‘Choose wisely, and they may yet surprise you,’ advised Borcha.
‘Let us see the archers first,’ Bodasen ordered.
For more than an hour Bodasen watched the bowmen sending their shafts at targets stuffed with straw. When they had finished he selected five men, the youthful Eskodas among them. Each man was given a single gold raq, and told to report to The Thunderchild at dawn on the day of departure.
The swordsmen were more difficult to judge. At first he ordered them to fence with one another, but the warriors set about their task with mindless ferocity and soon several men were down with cuts, gashes, and one with a smashed collar-bone. Bodasen called a halt to the proceedings and, with Borcha’s help, chose ten. The injured men were each given five silver pieces.
The day wore on, and by noon Bodasen had chosen thirty of the fifty men he required to man The Thunderchild. Dismissing the remainder of the would-be mercenaries, he strode from the field with Borcha beside him.
‘Will you leave a place for Druss?’ asked the fighter.
‘No. I will have room only for men who will fight for Ventria. His quest is a personal one.’
‘According to Shadak he is the best fighting man in the city.’
‘I am not best disposed towards Shadak. Were it not for him the pirates would not be fighting Ventria’s cause.’
‘Sweet Heaven!’ snorted Borcha. ‘How can you believe that? Collan would merely have taken your money and given nothing in return.’
‘He gave me his word,’ said Bodasen.
‘How on earth did you Ventrians ever build an empire?’ enquired Borcha. ‘Collan was a liar, a thief, a raider. Why would you believe him? Did he not tell you he was going to give back Druss’s wife? Did he not lie to you in order for you to lure Druss into a trap? What kind of man did you believe you were dealing with?’
‘A nobleman,’ snapped Bodasen. ‘Obviously I was wrong.’
‘Indeed you were. You have just paid a gold raq to Eskodas, the son of a goat-breeder and a Lentrian whore. His father was hanged for stealing two horses and his mother abandoned him. He was raised in an orphanage run by two Source priests.’
‘Is there some point to this sordid tale?’ asked the Ventrian.
‘Aye, there is. Eskodas will fight to the death for you; he’ll not run. Ask him his opinion, and he’ll give an honest answer. Hand him a bag of diamonds and tell him to deliver it to a man a thousand leagues distant, and he will do so – and never once will he consider stealing a single gem.’
‘So I should hope,’ observed Bodasen. ‘I would expect no less from any Ventrian servant I employed. Why do you make honesty sound like a grand virtue?’
‘I have known rocks with more common sense than you,’ said Borcha, struggling to hold his temper.
Bodasen chuckled. ‘Ah, the ways of you barbarians are mystifying. But you are quite right about Druss – I was instrumental in causing him grievous wounds. Therefore I shall leave a place for him on The Thunderchild. Now let us find somewhere that serves good food and passable wine.’
*
Shadak, Sieben and Borcha stood with Druss on the quayside as dock-workers moved by them, climbing the gangplank, carrying the last of the ship’s stores to the single deck. The Thunderchild was riding low in the water, her deck crammed with mercenaries who leaned on the rail, waving goodbyes to the women who thronged the quay. Most were whores, but there were a few wives with small children, and many were the tears.
Shadak gripped Druss’s hand. ‘I wish you fair sailing, laddie,’ the hunter told him. ‘And I hope the Source leads you to Rowena.’
‘He will,’ said Druss. The axeman’s eyes were swollen, the lids discoloured – a mixture of dull yellow and faded purple – and there was a lump under his left eye, where the skin was split and badly stitched.
Shadak grinned at him. ‘It was a good fight. Grassin will long remember it.’
‘And me,’ grunted Druss.
Shadak nodded, and his smile faded. ‘You are a rare man, Druss. Try not to change. Remember the code.’