The crossbow bolt had pierced cleanly, but it had also driven a tiny portion of his shirt into the wound, and this had caused the poison that drained his strength.
The wind was cool, and bats circled above the trees. Strength. Druss realised now just how much he had undervalued the awesome power of his body. One small bolt and a hastily thrust knife had reduced him to this shambling, weak shell. How, in this state, could he rescue Rowena?
Despair struck him like a fist under the heart. Rescue her? He did not even know where she was, save that thousands of miles now separated them. No Ventrian ships sailed, and even if they did he had no gold with which to purchase passage.
He gazed back at the house where golden light gleamed from Sieben’s window. It was a fine house, better than any Druss had ever visited. Shadak had arranged for them to rent the property, the owner being trapped in Ventria. But the rent was due. The surgeon had told him it would be two months before his strength began to return.
We’ll starve before then, thought Druss. Levering himself to his feet, he walked on to the high wall at the rear of the garden. By the time he reached it his legs felt boneless, his breath was coming in ragged gasps. The house seemed an infinite distance away. Druss struck out for it, but had to stop by the pond and sit at the water’s edge. Splashing his face, he waited until his feeble strength returned, then rose and stumbled to the rear doors. The iron gate at the far end of the garden was lost in shadow now. He wanted to walk there once more, but his will was gone.
As he was about to enter the building he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He swung, ponderously, and a man moved from the shadows.
“Good to see you alive, lad,” said Old Thorn.
Druss smiled. “There is an ornate door-knocker at the front of the house,” he said.
“Didn’t know as I’d be welcome,” the old man replied.
Druss led the way into the house, turning left into the large meeting room with its four couches and six padded chairs. Thorn moved to the hearth, lighting a taper from the dying flames of the fire, then touching it to the wick of a lantern set on the wall. “Help yourself to a drink,” offered Druss. Old Thorn poured a goblet of red wine, then a second which he passed to the young man.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight, lad, and you look like an old man,” said Thorn cheerfully.
“I’ve felt better.”
“I see Shadak spoke up for you with the magistrates. No action to be taken over the fight at the quay. Good to have friends, eh? And don’t worry about Calvar Syn.”
“Why should I worry about him?”
“Unpaid debt. He could have you sold into slavery - but he won’t. Soft, he is.”
“I thought Sieben had paid him. I’ll not be beholden to any man.”
“Good words, lad. For good words and a copper farthing you can buy a loaf of bread.”
“I’ll get the money to pay him,” promised Druss.
“Of course you will, lad. The best way - in the sand circle. But we’ve got to get your strength up first. You need to work - though my tongue should turn black for saying it.”
“I need time,” said Druss.
“You’ve little time, lad. Borcha is looking for you. You took away his reputation and he says he’ll beat you to death when he finds you.”
“Does he indeed?” hissed Druss, his pale eyes gleaming.
“That’s more like it, my bonny lad! Anger, that’s what you need! Right, well I’ll leave you now. By the way, they’re felling trees to the west of the city, clearing the ground for some new buildings. They’re looking for workers. Two silver pennies a day. It ain’t much, but it’s work.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“I’ll leave you to your rest, lad. You look like you need it.”
Druss watched the old man leave, then walked out into the garden once more. His muscles ached, and his heart was beating to a ragged drum. But Borcha’s face was fixed before his mind’s eye and he forced himself to walk to the gate and back.
Three times….
Vintar rose from his bed, moving quietly so as not to wake the four priests who shared the small room in the southern wing. Dressing himself in a long white habit of rough wool, he padded barefoot along the cold stone of the corridor and up the winding steps to the ancient battlements.
From here he could see the mountain range that separated Lentria from the lands of the Drenai. The moon was high, half full, the sky cloudless. Beyond the temple the trees of the forest shimmered in the spectral light.
“The night is a good time for meditation, my son,” said the Abbot, stepping from the shadows. “But you will need your strength for the day. You are falling behind in your sword work.” The Abbot was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who had once been a mercenary. His face bore a jagged scar from his right cheekbone down to his rugged jaw.
“I am not meditating, Father. I cannot stop thinking about the woman.”
“The one taken by slavers?”
“Yes. She haunts me.”
“You are here because your parents gave you into my custody, but you remain of your own free will. Should you desire to leave and find this girl you may do so. The Thirty will survive, Vintar.”
