Sieben’s father had been thrown aside – a useless husk, an empty, discarded shell of a man. While Sieben and his mother had almost starved, his father was sitting like a beggar outside the home of the Duchess. He sat there for a month, and finally cut his own throat with a rusty blade.
Stupid, stupid man!
But I am not stupid, thought Sieben as he climbed the steps. I am not like my father.
He glanced up to see two men walking down the steps towards him. They wore long cloaks that were drawn tightly across their bodies. Sieben paused in his climb. It was a hot morning, so why would they be dressed in such a manner? Hearing a sound, he turned to see another man climbing behind him. He also wore a long cloak.
Fear flared suddenly in the poet’s heart and, spinning on his heel, he descended towards the single man. As he neared the climber the cloak flashed back, a long knife appearing in the man’s hand. Sieben leapt feet first, his right boot cracking into the man’s chin and sending him tumbling down the steps. Sieben landed heavily but rose swiftly and began to run, taking the steps three at a time. He could hear the men behind him also running.
Reaching the bottom, he set off through the alleyways. A hunting horn sounded and a tall warrior leapt into his path with a sword in hand. Sieben, at full run, turned his shoulder into the man, barging him aside. He swerved right, then left. A knife sliced past his head to clatter against a wall.
Increasing his speed, he raced across a small square and into a side street. He could see the docks ahead. It was more crowded here and he pushed his way through. Several men shouted abuse, and a young woman fell behind him. He glanced back – there were at least half a dozen pursuers’.
Close to panic now, he emerged on to the quay. To his left he saw a group of men emerge from a side street; they were all carrying weapons and Sieben swore.
The Thunderchild was slipping away from the quayside as Sieben ran across the cobbles and launched himself through the air, reaching out to grab at a trailing rope. His fingers curled around it, and his body cracked against the ship’s timbers. Almost losing his grip, he clung to the rope as a knife thudded into the wood beside his head. Fear gave him strength and he began to climb.
A familiar face loomed above him and Druss leaned over, grabbing him by the shirt and hauling him on to the deck.
‘Changed your mind, I see,’ said the axeman. Sieben gave a weak smile and glanced back at the quay. There were at least a dozen armed men there now.
‘I thought the sea air would be good for me,’ said Sieben.
The captain, a bearded man in his fifties, pushed his way through to them. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘I can only carry fifty men. That’s the limit.’
‘He doesn’t weigh much,’ said Druss goodnaturedly.
Another man stepped forward. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and wore a dented breastplate, two short swords and a baldric boasting four knives. ‘First you keep us waiting, dogface, and now you bring your boyfriend aboard. Well, Kelva the Swordsman won’t sail with the likes of you.’
‘Then don’t!’ Druss’s left hand snaked out, his fingers locking to the man’s throat, his right slamming home into the warrior’s groin. With one surging heave Druss lifted the struggling man into the air and tossed him over the side. He hit with a great splash and came up struggling under the weight of his armour.
The Thunderchild pulled away and Druss turned to the captain. ‘Now we are fifty again,’ he said, with a smile.
‘Can’t argue with that,’ the captain agreed. He swung to the sailors standing by the mast. ‘Let loose the mainsail!’ he bellowed.
Sieben walked to the rail and saw that people on the quayside had thrown a rope to the struggling warrior in the water. ‘He might have friends aboard the ship,’ observed the poet.