The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (33 page)

“And now he haunts you?”

Varsava stood. “Aye, he haunts me. It was an evil deed, Druss.
But those were my orders and I carried them out as a Ventrian should. Immediately afterwards, I resigned my commission and left the army.” He glanced at Druss. “What would you have done in my place?”

“I would not be in your place,” said Druss, hoisting his pack to his shoulder.

“Imagine that you were. Tell me!”

“I would have refused.”

“I wish I had,” Varsava admitted, and the two men returned to the trail. They walked on in silence for a mile, then Varsava sat down beside the path. The mountains loomed around them, huge and towering, and a shrill wind was whistling through the peaks. High overhead two eagles were circling. “Do you despise me, Druss?” asked Varsava.

“Yes,” admitted Druss, “but I also like you.”

Varsava shrugged. “I do so admire a plain speaker. I despise myself sometimes. Have you ever done anything which shamed you?”

“Not yet, but I came close in Ectanis.”

“What happened?” asked Varsava.

“The city had fallen several weeks before, and when the army arrived the walls were already breached. I went in with the first assault and I killed many. And then, with the bloodlust on me, I forced my way into the main barracks. A child ran at me. He was carrying a spear, and before I could think about what I was doing I cut at him with my axe. He slipped, and only the flat of the blade caught him; he was knocked out. But I had tried to kill him. Had I succeeded it would not have sat well with me.”

“And that is all?”

“It is enough,” said Druss.

“You have never raped a woman? Or killed an unarmed man? Or stolen?”

“No. And I never shall.”

Varsava rose. “You are an unusual man, Druss. I think this world will either come to hate you or revere you.”

“I don’t much care which,” said Druss. “How far to this mountain city?”

“Another two days. We’ll camp in the high pines, where it will be cold but the air is wonderfully fresh. By the way, you haven’t told me yet why you offered to help me.”

“That’s true,” said Druss, with a grin. “Now let us find a campsite.”

They walked on, through a long pass which opened out on to a stand of pine trees and a wide, pear-shaped valley beyond. Houses dotted the valley, clustered in the main along both banks of a narrow river. Druss scanned the valley. “There must be fifty homes here,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Varsava. “Farmers mostly. Cajivak leaves them alone, for they supply him with meat and grain during the winter months. But it will be best if we make a cold camp in the trees, for Cajivak will have spies in the village, and I don’t want our presence announced.”

The two men moved out from the pass and into the shelter of the trees. The wind was less powerful there and they walked on, seeking a campsite. The landscape was similar to the mountains of home and Druss found himself once more thinking of days of happiness with Rowena. When he had set out with Shadak to find her, he had been convinced that only a matter of days separated them. Even on board ship he had believed his quest was almost over. But the months, and years, of pursuit had gnawed at his confidence. He knew he would never give up the hunt, but to what purpose? What if she were wed, or had children? What if she had found happiness without him? What then, as he walked back into her life?

His thoughts were broken by the sounds of laughter echoing through the trees. Varsava stopped and moved silently from the trail and Druss followed him. Ahead and to the left was a hollow through which ran a ribbon stream, and at the center of the hollow a group of men were throwing knives at a tree trunk. An old man was tied to the trunk, his arms spread. A blade had nicked the skin of his face, there were wounds to both arms, and a knife jutted from his thigh. It was obvious to Druss that the men were playing a game with the old man, seeing how close they could come with their knives. To the left of the scene three other men were struggling with a young girl, who screamed as they tore her dress and pushed her to the earth. As Druss loosed his pack and started down the slope, Varsava grabbed him. “What are you doing? There are ten of them!”

But Druss shrugged him off and strode through the trees to come up behind the seven knife-throwers. Intent as they were on their victim, they did not notice his approach. Reaching out, he
grabbed the heads of the two nearest knifemen and rammed them together; there followed a sickening crack and both men dropped without a murmur. A third man swung at the sound, but had no time to register surprise as a silver-skinned gauntlet slammed into his mouth, splintering teeth. Unconscious, the knifeman flew backwards to cannon into a comrade. A warrior leaped at Druss, thrusting his blade toward his belly, but Druss slapped the blade aside and hammered a straight left into the man’s chin. The remaining warriors ran at him, and a knife-blade slashed through his jerkin, ripping a narrow gash across his hip. Druss grabbed the nearest warrior, dragging him into a ferocious head butt, then swung and backhanded another attacker. The man cartwheeled across the hollow, struggled to rise, then sat back against a tree, having lost all interest in the fight.

Grappling with two men, Druss heard a bloodcurdling scream. His attackers froze. Druss dragged an arm free and struck the first of the men a terrible blow to the neck. The second released his hold on the axeman and sprinted from the hollow. Druss’s pale eyes scanned the area, seeking new opponents. But only Varsava was standing there, his huge hunting-knife dripping with blood. Two corpses lay beside him. Three other men Druss had struck lay where they had fallen, and the warrior he had backhanded was still sitting by the tree. Druss walked to where he sat, then hauled him to his feet. “Time to go, laddie!” said Druss.

“Don’t kill me!” pleaded the man.

“Who said anything about killing? Be off with you!”

The man tottered away on boneless legs as Druss moved to the old man tied to the tree. Only one of his wounds was deep. Druss untied him and eased him to the ground. Swiftly he dragged the knife clear of the man’s thigh as Varsava came alongside. “That will need stitching,” he said. “I’ll get my pack.”

The old man forced a smile. “I thank you, my friends. I fear they would have killed me. Where is Dulina?”

Druss glanced round, but the girl was nowhere in sight. “She was not harmed,” he said. “I think she ran when the fight started.” Druss applied a tourniquet to the thigh wound, then stood and moved back to check the bodies. The two men who had attacked Varsava were dead, as was one other, his neck broken. The remaining two were unconscious. Rolling them to their backs, Druss shook them awake and then pulled them upright. One of the men immediately sagged back to the ground.

“Who are you?” asked the warrior still standing.

“I am Druss.”

“Cajivak will kill you for this. Were I you, I would leave the mountains.”

“You are not me, laddie. I go where I please. Now pick up your comrade and take him home.”

Druss dragged the fallen warrior to his feet and watched as the two men left the hollow. When Varsava returned with his pack, a young girl was walking beside him. She was holding her ruined dress in place. “Look what I found,” said Varsava. “She was hiding under a bush.” Ignoring the girl, Druss grunted and moved to the stream, where he knelt and drank.

Had Snaga been with him, the hollow would now be awash in blood and bodies. He sat back and stared at the rippling water.

When the axe was lost Druss had felt as if a burden had been lifted from his heart. The priest back in Capalis had been right: it was a demon blade. He had felt its power growing as the battles raged, had enjoyed the soaring, surging bloodlust that swept over him like a tidal wave. But after the battles came the sense of emptiness and disenchantment. Even the spiciest food was tasteless; summer days seemed gray and colorless.

Then came the day in the mountains when the Naashanites had come upon him alone. He had killed five, but more than fifty men had pursued him through the trees. He had tried to traverse the cliff, but holding to the axe made his movements slow and clumsy. Then the ledge had given way and he had fallen, twisting and turning through the air. Even as he fell he hurled the axe from him, and tried to turn the fall into a dive; but his timing was faulty and he landed on his back, sending up a huge splash, the air exploding from his lungs. The river was in flood and the currents swept him on for more than two miles before he managed to grab a root jutting from the riverbank. Hauling himself clear he had sat, as now, staring at the water.

Snaga was gone.

And Druss felt free. “Thank you for helping my grandfather,” said a sweet voice and he turned and smiled.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Only a little,” said Dulina. “They hit me in the face.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve—almost thirteen.” She was a pretty child with large hazel eyes and light brown hair.

“Well, they’ve gone now. Are you from the village?”

“No. Grandfather is a tinker. We go from town to town; he sharpens knives and mends things. He’s very clever.”

“Where are your parents?”

The girl shrugged. “I never had any; only grandfather. You are very strong—but you are bleeding!”

Druss chuckled. “I heal fast, little one.” Removing his jerkin, he examined the wound on his hip. The surface skin had been sliced, but the cut was not deep.

Varsava joined them. “That should also be stitched,
great hero,”
he said, irritation in his voice.

Blood was still flowing freely from the wound. Druss stretched out and lay still while Varsava, with little gentleness, drew the flaps of skin together and pierced them with a curved needle. When he had finished, the bladesman stood. “I suggest we leave this place and head back for Lania. I think our friends will return before too long.”

Druss donned his jerkin. “What about the city and your thousand gold pieces?”

Varsava shook his head in disbelief. “This … escapade … of yours has put paid to any plan of mine. I shall return to Lania and claim my hundred gold pieces for locating the boy. As to you, well, you can go where you like.”

“You give up very easily, bladesman. So we cracked a few heads! What difference does that make? Cajivak has hundreds of men; he won’t interest himself in every brawl.”

“It is not Cajivak who concerns me, Druss. It is you. I am not here to rescue maidens or kill dragons, or whatever else it is that makes heroes of myth. What happens when we walk into the city and you see some … some hapless victim? Can you walk by? Can you hold fast to a plan of action that will see us succeed in our mission?”

Druss thought for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I will never walk by.”

“I thought not, damn you! What are you trying to prove, Druss? You want more songs about you? Or do you just want to die young?”

“No, I have nothing to prove, Varsava. And I may die young, but I’ll never look in a mirror and be ashamed because I let an old man suffer or a child be raped. Nor will I ever be haunted by
a peacemaker who died unjustly. Go where you will, Varsava. Take these people back to Lania. I shall go to the city.”

“They’ll kill you there.”

Druss shrugged. “All men die. I am not immortal.”

“No, just stupid,” snapped Varsava and, spinning on his heel, the bladesman strode away.

Michanek laid his bloody sword on the battlements and untied the chin-straps of his bronze helm, lifting it clear and enjoying the sudden rush of cool air to his sweat-drenched head. The Ventrian army was falling back in some disarray, having discarded the huge battering ram which lay outside the gate, surrounded by corpses. Michanek walked to the rear of the ramparts and yelled orders to a squad of men below.

“Open the gate and drag that damned ram inside,” he shouted. Pulling a rag from his belt, he wiped his sword clean of blood and sheathed it.

The fourth attack of the day had been repulsed; there would be no further fighting today. However, few of the men seemed anxious to leave the wall. Back in the city the plague was decimating the civilian population. No, he thought, it is worse than decimation. Far more than one in ten were now suffering the effects.

Gorben had not dammed the river. Instead he had filled it with every kind of corruption—dead animals, bloated and maggot-ridden, rotting food, and the human waste from an army of eleven thousand men. Small wonder that sickness had ripped into the population.

Water was now being supplied by artesian wells, but no one knew how deep they were or how long the fresh water would last. Michanek gazed up at the clear blue sky: not a cloud in sight, and rain had not fallen for almost a month.

A young officer approached him. “Two hundred with superficial wounds, sixty dead, and another thirty-three who will not fight again,” he said.

Michanek nodded, his mind elsewhere. “What news from the inner city, brother?” he asked.

“The plague is abating. Only seventy dead yesterday, most of them either children or old people.”

Michanek stood and smiled at the young man. “Your section fought well today,” he said, clapping his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I shall see that a report is placed before the Emperor
when we return to Naashan.” The man said nothing and their eyes met, the unspoken thought passing between them:
If
we return to Naashan. “Get some rest, Narin. You look exhausted.”

“So do you, Michi. And I was only here for the last two attacks—you’ve been here since before dawn.”

“Yes, I am tired.
Pahtai
will revive me; she always does.”

Narin chuckled. “I never expected love to last so long for you. Why don’t you marry the girl? You’ll never find a better wife. She’s revered in the city. Yesterday she toured the poorest quarter, healing the sick. It’s amazing; she has more skill than any of the doctors. It seems that all she needs to do is lay her hands upon the dying and their sores disappear.”

“You sound as if you’re in love with her yourself,” said Michanek.

“I think I am—a little,” admitted Narin, reddening. “Is she still having those dreams?”