“Do you have sugar?” asked the Seeker.
“No. We have a little honey. I will fetch it.”
After the meal was concluded the old man shuffled to the stream and cleaned his bowl, returning it to Sieben. “And now you wish to know the future?” asked the priest, with a crooked smile.
“That would be pleasant,” said Sieben.
“Not necessarily. Would you like to know the day of your death?”
“I take your point, old man. Tell me of the next beautiful woman who will share my bed.”
The old man chuckled. “A talent so large, yet men only require such infinitesimal examples of it. I could tell you of your sons, and of moments of peril. But no, you wish to hear of matters inconsequential. Very well. Give me your hand.”
Sieben sat opposite him and extended his right hand. The old man took it, and sat silently for several minutes. Finally he sighed. “I have walked the paths of your future, Sieben the Poet, Sieben the Saga-master. The road is long. The next woman? A whore in Mashrapur, who will ask for seven silver pennies. You will pay it.”
He released Sieben’s hand and turned his blind eyes towards Druss. “Do you wish your future told?”
“I will make my own future,” answered Druss.
“Ah, a man of strength and independent will. Come. Let me at least see, for my own interest, what tomorrow holds for you.”
“Come on, lad,” pleaded Sieben. “Give him your hand.”
Druss rose and walked to where the old man sat. He squatted down before him and thrust out his hand. The priest’s fingers closed around his own. “A large hand,” he said. “Strong… very strong.” Suddenly he winced, his body stiffening. “Are you yet young, Druss the Legend? Have you stood at the pass?”
“What pass?”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Of course. Seventeen. And searching for Rowena. Yes… Mashrapur. I see it now. Not yet the Deathwalker, the Silver Slayer, the Captain of the Axe. But still mighty.” He released his hold and sighed. “You are quite right, Druss, you will make your own future; you will need no words from me.” The old man rose and took up his staff. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
Sieben stood also. “At least tell us what awaits in Mashrapur,” he said.
“A whore and seven silver pennies,” answered the priest with a dry smile. He turned his blind eyes towards Druss. “Be strong, axeman. The road is long and there are legends to be made. But Death awaits, and he is patient. You will see him as you stand beneath the gates in the fourth Year of the Leopard.”
He walked slowly away. “Incredible,” whispered Sieben.
“Why?” responded Druss. “I could have foretold that the next woman you meet would be a whore.”
“He knew our names, Druss; he knew everything. Now, when is the fourth Year of the Leopard?”
“He told us nothing. Let’s move on.”
“How can you say that it was nothing? He called you Druss the Legend. What legend? How will you build it?”
Ignoring him, Druss walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. “I don’t like horses,” he said. “Once we reach Mashrapur I’ll sell it. Rowena and I will walk back.”
Sieben looked up at the pale-eyed young man. “It meant nothing to you, did it? His prophecy, I mean.”
“They were just words, poet. Noises on the air. Let’s ride.”
After a while Sieben spoke. “The Year of the Leopard is forty-three years away. Gods, Druss, you’ll live to be an old man. I wonder where the gates are.”
Druss ignored him and rode on.
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter Five
Bodasen threaded his way through the crowds milling on the dock, past the gaudily dressed women with their painted faces and insincere smiles, past the stallholders bellowing their bargains, past the beggars with their deformed limbs and their pleading eyes. Bodasen hated Mashrapur, loathed the smell of the teeming multitudes who gathered here seeking instant wealth. The streets were narrow and choked with the detritus of humanity, the houses built high - three-, four - and five-storey - all linked by alleyways and tunnels and shadowed pathways where robbers could plunge their blades into unsuspecting victims and flee through the labyrinthine back streets before the undermanned city guards could apprehend them.
What a city, thought Bodasen. A place of filth and painted women, a haven for thieves, smugglers, slavers and renegades.
A woman approached him. “You look lonely, my love,” she said, flashing a gold-toothed smile. He gazed down at her and her smile faded. She backed away swiftly and Bodasen rode on.
He came to a narrow alleyway and paused to push his black cloak above his left shoulder. The hilt of his sabre shone in the fading sunlight. As Bodasen walked on, three men stood in the shadows. He felt their eyes upon him and turned his face towards them, his stare challenging; they looked away, and he continued along the alley until it broadened out to a small square with a fountain at the centre, constructed around a bronze statue of a boy riding a
