Gemmell, David – Drenai 06 – The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

It was dusk when he arrived at the house. He was tired, but the bone-weariness he had experienced for so long had faded. Sieben was not home. Druss lit a lantern and opened the rear door to the garden allowing the cool sea breeze to penetrate the house.

Removing his money-pouch; he counted out the twenty-four silver pennies he had earned thus far. Twenty was the equivalent of a single raq, and that was one month’s rent on the property. At this rate he would never earn enough to settle his debts. Old Thorn was right: he could make far more in the sand circle.

He recalled the bout with Borcha, the terrible pounding he had received. The memory of the punches he had taken was strong within him – but so too was the memory of those he had thundered into his opponent.

He heard the iron gate creak at the far end of the garden and saw a shadowly figure making his way towards the house. Moonlight glinted from the man’s bald pate, and he seemed colossal as he strode through the shadowed trees. Druss rose from his seat, his pale eyes narrowing.

Borcha halted just before the door. ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘are you going to invite me in?’

Druss stepped into the garden. ‘You can take your beating out here,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve not the money to pay for broken furniture.’

‘You’re a cocky lad,’ said Borcha amiably, stepping into the house and draping his green cloak across the back of a couch. Nonplussed, Druss followed him inside. The big man stretched out in a padded chair, crossing his legs and leaning his head back against the high back. ‘A good chair,’ he said. ‘Now how about a drink?’

‘What do you want here?’ demanded Druss, fighting to control his rising temper.

‘A little hospitality, farm boy. I don’t know about you, but where I come from we normally offer a guest a goblet of wine when he takes the trouble to call.’

‘Where I’m from,’ responded Druss, ‘uninvited guests are rarely welcome.’

‘Why such hostility? You won your wager and you fought well. Collan did not take my advice – which was to return your wife -and now he is dead. I had no part in the raid.’

‘And I suppose you haven’t been looking for me, seeking your revenge?’

Borcha laughed. ‘Revenge? For what? You stole nothing from me. You certainly did not beat me – nor could you. You have the strength but not the skill. If that had been a genuine bout I would have broken you, boy – eventually. However, you are quite right – I have been looking for you.’

Druss sat opposite the giant. ‘So Old Thorn told me. He said you were seeking to destroy me.’

Borcha shook his head and grinned. ‘The drunken fool misunderstood, boy. Now tell me, how old do you think I am?’

‘What? How in the name of Hell should I know?’ stormed Druss.

‘I’m thirty-eight, thirty-nine in two months. And yes, I could still beat Grassin, and probably all the others. But you showed me the mirror of time, Druss. No one lasts for ever – not in the sand circle. My day is over; my few minutes with you taught me that. Your day is beginning. But it won’t last long unless you learn how to fight.’

‘I need no instruction in that,’ said Druss.

‘You think not? Every time you throw a right-hand blow, you drop your left shoulder. All of your punches travel in a curve. And your strongest defence is your chin which, though it may appear to be made of granite, is in fact merely bone. Your footwork is adequate, though it could be improved, but your weaknesses are many. Grassin will exploit them; he will wear you down.’

‘That’s one opinion,’ argued Druss.

‘Don’t misunderstand me, lad. You are good. You have heart and great strength. But you also know how you felt after four minutes with me. Most bouts last ten times that long.’

‘Mine won’t.’

Borcha chuckled. ‘It will with Grassin. Do not let arrogance blind you to the obvious, Druss. They say you were a woodsman. When you first picked up an axe, did it strike with every blow?’