“Yes, I remember… the eldritch rhymes, the wizard spells, the ringing of sweet Elven bells. That one.”
“Precisely.”
“I prefer the grit and the reality of your earlier pieces: But came the day, when youth was worn away, and locks once thought of steel and fire, proved both ephemeral and unreal against the onslaught of the years. How wrong are the young to believe in secrets or enchanted woods.” He lapsed into silence.
“Do you know all my work?” asked Sieben, clearly astonished. Eskodas smiled. “After you performed at Corteswain I sought out your books of poetry. There were five, I think. I have two still - the earliest works.”
“I am at a loss for words.”
“That’ll be the day,” grunted Druss.
“Oh, be quiet. At last we meet a man of discernment on a ship full of rascals. Perhaps this voyage will not be so dreadful. So, tell me, Eskodas, what made you sign on for Ventria?”
“I like killing people,” answered Eskodas. Druss’s laughter bellowed out.
For the first few days the novelty of being at sea kept most of the mercenaries amused. They sat up on the deck during daylight hours, playing dice or telling stories. At night they slept under a tarpaulin that was looped and tied to the port and starboard rails. Druss was fascinated by the sea and the seemingly endless horizons. Berthed at Mashrapur The Thunderchild had looked colossal, unsinkable. But here on the open sea she seemed fragile as a flower stem in a river torrent. Sieben had grown bored with the voyage very swiftly. Not so Druss. The sighing of the wind, the plunging and the rising of the ship, the call of the gulls high above - all these fired the young axeman’s blood.
One morning he climbed the rigging to the giant cross-beam that held the mainsail. Sitting astride it he could see no sign of land, only the endless blue of the sea. A sailor walked along the beam towards him, barefooted, and using no hand-holds. He stood in delicate balance with hands on hips and looked down at Druss.
“No passengers should be up here,” he said.
Druss grinned at the young man. “How can you just stand there, as if you were on a wide road? A puff of breeze could blow you away.”
“Like this?” asked the sailor, stepping from the beam. He twisted in mid-air, his hands fastening to a sail rope. For a moment he hung there, then lithely pulled himself up alongside the axeman.
“Very good,” said Druss. His eye was caught by a silver-blue flash in the water below and the sailor chuckled.
“The gods of the sea,”he told the passenger. “Dolphins. If they are in the mood, you should see some wonderful sights.” A gleaming shape rose out of the water, spinning into the air before entering the sea again with scarcely a splash. Druss clambered down the rigging, determined to get a closer look at the sleek and beautiful animals performing in the water. High-pitched cries echoed around the ship as the creatures bobbed their heads above the surface.
Suddenly an arrow sped from the ship, plunging into one of the dolphins as it soared out of the water.
Within an instant the creatures had disappeared.
Druss glared at the archer while other men shouted at him, their anger sudden, their mood ugly.
“It was just a fish!” said the archer.
Milus Bar pushed his way through the crowd. “You fool!” he said, his face almost grey beneath his tan. “They are the gods of the sea; they come for us to pay homage. Sometimes they will even lead us through treacherous waters. Why did you have to shoot?”
“It was a good target,” said the man. “And why not? It was my choice.”
“Aye, it was, lad,” Milus told him, “but if our luck turns bad now it will be my choice to cut out your innards and feed them to the sharks.” The burly skipper stalked back to the tiller deck. The earlier good mood had evaporated now and the men drifted back to their pursuits with little pleasure.
Sieben approached Druss. “By the gods, they were wondrous,” said the poet. “According to legend, Asia’s chariot is drawn by six white dolphins.”
Druss sighed. “Who would have thought that anyone would consider killing one of them? Do they make good food, do you know?”
“No,” said Sieben. “In the north they sometimes become entangled in the nets and drown. I have known men who cooked the meat; they say it tastes foul, and is impossible to digest.”
“Even worse then,” Druss grunted.
“It is no different from any other kind of hunting for sport, Druss. Is not a doe as beautiful as a dolphin?”
“You can eat a doe. Venison is fine meat.”
“But most of them don’t hunt for food, do they? Not the nobles. They hunt for pleasure. They enjoy the chase, the terror of the prey, the final moment of the kill. Do not blame this man alone for his stupidity. He comes, as do we all, from a cruel world.”
Eskodas joined them. “Not very inspiring, was he?” said the bowman.
“Who?”
“The man who shot the fish.”
“We were just talking about it.”
“I didn’t know you understood the skills of archery,” said Eskodas, surprised.
“Archery? What are you talking about?”
“The bowman. He drew and loosed in a single movement. No hesitation. It is vital to pause and sight your
