Beyond these magnificent buildings they came to narrower streets, the homes close packed and tall, the roads of cobbled stone. Rabalyn stayed close to Skilgannon, Druss, and Braygan, and wondered how so many people could live in such a place without becoming lost. Roads met and intersected, flowing around the buildings like rivers. There were people everywhere, and many soldiers with bandaged wounds. Most of the shops were empty of produce, and people gathered in crowds to barter or beg for what food there was to be had.
The axman led them out along a broad avenue, and down through a long stretch of parkland. It must have been beautiful before the war, thought Rabalyn, for there were statues and pathways, and even a fountain at the center of a lake. Now, however, tents had been pitched on the grassy areas and hundreds of downcast and weary people were milling around them.
“They are so sad,” said Rabalyn. Brother Lantern glanced at him.
“They’d have been sadder still if they’d had better leaders,” he said.
“How can that be true?” asked the youth.
“Think on it a while,” replied the former priest.
They walked on for more than a mile, coming at last to a gated area, before which stood two tall guards, dressed in red cloaks and silver helms. One of them saw Druss and smiled. He was tall and slim, and sporting a black trident chin beard. “Surprised to see no one’s killed you yet, Axman,” he said.
“Heaven knows they’ve tried,” answered Druss, with a grin. “They just don’t breed them tough anymore. Milkmaids in armor now. Just like you, Diagoras.”
“Aye, you ancients always say things were better in the old days,” replied the man. “I don’t think it’s true, though. I reckon young warriors look at you and are reminded of their grandfathers. Then they can’t possibly fight you.”
“Maybe so,” agreed the axman. “At my age I’ll take any advantage I can get. Any word on Orastes?”
The guard’s expression changed, the smile fading. “Not exactly. His servant has been found. He’s alive, but barely. He was in the Arena dungeons. The Datians discovered him there when they opened the prisons.”
“In the dungeons? That makes no sense. Where is he now?”
“Being cared for at the White Palace,” Diagoras told him. “I’ll arrange a pass for you tomorrow. Where are you heading?”
“The Crimson Stag on West Quay. Do they still have food?”
“Aye, but not the menu they had. Things will ease now that the Datians have lifted the blockade. Six ships have already unloaded. Old Shivas will have been prowling the dock to restock his larders. I’ll come by after my watch and help you down a flagon or ten.”
“Ah, laddie,” chuckled Druss, “in your dreams. One sniff of a wine cork and youngsters like you slide under the table. However, you buy the wine, and I’ll teach you how it should be drunk.”
“Let’s say that the last person standing can forget the bill,” offered Diagoras.
“That’s what I did say.”
Rabalyn watched the exchange. As the two men spoke he saw the Drenai soldier’s eyes constantly flick toward Brother Lantern, who was standing some distance away, chatting to Braygan.
“Will your companions be traveling with you to the Crimson Stag?” asked Diagoras.
“Not all of us. The little priest is heading for the Street of Vines, and his church elders. Is there a problem?”
“The warrior with him. I have seen him before, Druss. I was stationed in Perapolis for two years. We left just before the end. The Naashanites granted the embassy and its staff safe passage through their lines. I saw the Damned as we rode through. Not a man I’d soon forget.” Druss glanced back at Brother Lantern.
“Maybe you are wrong.”
“I don’t believe so. I’ll let him through if you vouch for him.”
“Aye, I’ll do that. Best you report his presence to your superiors, though.”
Diagoras nodded and pushed open the gates. “I’ll see you after dark.”
“Bring enough coin to pay the bill.”
“I’ll bring a pillow too, so that your old head can rest on it as you sleep under the table.”
Druss clapped the man on the shoulder and strolled through the gates. Brother Lantern and Braygan followed him, Rabalyn bringing up the rear.
The light was fading as they reached a second set of gates, blocking the way across an arched bridge over a river. Here there were more guards, powerful men with blond beards and pale blue eyes. They were wearing long mail-ring tunics and horned helms.
Druss spoke to them, and once more the gates were opened. “The Street of Vines is across the bridge and the first turning on the left,” Druss told Braygan. “Your church building is a little way along.” The little priest thanked him, then swung to Brother Lantern, offering his hand. The warrior shook it.
“Thank you for all you have done for me, Brother,” said Braygan. “May the Source be with you on your travels.”
“I don’t think He likes my company,” answered Skilgannon, with a sigh. “Will you take your vows?”
“I think that I will. Then I will return to Skepthia, and try to be of service.” Braygan offered his hand to Rabalyn. “You are welcome to come with me,” he said. “The elders may know of the whereabouts of your parents. If not they can give you shelter while you try to find them.”
Rabalyn shook his head. “I don’t want to find them.”
“If you change your mind I shall be here for some days.” With that the little priest walked through the gates. He paused once on the bridge to look back and wave. And then he was gone.
10
* * *
The Crimson Stag Tavern was an old building, L-shaped and double storied, constructed close to the West Quay, overlooking the harbor and the sea beyond. It had long been the haunt of Drenai officials and soldiers stationed in the Embassy Quarter of the city. Such was its reputation for food, wine, and ale that even Vagrian officers used it. Normally the antipathy between soldiers of Vagria and Drenan would have precluded any such common ground. Though none now living could recall the Vagrian-Drenai wars, the ancient enmity between the peoples continued. Occasionally there were even border skirmishes.
There were, however, no fights at the Crimson Stag. Not one man from either camp would risk being barred by Shivas, the sour-faced owner. His cooking was as sublime as his temper was dark. Added to which his memory was known to be long indeed, and a man refused custom once would never be forgiven.
Druss and Skilgannon sat at a table overlooking the moonlit harbor. Despite the coming of night, ships were still being unloaded at the quayside, and wagons were drawn up to ferry food back out into the hungry city.
Skilgannon sat quietly watching the dockers. His heart was heavy. He had not expected to miss the little priest. Yet he did. Braygan was the last link to a gentle life Skilgannon had tried so hard to embrace.
“We are what we are, my son. And wolves is what we are.”
The tavern was filling up. By the far wall a group of Vagrian soldiers were drinking and laughing. Skilgannon glanced across at them. Many still wore their tunic-length mailshirts, and one still had on his horned helm of reinforced brass. Elsewhere soldiers and officials of other races were sitting quietly, some already eating, others enjoying a goblet of wine or a tankard of ale. “How many nations are stationed in the Embassy Quarter?” he asked the axman. Druss shrugged.
“Never counted them.” He glanced around the tavern. “Mostly I only know those from Lentria and Drenan. There must be more than twenty embassies. Even one from Chiatze.”
Druss lifted his wine goblet and drained it. Skilgannon looked at him. Without his helm and silver steel-reinforced jerkin the axman looked what he was—a powerful fifty-year-old man. He could have been a farmer or a stonemason. Save for the eyes. There was something deadly in that iron gaze. This was a man—as the Naashanites would say—who had looked into the eyes of the dragon. “Are you the Damned, laddie?” asked Druss, suddenly.
S
kilgannon took a deep breath, and met Druss’s gaze. “I am,” he replied.
“Do they lie when they talk of Perapolis?”
“No. There is not a lie that could make it any worse.”
Druss signaled a serving maid. The menu was not extensive and the axman ordered eggs and salt beef. He glanced at Skilgannon. “What are you eating?”
“The same will be fine.”
When the serving maid had departed, Druss refilled his goblet from a flagon and sat quietly, staring out of the window. “What are you thinking?” asked Skilgannon.
“I was thinking of old friends,” said Druss. “One in particular. Bodasen. Great swordsman. We fought side by side all across this land. No give in the man. A fine soldier and a true friend. I think of him often.”
“What happened to him?”
“I killed him at Skeln. Can’t change it. Can’t help regretting it. The boy tells me you were a priest for a while. Brother Lantern, I think he said.”
“A man should always try new things,” said Skilgannon.
“Don’t make light of it, laddie. Were you touched by faith, or haunted by guilt?”
“Probably more guilt than faith,” admitted Skilgannon. “Are you intending some subtle lecture at this point?”
Druss laughed, the sound unforced and full of genuine humor. “In all my long life no one has ever accused me of that, boy. A man who uses an ax doesn’t generally build a reputation for subtlety. You want me to lecture you?”
“No. There is nothing anyone could say to me that I haven’t already told myself.”
“Are you still with the Naashanite army?”
Skilgannon shook his head. “The queen wishes me dead. I am outlawed in Naashan. I’m told there is a large price on my head.”
“Then you are not here as a spy?”
“No.”
“Good enough.” Druss topped up his goblet. Skilgannon smiled.
“Rabalyn tells me you are to be involved in a drinking contest later. Shouldn’t you hold off on that wine?”
“A few sips to prepare the belly. This is Lentrian Red. I’ve not tasted a drop for two months. Are you not a drinker?”
Skilgannon shook his head. “It tends to make me argumentative.”
Druss nodded. “And a man with your skills can’t afford meaningless arguments. I understand that. I have heard tales of you and the Witch Queen. It is said you were her champion.”
“I was. We were friends once—in the days when she was hunted.”
“It is said you loved her.”
Skilgannon shook his head. “That doesn’t come close. Thoughts of her fill my waking hours and haunt my dreams. She is an extraordinary woman, Druss: courageous, clever, witty.” He fell silent for a moment. “Compliments like this fall so far short of the actuality that they seem like insults. I say she was courageous, but it does not paint the reality. I never met anyone more brave. At the Battle of Carsis, with the left in rout and the center crumbling, her generals advised her to flee the field. Instead she donned her armor and rode to the center where all could see her. She won the day, Druss. Against all the odds.”
“Sounds like you should have married her. Or did she not feel the same way toward you?”
Skilgannon shrugged. “She said she did. Who can know? But it was politics, Druss. Back in those dangerous days she needed allies. The only treasure she possessed then was her bloodline. Had we been wed she could never have gathered enough troops to win back her father’s throne. The princes and earls who fought under her banner all hoped to win her heart. She played them all.”
The meal arrived and the two men ate in silence. Finally, Druss pushed away his plate.
“You did not mention your own actions at Carsis. The story I heard was that you rallied the broken left flank and led a countercharge. It was that which turned the battle.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that story,” said Skilgannon. “It came about because men write the histories. They find it hard to praise a woman in a man’s world. I am a soldier, Druss. It is in my blood. Had Jianna not ridden to the front and given the men fresh courage, no action of mine would have made a jot of difference. Bokram’s forces had broken the left. Men were fleeing through the forest. When the queen arrived Bokram saw her, and pulled back half the cavalry giving chase on the left flank. He turned them back toward the center. It wasn’t a foolish move. Had he succeeded in killing Jianna, he could have hunted down the deserting warriors at his leisure. As it was I had a little time to regroup some of the fleeing men. And, yes, it was the counterattack that sundered Bokram’s army. Had the usurper had more courage, he would still have won the day. Such is the way of history, though. Ultimately the coward rarely succeeds.”
“The same is true in life,” said Druss. “So why does she now want you dead?”
Skilgannon spread his hands. “She is a hard woman, Druss.” He suddenly smiled and shook his head. “She doesn’t take well to disappointment. I left her service without her permission. She sent her lover to find me, to seek the return of a gift she made me. He came with a group of killers. I don’t know whether she ordered him to kill me. Perhaps not. In the end, though, it was her lover who lay dead. After that there was a price on my head.”
“Well, laddie, you’ve been a soldier and a priest. What now?”
“Have you ever heard of the Temple of the Resurrectionists?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I mean to find it. It is said they can work miracles. I need such a miracle.”
“Where is it?”
“I do not know, Druss. It could be in Namib, or the Nadir lands, or Shemak. It could be nowhere. Just a legend from the past. I shall find out.”
The far door opened. Skilgannon glanced round. “Ah, your drinking opponent has arrived,” he said, as the tall, young soldier with the trident beard strolled over to the table. “I’ll leave you to talk. I shall take a stroll and breathe in the sea air.”
Diagoras moved into the seat vacated by the Naashanite killer and glanced at the half-empty flagon of Lentrian Red. “I do believe you started without me, old fellow,” he said, lifting it and filling a goblet.
“You need all the help you can get, boy.”
Diagoras watched as the Naashanite left the tavern. “You are mixing with dark company, Druss. He is a butchering madman.”
“I have been called that myself,” Druss pointed out. “Anyway, I like him. He came to my aid a few days ago. An evil man would not have risked himself. And he helped a group of refugees against the Arena beasts. There’s more to Skilgannon than tales of butchery. Did you report his presence?”
“Yes. Gan Sentrin is unconcerned. It seems the Damned is no longer an officer of Naashan. The Witch Queen has put a price on his head. He is an outlaw.”
“Aye, he told me.” Druss settled back in his chair, then rubbed at his eyes. Diagoras thought he looked tired. There was more silver in his beard than there had been at Skeln. Time, as the poet once said, was a never-ending river of cruelty. Diagoras sipped his wine. He wanted to say more about the vile Skilgannon. He wanted to ask how a hero like Druss could find anything to like about him, but he knew Druss well enough to recognize when the older man was finished with a conversation. His gray eyes would become bleak, and his face harden. Diagoras understood this aspect of him well. In a world of shifting shades of gray Druss the Legend struggled to see everything in black or white. A man was good or evil in Druss’s eyes. It was, however, hard to comprehend how he could hold to that view in this case. Druss was no fool. Diagoras sat quietly. The wine was good, and he always enjoyed the company of the older axman. He may be naÏve in his view of life, thought Diagoras, but there was always a sense of certainty around him. It was reassuring. After a while he spoke again.
“Did you hear that Manahin is now serving in Abalayn’s government?” he asked. “One of the heroes of Skeln. He always has his campaign medal on his cloak.”
“He earned it,” replied Druss. “Where is yours??
??
“Lost it in a dice game a couple of years ago. To be honest, Druss, I lost too many friends there to want to be reminded of it. And I’m sick of people telling me they wish they could have been there with me. Damn, but I’d give a sack of gold not to have been there.”
“You’ll get no argument from me, laddie. I lost friends on both sides. It would be good to think it was all worthwhile.”
The comment shocked Diagoras. “Worthwhile? It kept us free.”
“Aye, it did. But because of it these eastern lands were plunged into war. It never ends, does it?” Druss drank deeply, then refilled his goblet. “Ah, don’t mind me, Diagoras. Sometimes the wine brings a darkness to my mind. What news of Orastes’s servant?”
“The surgeon gave him something to help him sleep. He was hard used, Druss, and greatly terrified. As far as we can ascertain he was in that dungeon around two months. It is likely Orastes was with him.”
“Imprisoned? It makes no sense. Why?”
“I can’t answer that. The situation here has been chaotic. No one knew what was going on. For the last few weeks we’ve kept all the Embassy Quarter gates locked. There have been riots, and murders, and hangings. The king went insane, Druss. Utterly. Word is that he ran around his own palace attacking his guards with a ceremonial sword, shouting that he was the god of war. He was cut down by his own general, Ironmask. That’s when the Tantrians surrendered and opened the gates to the Datians. Just as well, in the end. You know what would have happened had the city fallen by storm?”