Free The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend by David Gemmell Page B

bench alongside him. “Might be a good idea to start again,” said the poet. “Let me buy you a jug of ale.”
    “I buy my own ale,” grunted the axeman. “And don’t sit so close.”
    Sieben stood and moved to the far side of the table, seating himself opposite the young man. “Is that more to your liking?” he asked, with heavy sarcasm.
    “Aye, it is. Are you wearing perfume?”
    “Scented oil on the hair. You like it?”
    The axeman shook his head, but refrained from comment. He cleared his throat. “My wife has been taken by slavers. She is in Mashrapur.”
    Sieben sat back and gazed at the young man. “I take it you weren’t home at the time,” he said.
    “No. They took all the women. I freed them. But Rowena wasn’t with them; she was with someone called Collan. He left before I got to the other raiders.”
    “Before you got to the other raiders?” repeated Sieben. “Isn’t there a little more to it?”
    “To what?”
    “How did you free the other women?”
    “What in Hell’s name does that matter? I killed a few of themand the rest ran away. But that’s not the point. Rowena wasn’t there—she’s in Mashrapur.”
    Sieben raised a slender hand. “Slow down, there’s a good fellow. Firstly, how does Shadak come into this? And secondly, are you saying that you singlehandedly attacked Harib Ka and his killers?”
    “Not singlehandedly. Shadak was there; they were going to torture him. Also I had two girls with me; good archers. Anyway, all that is past. Shadak said you could help me to find Rowena and come up with a plan to rescue her.”
    “From Collan?”
    “Yes, from Collan,” stormed the axeman. “Are you deaf or stupid?”
    Sieben’s dark eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “You have an appealing way of asking for help, my large and ugly friend. Good luck with your quest!” He rose and moved back through the throng, emerging into the late afternoon sunlight. Two men were lounging close to the entrance, a third was whittling a length of wood with a razor-sharp hunting knife.
    The first of the men moved in front of the poet; it was the warrior who had first lost money at the barrel head. “Get your emerald back, did you?”
    “No,” answered Sieben, still angry. “What a bumptious, ill-bred boor!”
    “Not a friend, then?”
    “Hardly. I don’t even know his name. More to the point, I don’t want to.”
    “It’s said you’re crafty with those knives,” said the warrior, pointing to the throwing-blades. “Is it true?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “Could be you’ll get the emerald back if you are.”
    “You plan to attack him? Why? As far as I could see, he carries no wealth.”
    “It’s not his wealth!” snapped the second warrior. Sieben stepped back as the man’s body odor reached him. “He’s a madman. He attacked our camp two days ago, stampeded our horses. Never did find my gray. And he killed Harib. Asta’s tits! He must have downed a dozen men with that cursed axe.”
    “If he killed a dozen, what makes you think that three of you can deal with him?”
    The noxious warrior tapped his nose. “Surprise. When hesteps out, Rafin will ask him a question. As he turns, Zhak and I will move in and gut him. But you could help. A knife through the eye would slow him up some, eh?”
    “Probably,” agreed Sieben, and he moved away several paces to seat himself on a hitching rail. He drew a knife from its sheath and began to clean his nails.
    “You with us?” hissed the first man.
    “We’ll see,” said Sieben.
    Druss sat at the table and gazed down at the shining blades of the axe. He could see his reflection there, cold-eyed and grim. The features were flat and sullen, the mouth a tight, angry line. He removed the black helm and laid it on the blades, covering the face in the axe.
    “Whenever you speak, someone gets angry.”
The words of his father drifted up from the halls of memory. And it was true. Some men had a knack for friendship, for easy chatter