smiled and bowed.

“This is Michanek,
Pahtai
. He is the champion of the Naashanite Emperor—a great swordsman and a respected officer.” Pudri bowed to the warrior. “This is the Lady Rowena, a guest of the Lord Kabuchek.”

“I have heard of you, lady,” said Michanek, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. His voice was low and vibrant. “You saved the merchant from the sharks, no mean feat. But now I have seen you I can understand how even a shark would wish to do nothing to mar your beauty.” Keeping hold of her hand, he smiled and moved in close. “Can you tell me my fortune, lady?”

Her throat was dry, but she met his gaze. “You will … you will achieve your greatest ambition, and realize your greatest hope.”

His eyes showed his cynicism. “Is that it, lady? Surely any street charlatan could say the same. How will I die?”

“Not fifty feet from where we stand,” she said. “Out in the courtyard. I see soldiers with black cloaks and helms, storming the walls. You will gather your men for a last stand outside these walls. Beside you will be … your strongest brother and a second cousin.”

“And when will this be?”

“One year after you are wed. To the day.”

“And what is the name of the lady I shall marry?”

“I will not say,” she told him.

“We must go, Lord,” said Pudri swiftly. “The Lords Kabuchek and Shabag await.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Rowena. I hope we will meet again.”

Rowena did not reply, but followed Pudri into the shrine room.

*   *   *

At dusk the enemy drew back, and Druss was surprised to see the Ventrian warriors leaving the walls and strolling back through the city streets. “Where is everyone going?” he asked the warrior beside him. The man had removed his helm and was wiping his sweat-streaked face with a cloth.

“To eat and rest,” the warrior answered.

Druss scanned the walls. Only a handful of men remained, and these were sitting with their backs to the ramparts. “What if there is another attack?” asked the axeman.

“There won’t be. That was the fourth.”

“Fourth?” queried Druss, surprised.

The warrior, a middle-aged man with a round face and keen blue eyes, grinned at the Drenai. “I take it that you are no student of strategy. Your first siege, is it?” Druss nodded. “Well, the rules of engagement are precise. There will be a maximum of four attacks during any twenty-four-hour period.”

“Why only four?”

The man shrugged. “It’s a long time since I studied the manual, but, as I recall, it is a question of morale. When Zhan Tsu wrote
The Art of War
he explained that after four attacks the spirit of the attackers can give way to despair.”

“There won’t be very much despair among them if they attack now—or after night falls,” Druss pointed out.

“They won’t attack,” said his comrade slowly, as if speaking to a child. “If a night attack was planned there would have only been three assaults during the day.”

Druss was nonplussed. “And these rules were written in a book?”

“Yes, a fine work by a Chiatze general.”

“And you will leave these walls virtually unmanned during the night because of a book?”

The man laughed. “Not the
book
, the rules of engagement. Come with me to the barracks and I’ll explain a little more.”

As they strolled, the warrior, Oliquar, told Druss that he had served in the Ventrian army for more than twenty years. “I was even an officer once, during the Opal Campaign. Damn near wiped out we were, so I got to command a troop of forty men. It didn’t last. The General offered me a commission, but I couldn’t afford the armor, so that was it. Back to the rankers. But it’s not a bad life. Comradeship, two good meals a day.”