The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (36 page)

In an instant she returned to Resha and her body. Pain flooded through her, and the weight of flesh sank down like a prison around her spirit. She felt the touch of Michanek’s hand, and all thoughts of the axeman dispersed like mist under the sun. She was suddenly happy, despite the pain. He had been so good to her, and yet …

“Are you awake?” he asked, his voice low. She opened her eyes.

“Yes. I love you.”

“And I you. More than life.”

“Why did we never wed?” she said, her throat dry, the words rasping clear. She saw him pale.

“Is that what you wish for? Would it make you well?”

“It would … make me … happy,” she told him.

“I will send for a priest,” he promised.

She found him on a grim mountainside where winter winds were howling through the peaks. He was frozen and weak, his limbs trembling, his eyes dull. “What are you doing?” she asked
.

“Waiting to die,” he told her
.

“That is no way for you to behave. You are a warrior, and a warrior never gives up.”

“I have no strength left.”

Rowena sat beside him and he felt the warmth of her arms around his shoulders, smelled the sweetness of her breath. “Be strong,” she said, stroking his hair. “In despair there is only defeat.”

“I cannot overcome cold stone. I cannot shine a light through the darkness. My limbs are rotting, my teeth shake in their sockets.”

“Is there nothing you would live for?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching for her. “I live for you! I always have. But I can’t find you.”

*   *   *

He awoke in the darkness amidst the stench of the dungeon and crawled to the door-stone grille, finding it by touch. Cool air drifted down the corridor and he breathed deeply. Torchlight flickered, burning his eyes. He squinted against it and watched as the jailer tramped down the corridor. Then the darkness returned. Druss’s stomach cramped and he groaned. Dizziness swamped him, and nausea rose in his throat.

A faint light showed and, rolling painfully to his knees, he pushed his face against the narrow opening. An old man with a wispy white beard kneeled outside the dungeon stone. The light from the tiny clay oil lamp was torturously bright, and Druss’s eyes stung.

“Ah, you are alive! Good,” whispered the old man. “I have brought you this lamp and an old tinderbox. Use it carefully. It will help accustom your eyes to light. Also I have some food.” He thrust a linen package through the door-stone and Druss took it, his mouth too dry for speech. “I’ll come back when I can,” said the old man. “Remember, only use the light once the jailer has gone.”

Druss listened to the man slowly make his way down the corridor. He thought he heard a door shut, but could not be sure. With unsteady hands he drew the lamp into the dungeon, placing it on the floor beside him. Then he hauled in the package and the small iron tinderbox.

Eyes streaming from the light, he opened the package to find there were two apples, a hunk of cheese, and some dried meat. When he bit into one of the apples it was unbearably delicious, the juices stinging his bleeding gums. Swallowing was almost painful, but the minor irritation was swamped by the coolness. He almost vomited, but held it down, and slowly finished the fruit. His shrunken stomach rebelled after the second apple, and he sat holding the cheese and the meat as if they were treasures of gems and gold.

While waiting for his stomach to settle he stared around at his tiny cell, seeing the filth and decay for the first time. Looking at his hands, he saw the skin was split and ugly sores showed on his wrists and arms. His leather jerkin had been taken from him and the woolen shirt was alive with lice. He saw the small hole in the corner of the wall from which the rats emerged.

And despair was replaced by anger.

Unaccustomed to the light, his eyes continued to stream. Removing
his shirt, he gazed down at his wasted body. The arms were no longer huge, the wrists and elbows jutting. But I am alive, he told himself. And I will survive.

He finished the cheese and half of the meat. Desperate as he was to consume it all, he did not know if the old man would come back, and he rewrapped the meat and pushed it into his belt.

Examining the workings of the tinderbox he saw that it was an old design, a sharp piece of flint that could be struck against the serrated interior, igniting the powdered tinder in the well of the box. Satisfied he could use it in the dark, he reluctantly blew out the lamp.

The old man did return—but not for two days. This time he brought some dried peaches, a hunk of ham, and a small sack of tinder. “It is important that you keep supple,” he told Druss. “Stretch out on the floor and exercise.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“I sat in that cell for years, I know what it is like. You must build your strength. There are two ways to do this, or so I found. Lie on your stomach with your hands beneath your shoulders and then, keeping the legs straight, push yourself up using only your arms. Repeat this as many times as you can manage. Keep count. Each day try for one more. Also you can lie on your back and raise your legs, keeping them straight. This will strengthen the belly.”

“How long have I been here?” asked Druss.

“It is best not to think of that,” the old man advised. “Concentrate on building your body. I will bring some ointments next time for those sores, and some lice powder.”

“What is your name?”

“Best you don’t know—in case they find the lamp.”

“I owe you a debt, my friend. And I always pay my debts.”

“You’ll have no chance of that—unless you become strong again.”

“I shall,” promised Druss.

When the old man had gone Druss lit the lamp and lay down on his belly. With his hands beneath his shoulders he forced his body up. He managed eight before collapsing to the filthy floor.

A week later it was thirty. And by the end of a month he could manage one hundred.

3

T
HE GUARD AT
the main gate narrowed his eyes and stared at the three riders. None was known to him, but they rode with casual confidence, chatting to one another and laughing. The guard stepped out to meet them. “Who are you?” he asked.

The first of the men, a slim blond-haired warrior wearing a baldric from which hung four knives, dismounted from his bay mare. “We are travelers seeking lodging for the night,” he said. “Is there a problem? Is there plague in the city?”

“Plague? Of course there’s no plague,” answered the guard, hastily making the sign of the Protective Horn. “Where are you from?”

“We’ve ridden from Lania, and we’re heading for Capalis and the coast. All we seek is an inn.”

“There are no inns here. This is the fortress of Lord Cajivak.”

The other two horsemen remained mounted. The guard looked up at them. One was slim and dark-haired, a bow slung across his shoulder and a quiver hanging from the pommel of his saddle. The third man wore a wide leather hat and sported no weapons save an enormous hunting-knife almost as long as a short sword.

“We can pay for our lodgings,” said the blond man with an easy smile. The guard licked his lips. The man dipped his hand into the pouch by his side and produced a thick silver coin which he dropped into the guard’s hand.

“Well … it would be churlish to turn you away,” said the guard, pocketing the coin. “All right. Ride through the main square, bearing left. You’ll see a domed building, with a narrow lane running down its eastern side. There is a tavern there. It’s a rough place, mind, with much fighting. But the keeper—Ackae—keeps rooms at the back. Tell him that Ratsin sent you.”

“You are most kind,” said the blond man, stepping back into the saddle.

As they rode in to the city the guard shook his head. Be unlikely to see them again, he thought, not with that much silver on them and not a sword between them.

The old man came almost every day, and Druss grew to treasure the moments. He never stayed long, but his conversation was brief, wise, and to the point. “The biggest danger when you get out is to the eyes, boy. They get too used to the dark, and the sun can blind them—permanently. I lost my sight for almost a month after they dragged me out. Stare into the lamp flame, close as you can, force the pupils to contract.”

Druss was now as strong as he would ever be in such a place, and last night he had told the man, “Do not come tomorrow, or the next day.”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking of leaving,” answered the Drenai. The old man had laughed. “I’m serious, my friend. Don’t come for two days.”

“There’s no way out. The door-stone alone requires two men to move it, and there are two bolts holding it in place.”

“If you are correct,” Druss told him, “then I will see you here in three days.”

Now he sat quietly in the dark. The ointments his friend had supplied had healed most of his sores, and the lice powder—while itching like the devil’s touch—had convinced all but the most hardy of the parasites to seek alternative accommodation. The food over the last months had rebuilt Druss’s strength, and his teeth no longer rattled in their sockets. Now was the time, he thought. There’ll never be a better.

Silently he waited through the long day.

At last he heard the jailer outside. A clay cup was pushed into the opening, with a hunk of stale bread by it. Druss sat in the dark, unmoving.

“Here is it, my black-bearded rat,” the jailer called.

Silence. “Ah well, suit yourself. You’ll change your mind before long.”

The hours drifted by. Torchlight flickered in the corridor and he heard the jailer halt. Then the man walked on. Druss waited for an hour, then he lit his lamp and chewed on the last of the meat the old man had left the night before. Lifting the lamp to his face he stared hard into the tiny flame, passing it back and forth before his eyes. The light didn’t sting as once it had. Blowing out
the light, he turned over on to his stomach, pushing himself through one hundred and fifty press raises.

He slept …

And awoke to the arrival of the jailer. The man knelt down at the narrow opening, but Druss knew he could not see more than a few inches into the dark. The food and water was untouched. The only question now was whether the jailer cared if his prisoner lived or died. Cajivak had threatened to have Druss dragged before him in order to plead for death. Would the Lord be pleased that his jailer had robbed him of such delights?

He heard the jailer curse, then move off back the way he had come. Druss’s mouth was dry, and his heart pounded. Minutes passed—long, anxious minutes. Then the jailer returned; he was speaking to someone.

“It’s not my fault,” he was saying. “His rations were set by the Lord himself.”

“So it’s
his
fault? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No! No! It’s nobody’s
fault
. Maybe he had a weak heart or something. Maybe he’s just sick. That’s it, he’s probably sick. We’ll move him to a bigger cell for a while.”

“I hope you’re right,” said a soft voice, “otherwise you’ll be wearing your own entrails for a necklace.”

A grating sound followed, then another, and Druss guessed the bolts were being drawn back. “All right, together now,” came a voice. “Heave!” The stone groaned as the men hauled it clear.

“Gods, but it stinks in there!” complained one of the guards as a torch was thrust inside. Druss grabbed the wielder by the throat, hauling him in, then he dived through the opening and rolled. He rose, but dizziness caused him to stagger and a guard laughed.

“There’s your dead man,” he said, and Druss heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. It was so hard to see—there were at least three torches, and the light was blinding. A shape moved toward him. “Back in your hole, rat!” said the guard. Druss leaped forward to smash a punch to the man’s face. The guard’s iron helm flew from his head as his body shot backwards, his head cannoning into the dungeon wall. A second guard ran in. Druss’s vision was clearing now and he saw the man aim a blow at his head. He ducked and stepped inside the blow, thundering his fist in the man’s belly. Instantly the guard folded, a great whoosh of air rushing from his lungs. Druss brought his clenched fist down on
the man’s neck, there was a sickening crack, and the guard fell to his face.