The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Six

Gorben leaned back in his chair as his servant, Mushran, carefully shaved the stubble from his chin. He glanced up at the old man. “Why do you stare so?” he asked.

“You are tired, my boy. Your eyes are red-rimmed and there are purple patches beneath them.”

Gorben smiled. “One day you will call me, “great Lord” or “my Emperor”. I live for that day, Mushran.”

The old man chuckled. “Other men can bestow upon you these titles. They can fall to the ground before you and bounce their brows from the stone. But when I look upon you, my boy, I see the child that was before the man, and the babe who was before the child. I prepared your food and I wiped your arse. And I am too old to crash my poor head to the stones every time you walk into a room. Besides, you are changing the subject. You need more rest.”

“Has it escaped your notice that we have been under siege for a month? I must show myself to the men; they must see me fight, or they will lose heart. And there are supplies to be organised, rations set - a hundred different duties. Find me some more hours in a day and I will rest, I promise you.”

“You don’t need more hours,” snapped the old man, lifting the razor and wiping oil and stubble from the blade. “You need better men. Nebuchad is a good boy - but he’s slow-witted. And Jasua…” Mushran raised his eyes to the ceiling. “A wonderful killer, but his brain is lodged just above his…”

“Enough of that!” said Gorben amiably. “If my officers knew how you spoke of them, they’d have you waylaid in an alley and beaten to death. Anyway, what about Bodasen?”

“The best of them - but let’s be fair, that isn’t saying much.”

Gorben’s reply was cut off as the razor descended to his throat and he felt the keen blade gliding up over his jawline and across to the edge of his mouth. “There!” said Mushran proudly. “At least you look like an Emperor now.”

Gorben stood and wandered to the window. The fourth attack was under way; it would be repulsed, he knew, but even from here he could see the huge siege-towers being dragged into place for tomorrow. He pictured the hundreds of men pulling them into position, saw in his mind’s eye the massive attack ramps crashing down on to the battlements, and heard the war-cries of the Naashanite warriors as they clambered up the steps, along the ramp, and hurled themselves on to the defenders. Naashanites? He laughed bitterly. Two-thirds of the enemy soldiers were Ventrians, followers of Shabag, one of the renegade Satraps. Ventrians killing Ventrians! It was obscene. And for what? How much richer could Shabag become? How many palaces could a man occupy at one time? Gorben’s father had been a weak man, and a poor judge of character, but for all that he had been an Emperor who cared for his people. Every city boasted a university, built from funds supplied by the Royal treasury. There were colleges where the brightest students could learn the arts of medicine, listen to lectures from Ventria’s finest herbalists. There were schools, hospitals, and a road system second to none on the continent. But his greatest achievement had been the forming of the Royal Riders, who could carry a message from one end of the Empire to another in less than twelve weeks. Such swift communication meant that if any satrapy suffered a natural disaster - plague, famine, flood - then help could be sent almost immediately.

Now the cities were either conquered or besieged, the death toll was climbing towards a mountainous total, the universities were closed, and the chaos of war was destroying everything his father had built. With great effort he forced down the heat of anger, and concentrated coolly on the problem facing him at Capalis.

Tomorrow would be a pivotal day in the siege. If his warriors held, then dismay would spread among the enemy. If not… He smiled grimly. If not we are finished, he thought. Shabag would have him dragged before the Naashanite Emperor. Gorben sighed.

“Never let despair enter your mind,” said Mushran. “There is no profit in it.”

“You read minds better than any seer.”

“Not minds, faces. So wipe that expression clear and I’ll fetch Bodasen.”

“When did he arrive?”

“An hour ago. I told him to wait. You needed the shave - and the rest.”

“In a past life you must have been a wonderful mother,” said Gorben. Mushran laughed, and left the room. Returning, he ushered Bodasen inside and bowed. “The general Bodasen, great Lord, my Emperor,” he said, then backed out, pulling shut the door behind him.

“I don’t know why you tolerate that man, Lord!” snapped Bodasen. “He is always insolent.”

“You wished to see me, general?”

Bodasen snapped to attention. “Yes, sir. Druss the Axeman came to see me last night, he has a plan concerning the siege-towers.”

“Go on.”

Bodasen cleared his throat. “He wants to attack them.”

Gorben stared hard at the general, observing the deep blush that was appearing on the warrior’s cheeks. “Attack them?”

“Yes, Lord. Tonight, under cover of darkness - attack the enemy camp and set fire to the towers.”

“You feel this is feasible?”

“No, Lord… well… perhaps. I watched this man attack a corsair trireme and force fifty men to throw down their weapons. I don’t know whether he can succeed this time, but…”

“I’m still listening.”

“We have no choice. They have thirty siege-towers, Lord. They’ll take the wall and we’ll not hold them.”

Gorben moved to a couch and sat. “How does he intend to set these fires? And what does he think the enemy will be doing while he does so? The timbers are huge, old, weathered. It will take a great flame to bring one of them down.”

“I appreciate that, Lord. But Druss says the Naashanites will be too busy to think of towers.” He cleared his throat. “He intends to attack the centre of the camp, kill Shabag and the other generals, and generally cause enough mayhem to allow a group of men to sneak out from Capalis and set fires beneath the towers.”

“How many men has he asked for?”

“Two hundred. He says he’s already chosen them.”

“He has chosen them?”

Bodasen glanced down at the floor. “He is a very… popular man, Lord. He has fought every day and he knows many of the men well. They respect him.”

“Has he chosen any officers?”

“Only one… Lord.”

“Let me guess. You?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And you are willing to lead this… insane venture?”

“I am, Lord.”

“I forbid it. But you can tell Druss that I agree, and that I will choose an officer to accompany him.”

Bodasen seemed about to protest, but he held his tongue, and bowed deeply. He backed to the door.

“General,” called Gorben.

“Yes, Lord?”

“I am well pleased with you,” said Gorben, not looking at the man. He walked out to the balcony and breathed the evening air. It was cool and flowing from the sea.

Shabag watched the setting sun turn the mountains to fire, the sky burning like the vaults of Hades, deep crimson, flaring orange. He shuddered. He had never liked sunsets. They spoke of endings, inconstancy - the death of a day.

The siege-towers stood in a grim line facing Capalis, monstrous giants promising victory. He gazed up at the first. Tomorrow they would be dragged to the walls, then the mouths of the giants would open, the attack ramps would drop to the ramparts like stiff tongues. He paused. How would one continue the analogy? He pictured the warriors climbing from the belly of the beast and hurling themselves on to the enemy. Then he chuckled. Like the breath of death, like a dragon’s fire? No, more like a demon disgorging acid. Yes, I like that, he thought.

The towers had been assembled from sections brought on huge wagons from Resha in the north. They had cost twenty thousand gold pieces, and Shabag was still angry that he alone had been expected to finance them. The Naashanite Emperor was a parsimonious man.

“We will have him tomorrow, sir?” said one of his aides. Shabag jerked his mind to the present and turned to his staff officers. The him was Gorben. Shabag licked his thin lips.

“I want him alive,” he said, keeping the hatred from his voice. How he loathed Gorben! How he despised both the man and his appalling conceit. A trick of fate had left him with a throne that was rightly Shabag’s. They shared the same ancestors, the kings of glory who had built an empire unrivalled in history. And Shabag’s grandfather had sat upon the throne. But he died in battle leaving only daughters surviving him. Thus had Gorben’s father ascended the golden steps and raised the ruby crown to his head.

And what happened then to the Empire? Stagnation. Instead of armies, conquest and glory, there were schools, fine roads and hospitals. And to what purpose? The weak were kept alive in order to breed more weaklings, peasants learned their letters and became obsessed with thoughts of betterment. Questions that should never have been voiced were debated openly in city squares: By what right do the noble families rule our lives? Are we not free men? By what right? By the right of blood, thought Shabag. By the right of steel and fire!

He thought back with relish to the day when he had surrounded the university at Resha with armed troops, after the students there had voiced their protests at the war. He had called out their leader, who came armed not with a sword, but with a scroll. It was an ancient work, written by Pashtar Sen, and the boy had read it aloud. What a fine voice he had. It was a well-written piece, full of thoughts of honour, and patriotism, and brotherhood. But then when Pashtar Sen had written it the serfs knew their places, the peasants lived in awe of their betters. The sentiments were outworn now.

He had allowed the boy to finish the work, for anything less would have been ill-mannered, and ill befitting a nobleman. Then he had gutted him like a fish. Oh, how the brave students ran then! Save that there was nowhere to run, and they had died in their hundreds, like maggots washed from a pus-filled sore. The Ventrian Empire was decaying under the old emperor, and the only chance to resurrect her greatness was by war. Yes, thought Shabag, the Naashanites will think they have won, and I will indeed be a vassal king. But not for long.

Not for long…

“Excuse me, sir,” said an officer and Shabag turned to the man.

“Yes?”

“A ship has left Capalis. It is heading north along the coast. There are quite a number of men aboard.”

Shabag swore. “Gorben has fled,” he announced. “He saw our giants and realised he could not win.” He felt a sick sense of disappointment, for he had been anticipating tomorrow with great expectation. He turned his eyes towards the distant walls, half expecting to see the Herald of Surrender. “I shall be in my tent. When they send for terms wake me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He strode through the camp, his anger mounting. Now some whore-born corsair would capture Gorben, maybe even kill him. Shabag glanced up at the darkening sky. I’d give my soul to have Gorben before me!” he said.

But sleep would not come and Shabag wished he had brought the Datian slave girl with him. Young innocent, and exquisitely compliant, she would have brought him sleep and sweet dreams.

He rose from his bed and lit two lanterns. Gorben’s escape - if he managed to avoid the corsairs - would prolong the war. But only by a few months, reasoned Shabag. Capalis would be his by tomorrow, and after that Ectanis would fall. Gorben would be forced to fall back into the mountains, throwing himself upon the mercy of the wild tribes who inhabited them. It would take time to hunt him down, but not too much. And the hunt might afford amusement during the bleak winter months.

He thought of his palace in Resha, deciding that after organising the surrender of Capalis he would return home for a rest. Shabag pictured the comforts of Resha, the theatres, the arena and the gardens. By now the flowering cherry trees would be in bloom by the lake, dropping their petals to the crystal waters, the sweet scent filling the air.

Was it only a month since he had sat by the lake with Darishan beside him, sunlight gleaming upon his braided silver hair?

“Why do you wear those gloves, cousin?” Darishan had asked, tossing a pebble into the water. A large golden fish flicked its tail at the sudden disturbance, then vanished into the depths.

“I like the feel of them,” answered Shabag irritated. “But I did not come here to discuss matters sartorial.”

Darishan chuckled. “Always so serious? We are on the verge of victory.”

“You said that half a year ago,” Shabag pointed out.

“And I was correct then. It is like a lion hunt, cousin. While he is in the dense undergrowth he has a chance, but once you have him on open ground, heading into the mountains, it is only a matter of time before he runs out of strength. Gorben is running out of strength and gold.”

“He still has three armies.”

“He began with seven. Two of them are now under my command. One is under yours, and one has been destroyed. Come, cousin, why the gloom?”

Shabag shrugged. “I want to see an end to the war, so I can begin to rebuild.”

“I? Surely you mean we?

“A slip of the tongue, cousin,” said Shabag swiftly, forcing a smile. Darishan leaned back on the marble seat and idly twisted one of his braids. Though not yet forty his hair was startlingly pale, silver and white, and braided with wires of gold and copper.

“Do not betray me, Shabag,” he warned. “You will not be able to defeat the Naashanites alone.”

“A ridiculous thought, Darishan. We are of the same blood - and we are friends.”

Darishan’s cold eyes held to Shabag’s gaze, then he too smiled. “Yes,” he whispered, “friends and cousins. I wonder where our cousin - and former friend - Gorben is hiding today.”

Shabag reddened. “He was never my friend. I do not betray my friends. Such thoughts are unworthy of you.”

“Indeed, you are right,” agreed Darishan, rising. “I must leave for Ectanis. Shall we have a small wager as to which of us conquers first?”

“Why not? A thousand in gold that Capalis falls before Ectanis.”

“A thousand - plus the Datian slave girl?”

“Agreed,” said Shabag, masking his irritation. “Take care, cousin.” The men shook hands.

“I shall.” The silver-haired Darishan swung away, then glanced back over his shoulder. “By the way, did you see the wench?”

“Yes, but she told me little of use. I think Kabuchek was swindled.”

“That may be true, but she saved him from the sharks and predicted a ship would come. She also told me where to find the opal brooch I lost three years ago. What did she tell you?”

Shabag shrugged. “She talked of my past, which was interesting, but then she could easily have been schooled by Kabuchek. When I asked her about the coming campaign she closed her eyes and took hold of my hand. She held it for maybe three heartbeats, then pulled away and said she could tell me nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing that made any sense. She said… ‘He is coming!’ She seemed both elated and yet, moments later, terrified. Then she told me not to go to Capalis. That was it.”

Darishan nodded and seemed about to speak. Instead he merely smiled and walked away.

Putting thoughts of Darishan from his mind, Shabag moved to the tent entrance. The camp was quiet. Slowly he removed the glove from his left hand. The skin itched, red open sores covering the surface as they had done since adolescence. There were herbal ointments and emollients that could ease them, but nothing had ever healed the diseased skin, nor fully removed the other sores that stretched across his back and chest, thighs and calves.

Slowly he peeled back the right-hand glove. The skin here was clean and smooth. This was the hand she had held.

He had offered Kabuchek sixty thousand gold pieces for her, but the merchant had politely refused. When the battle is over, thought Shabag, I shall have her taken from him.

Just as he was about to turn into the tent Shabag saw a line of soldiers marching slowly down towards the camp, their armour gleaming in the moonlight. They were moving in columns of twos, with an officer at the head; the man looked familiar, but he was wearing a plumed helm with a thick nasal guard that bisected his face. Shabag rubbed at his tired eyes to focus more clearly on the man; it was not the face but the walk that aroused his interest. One of Darishan’s officers, he wondered? Where have I seen him before?

Pah, what difference does it make, he thought suddenly, pulling shut the tent-flap. He had just blown out the first of the two lanterns when a scream rent the air. Then another. Shabag ran to the entrance, tearing aside the flap.

Warriors were running through his camp, cutting and killing. Someone had picked up a burning brand and had thrown it against a line of tents. Flames rippled across the bone-dry cloth, the wind carrying the fire to other tents.

At the centre of the fighting Shabag saw a huge warrior dressed in black, brandishing a double-headed axe. Three men ran at him, and he killed them in moments. Then Shabag saw the officer - and remembrance rose like a lightning blast from the halls of his memory.

Gorben’s soldiers surrounded Shabag’s tent. It had been set at the centre of the camp, with thirty paces of clear ground around it to allow the Satrap a degree of privacy. Now it was ringed by armed men.

Shabag was bewildered by the speed at which the enemy had struck, but surely, he reasoned, it would avail them nothing. Twenty-five thousand men were camped around the besieged harbour city. How many of the enemy were here? Two hundred? Three hundred? What could they possibly hope to achieve, save to slay Shabag himself? And how would that serve them, for they would die in the act?

Nonplussed, he stood - a still, silent spectator as the battle raged and the fires spread. He could not tear his eyes from the grim, blood-smeared axeman, who killed with such deadly efficiency, such a minimum of effort. When a horn sounded, a high shrill series of notes that flowed above the sounds of combat, Shabag was startled. The trumpeter was sounding the truce signal and the soldiers fell back, momentarily bewildered. Shabag wanted to shout at his men: “Fight on! Fight on!” But he could not speak. Fear paralysed him. The silent circle of soldiers around him stood ready, their blades shining in the moonlight. He felt that were he to even move they would fall upon him like hounds upon a stag. His mouth was dry, his hands trembling.

Two men rolled a barrel into view, up-ending it and testing the top. Then the enemy officer stepped forward and climbed on to the barrel, facing out towards the massed ranks of Shabag’s men. The Satrap felt bile rise in his throat.

The officer threw back his cloak. Armour of gold shone upon his breast and he removed his helm.

“You know me,” he bellowed, his voice rich and resonant, compelling. “I am Gorben, the son of the God King, the heir of the God King. In my veins runs the blood of Pashtar Sen, and Cyrios the Lord of Battles, and Meshan Sen, who walked the Bridge of Death. I am Gorben!” The name boomed out, and the men stood silently, spellbound. Even Shabag felt the goose-flesh rising on his diseased skin.

Druss eased back into the circle and stared out at the massed ranks of the enemy. There was a kind of divine madness about the scene which he found himself enjoying immensely. He had been angry when Gorben himself had appeared at the harbour to take command of the troops, and doubly so when the Emperor casually informed him there would be a change of plan.

“What’s wrong with the plan we have?” asked Druss.

Gorben chuckled, and, taking Druss’s arm, led him out of earshot of the waiting men. “Nothing is wrong with it, axeman - save for the objective. You seek to destroy the towers. Admirable. But it is not the towers that will determine success or failure in this siege; it is the men. So tonight we do not seek to hamper them, we seek to defeat them.”

Druss chuckled. “Two hundred against twenty-five thousand?”

“No. One against one.” He had outlined his strategy and Druss had listened in awed silence. The plan was audacious and fraught with peril. Druss loved it.

The first phase had been completed. Shabag was surrounded and the enemy were listening to Gorben speak. But now came the testing time. Success and glory or failure and death? Druss did not know, but he sensed that the strategy was now teetering on a razor’s edge. One wrong word from Gorben and the horde would descend upon them.

“I am Gorben!” roared the Emperor again. “And every man of you has been led into treachery by this… this miserable wretch here behind me.” He waved his hand contemptuously in the direction of Shabag. “Look at him! Standing like a frightened rabbit. Is this the man you would set upon the throne? It will not be easy for him, you know. He will have to ascend the Royal steps. How will he accomplish this with his lips fastened to a Naashanite arse?”

Nervous laughter rose from the massed ranks. “Aye, it is an amusing thought,” agreed Gorben, “or it would be were it not so tragic. Look at him! How can warriors follow such a creature? He was lifted to high position by my father; he was trusted; and he betrayed the man who had helped him, who loved him like a son. Not content with causing the death of my father, he has also done everything within his power to wreak havoc upon Ventria. Our cities burn. Our people are enslaved. And for why? So that this quivering rodent can pretend to be a king. So that he can creep on all fours to lie at the feet of a Naashanite goat-breeder.”

Gorben gazed out over the ranks. “Where are the Naashanites?” he called. A roar went up from the rear. “Ah yes,” he said, “ever at the back!” The Naashanties began to shout, but their calls were submerged beneath the laughter of Shabag’s Ventrians. Gorben raised his hands for silence. “No!” he bellowed. “Let them have their say. It is rude to laugh, to mock others because they do not have your skills, your understanding of honour, your sense of history. I had a Naashanite slave once - ran off with one of my father’s goats. I’ll say this for him, though - he picked a pretty one!” Laughter rose in a wall of sound and Gorben waited until it subsided.

“Ah, my lads,” he said at last. “What are we doing with this land we love? How did we allow the Naashanites to rape our sisters and daughters?” An eerie silence settled over the camp. “I’ll tell you how. Men like Shabag opened the doors to them. ‘Come in,’ he shouted, ‘and do as you will. I will be your dog. But please, please, let me have the crumbs that fall from your table. Let me lick the scrapings from your plates!’” Gorben drew his sword and raised it high as his voice thundered out. “Well, I’ll have none of it! I am the Emperor, anointed by the gods. And I’ll fight to the death to save my people!”

“And we’ll stand by you!” came a voice from the right. Druss recognised the caller. It was Bodasen; and with him were the five thousand defenders of Capalis. They had marched silently past the siege-towers while the skirmish raged and had crept up to the enemy lines while the soldiers listened to the voice of Gorben.

As Shabag’s Ventrians began to shift nervously, Gorben spoke again. “Every man here - save the Naashanites - is forgiven for following Shabag. More than this, I will allow you to serve me, to purge your crimes by freeing Ventria. And more than this, I shall give you each the pay that is owed you - and ten gold pieces for every man who pledges to fight for his land, his people and his Emperor.” At the rear the nervous Naashanites eased away from the packed ranks, forming a fighting square a little way distant.

“See them cower!” shouted Gorben. “Now is the time to earn your gold! Bring me the heads of the enemy!”

Bodasen forced his way through the throng. “Follow me!” he shouted. “Death to the Naashanites!” The cry was taken up, and almost thirty thousand men hurled themselves upon the few hundred Naashanite troops.

Gorben leapt down from the barrel and strode to where Shabag waited. “Well, cousin,” he said, his voice soft yet tinged with acid, “how did you enjoy my speech?”

“You always could talk well,” replied Shabag, with a bitter laugh.

“Aye, and I can sing and play the harp, and read the works of our finest scholars. These things are dear to me - as I am sure they are to you, cousin. Ah, what an awful fate it must be to be born blind, or to lose the use of speech, the sense of touch.”

“I am noble born,” said Shabag, sweat gleaming on his face. “You cannot maim me.”

“I am the Emperor,” hissed Gorben. “My will is the law!” Shabag fell to his knees. “Kill me cleanly, I beg of you… cousin!”

Gorben drew a dagger from the jewel-encrusted scabbard at his hip, tossing the weapon to the ground before Shabag. The Satrap swallowed hard as he lifted the dagger and stared with grim malevolence at his tormentor. “You may choose the manner of your passing,” said Gorben.

Shabag licked his lips, then held the point of the blade to his chest. “I curse you, Gorben,” he screamed. Then taking the hilt with both hands, he rammed the blade home. He groaned and fell back. His body twitched, and his bowels opened. “Remove… it,” Gorben ordered the soldiers close by. “Find a ditch and bury it.” He swung to Druss and laughed merrily. “Well, axeman, the deed is done.”

“Indeed it is, my Lord,” answered Druss.

“My Lord? Truly this is a night of wonders!”

At the edge of the camp the last of the Naashanites died begging for mercy, and a grim quiet descended. Bodasen approached the Emperor and bowed deeply. “Your orders have been obeyed, Majesty.”

Gorben nodded. “Aye, you have done well, Bodasen. Now take Jasua and Nebuchad and gather Shabag’s officers. Promise them anything, but take them into the city, away from their men. Interrogate them. Kill those who do not inspire your confidence.”

“As you order it, so shall it be,” said Bodasen.

Michanek lifted Rowena from the carriage. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and he smelt the sweetness of her breath. Tying the reins to the brake bar, Pudri scrambled down and gazed apprehensively at the sleeping woman.

“She is all right,” said Michanek. “I will take her to her room. You fetch the servants to unload the chests.” The tall warrior carried Rowena towards the house. A slave girl held open the door and he moved inside, climbing the stairs to a sunlit room in the eastern wing. Gently he laid her down, covering her frail body with a satin sheet and a thin blanket of lamb’s wool. Sitting beside her, he lifted her hand. The skin was hot and feverish; she moaned, but did not stir.

Another slave girl appeared and curtsied to the warrior. He rose. “Stay by her,” he ordered.

He found Pudri standing in the main doorway of the house. The little man looked disconsolate and lost, his dark eyes fearful. Michanek summoned him to the huge oval library, and bade him sit on a couch. Pudri slumped down, wringing his hands.

“Now, from the beginning,” said Michanek. “Everything.”

The eunuch looked up at the powerful soldier. “I don’t know, Lord. At first she seemed merely withdrawn, but the more the Lord Kabuchek made her tell fortunes the more strange she became. I sat with her and she told me the Talent was growing within her. At first she needed to concentrate her mind upon the subject, and then visions would follow - short, disjointed images. Though after a while no concentration was needed. But the visions did not stop when she released the hands of Lord Kabuchek’s… guests. Then the dreams began. She would talk as if she was old, and then in different voices. She stopped eating, and moved as if in a trance. Then, three days ago, she collapsed. Surgeons were called and she was bled, but to no avail.” His lip trembled and tears flowed to his thin cheeks. “Is she dying, Lord?”

Michanek sighed. “I don’t know, Pudri. There is a doctor here whose opinions I value. He is said to be a mystic healer; he will be here within the hour.” He sat down opposite the little man. He thought he could read the fear in the eunuch’s eyes. “No matter what happens, Pudri, you will have a place here in my household. I did not purchase you from Kabuchek merely because you are close to Rowena. If she… does not recover I will not discard you.”

Pudri nodded, but his expression did not change. Michanek was surprised. “Ah,” he said softly, “you love her, even as I do.”

“Not as you, Lord. She is like a daughter to me. She is sweet, without a feather’s weight of malice in her whole body. But such Talent as she has should not have been used so carelessly. She was not ready, not prepared.” He stood. “May I sit with her, Lord?”

“Of course.”

The eunuch hurried from the room and Michanek rose and opened the doors to the gardens, stepping through into the sunlight. Flowering trees lined the paths and the air was full of the scent of jasmine, lavender and rose. Three gardeners were working, watering the earth and clearing the flower-beds of weeds. As he appeared they stopped their work and fell to their knees, their foreheads pressed into the earth. “Carry on,” he said, walking past them and entering the maze, moving swiftly through it to the marble bench at the centre where the statue of the Goddess was set in the circular pool. Of white marble, it showed a beautiful young woman, naked, her arms held aloft, her head tilted back to stare at the sky. In her hands was an eagle with wings spread, about to fly.

Michanek sat and stretched out his long legs. Soon the story would spread all over the city. The Emperor’s champion had paid two thousand silver pieces for a dying seeress. Such folly! Yet, since the day he had first seen her, he had not been able to push her from his mind. Even on the campaign, while fighting against Gorben’s troops, she had been with him. He had known more beautiful women, but at twenty-five had found none with whom he wished to share his life.

Until now. At the thought that she might be dying, he found himself trembling. Recalling the first meeting, he remembered her prophecy that he would die in this city, in a last stand against black-cloaked troops.

Gorben’s Immortals. The Ventrian Emperor had re-formed the famous regiment, manning it with the finest of his fighters. Seven cities had been retaken by them, two of them after single combat between Gorben’s new champion, a Drenai axeman they called Deathwalker, and two Naashanite warriors, both known to Michanek. Good men, strong and brave, skilful beyond the dreams of most soldiers. Yet they had died.

Michanek had asked for the right to join the army and challenge this axeman. But his Emperor had refused. “I value you too highly,” said the Emperor.

“But, Lord, is this not my role? Am I not your champion?”

“My seers tell me that the man cannot be slain by you, Michanek. They say his axe is demon-blessed. There will be no more single-combat settlements; we will crush Gorben by the might of our armies.”

But the man was not being crushed. The last battle had been no more than a bloody draw, with thousands slain on both sides. Michanek had led the charge which almost turned the tide, but Gorben had withdrawn into the mountains, two of his general officers having been slain by Michanek.

Nebuchad and Jasua. The first had little skill; he had charged his white horse at the Naashanite champion, and had died with Michanek’s lance in his throat. The second was a canny fighter, fast and fearless - but not fast enough, and too fearless to accept that he had met a better swordsman. He had died with a curse on his lips.

“The war is not being won,” Michanek told the marble goddess. “It is being lost - slowly, day by day.” Three of the renegade Ventrian Satraps had been slain by Gorben; Shabag at Capalis; Berish, the fat and greedy sycophant, hanged at Ectanis; and Ashac, Satrap of the south-west, impaled after the defeat at Gurunur. Only Darishan, the silver-haired fox of the north, survived. Michanek liked the man. The others he had treated with barely concealed contempt, but Darishan was a warrior born. Unprincipled, amoral, but gifted with courage.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a man moving through the maze. “Where in Hades are you, lad?” came a deep voice.

“I thought you were a mystic, Shalatar,” he called. The response was both an obscenity and an instruction. “If I could do that,” replied Michanek, chuckling, “I could make a fortune with public performances.”

A bald, portly man in a long white tunic appeared and sat beside Michanek. His face was round and red and his ears protruded like those of a bat. “I hate mazes,” he said. “What on earth is the point of them? A man walks three times as far to reach a destination, and when he arrives there’s nothing there. Futile!”

“Have you seen her?” asked Michanek. Shalatar’s expression changed, and he turned his eyes from the warrior’s gaze. “Yes. Interesting. Why ever did you buy her?”

“That is beside the point. What is your prognosis?”

“She is the most talented seer I have ever known - but that Talent overwhelmed her. Can you imagine what it must be like to know everything about everyone you meet? Their pasts and their futures. Every hand you touch flashes an entire life and death into your mind. The influx of such knowledge - at such speed - has had a catastrophic effect on her. She doesn’t just see the lives, she experiences them, lives them. She became not Rowena but a hundred different people - including you, I might add.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I only touched her mind fleetingly, but your image was there.”

“Will she live?”

Shalatar shook his head. “I am a mystic, my friend, but not a prophet. I would say she has only one chance: we must close the doors of her talent.”

“Can you do this?”

“Not alone, but I will gather those of my colleagues with experience of such matters. It is not unlike the casting-out of demons. We must close off the corridors of her mind that lead to the source of her power. It will be expensive, Michanek.”

“I am a rich man.”

“You will need to be. One of the men I need is a former Source priest and he will ask for at least ten thousand in silver for his services.”

“He will have it.”

Shalatar laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You love her so dearly?”

“More than life.”

“Did she share your feelings?”

“No.”

“Then you will have a chance to start anew. For after we have finished she will have no memory. What will you tell her?”

“I don’t know. But I will give her love.”

“You intend to marry her?”

Michanek thought back to her prophecy. “No, my friend. I have decided never to marry.”

Druss wandered along the dark streets of the newly captured city, his head aching, his mood restless. The battle had been bloody and all too brief, and he was filled with a curious sense of anti-climax. He sensed a change in himself, unwelcome and yet demanding; a need for combat, to feel the axe crushing bone and flesh, to watch the light of life disappear from an enemy’s eyes.

The mountains of his homeland seemed an eternity from him, lost in some other time.

How many men had he slain since setting off in search of Rowena? He no longer knew, nor cared. The axe felt light in his hand, warm and companionable. His mouth was dry and he longed for a cool drink of water. Glancing up, he saw a sign proclaiming “Spice Street.” Here in more peaceful times traders had delivered their herbs and spices to be packed into bales for export to the west. Even now there was a scent of pepper in the air. At the far end of the street, where it intersected with the market square, was a fountain and beside it a brass pump with a long curved handle and a copper cup attached by a slender chain to an iron ring. Druss filled the cup, then resting the axe against the side of the fountain wall he sat quietly drinking. Every so often, though, his hand would drop to touch Snaga’s black haft.

When Gorben had ordered the last attack on the doomed Naashanites, Druss had longed to hurl himself into the fray, had felt the call of blood and the need to kill. It had taken all of his strength to resist the demands of his turbulent spirit. For the enemy in the keep had begged to surrender and Druss had known with certainty that such a slaughter was wrong. The words of Shadak came back to him:

“The true warrior lives by a code. He has to. For each man there are different perspectives, but at the core they are the same. Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into pursuit of evil.”

Numbering only a few hundred, the Naashanites had had no chance. But Druss still felt somehow cheated, especially when, as now, he recalled the warm, satisfying, triumphant surging of spirit during the fight in the camp of Harib Ka, or the blood-letting following his leap to the deck of the corsair trireme. Pulling clear his helm, he dipped his head into the water of the fountain pool and then stood, removed his jerkin and washed his upper body. Movement from his left caught his eye as a tall, bald man in robes of grey wool came into sight.

“Good evening, my son,” said the priest from the temple back in Capalis. Druss nodded curtly, then donned his jerkin and sat down. The priest made no move to walk on but stood gazing down at the axeman. “I have been looking for you these past months.”

“You have found me,” said Druss, his voice even.

“May I join you for a few moments?”

“Why not?” responded Druss, making room on the seat where the priest sat alongside the black-garbed warrior.

“Our last meeting troubled me, my son. I have spent many an evening in prayer and meditation since then; finally I walked the Paths of Mist to seek out the soul of your loved one, Rowena. This proved fruitless. I journeyed through the Void on roads too dark to speak of. But she was not there, nor did I find any souls who knew of her death. Then I met a spirit, a grossly evil creature, who in this life bore the name Earin Shad. A corsair captain also called Bojeeba, the Shark, he knew of your wife, for this was the ship that plundered the vessel on which she was sailing. He told me that when his corsairs boarded the ship a merchant named Kabuchek, another man and a young woman leapt over the side. There were sharks everywhere, and much blood in the water once the slaughter started on the deck.”

“I don’t need to know how she died!” snapped Druss.

“Ah, but that is my point,” said the priest. “Earin Shad believes that she and Kabuchek were slain. But they were not.”

“What?”

“Kabuchek is in Resha, building more fortunes. He has a seeress with him whom they call Pahtai, the little dove. I have seen her, in spirit. I read her thoughts; she is Rowena, your Rowena.”

“She is alive?”

“Yes,” said the priest softly.

“Sweet Heaven!” Druss laughed and threw his arms around the priest’s scrawny shoulders. “By the gods, you have done me a great service. I’ll not forget it. If ever there is anything you need from me, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, my son. I wish you well in your quest. But there is one more matter to discuss: the axe.”

“What about it?” asked Druss, suddenly wary, his hands reaching down to curl around the haft.

“It is an ancient weapon, and I believe that spells were cast upon the blades. Someone of great power, in the distant past, used sorcery to enhance the weapon.”

“So?”

“There were many methods. Sometimes the spell would merely involve the armourer’s blood being splashed upon the blades. At other times a binding spell would be used. This served to keep the edge keen, giving it greater cutting power. Small spells, Druss. Occasionally a master of the arcane arts would bring his skills to bear on a weapon, usually one borne by a king or lord. Some blades could heal wounds, others could cut through the finest armour.”

“As indeed can Snaga,” said Druss, hefting the axe. The blades glittered in the moonlight and the priest drew back. “Do not be frightened,” said Druss. “I’ll not harm you, man.”

“I do not fear you, my son,” the priest told him. “I fear what lives within those blades.”

Druss laughed. “So someone cast a spell a thousand years ago? It is still an axe.”

“Yes, an axe. But the greatest of spells was woven around these blades, Druss. An enchantment of colossal skill was used. Your friend Sieben told me that when you were attacking the corsairs a sorcerer cast a spell at you, a spell of fire. When you lifted your axe Sieben saw a demon appear, scaled and horned; he it was who turned back the fire.”

“Nonsense,” said Druss, “it bounced from the blades. You know, Father, you shouldn’t take a great deal of notice when Sieben speaks. The man is a poet. He builds his tales well, but he embroiders them, adds little touches. A demon indeed!”

“He needed to add no touches, Druss. I know of Snaga the Sender. For in finding your wife I also learned something of you, and the weapon you bear: Bardan’s weapon. Bardan the Slayer, the butcher of babes, the rapist, the slaughterer. Once he was a hero, yes? But he was corrupted. Evil wormed into his soul, and the evil came from that!” he said, pointing to the axe.

“I don’t believe it. I am not evil, and I have carried this axe for almost a year now.”

“And you have noticed no change in yourself? No lusting after blood and death? You do not feel a need to hold the axe, even when battle is not near? Do you sleep with it beside you?”

“It is not possessed!” roared Druss. “It is a fine weapon. It is my….” he stumbled to silence.

“My friend”? Is that what you were going to say?”

“What if I was? I am a warrior, and in war only this axe will keep me alive. Better than any friend, eh?” As he spoke he lifted the axe… and it slipped from his grip. The priest threw up his hands as Snaga plunged down towards his throat, but in that instant Druss’s left hand slammed into the haft, just as the priest pushed at the shining blades. The axe crashed to the stones, sending up a shower of sparks from the flints embedded in the paving slabs.

“God, I’m sorry. It just slipped!” said Druss. “Are you hurt?”

The priest rose. “No, it did not cut me. And you are wrong, young man. It did not slip; it wanted me dead, and had it not been for your swift response, so would I have been.”

“It was an accident, Father, I assure you.”

The priest gave a sad smile. “You saw me push away the blades with my hand?”

“Aye?” responded Druss, mystified.

“Then look,” said the priest, lifting his hand with the palm outward. The flesh was seared and blackened, the skin burned black, blood and water streaming from the wound. “Beware, Druss, the beast within will seek to kill any who threaten it.”

Druss gathered the axe and backed from the priest. “Look after that wound,” he said. Then he turned and strode away.

He was shocked by what he had seen. He knew little of demons and spells, save what the storytellers sang of when they had visited the village. But he did know the value of a weapon like Snaga - especially in an alien, war-torn land. Druss came to a halt and, lifting the axe, he gazed into his own reflection in the blades.

“I need you,” he said softly, “If I am to find Rowena and get her home.” The haft was warm, the weapon light in his hand. He sighed. “I’ll not give you up. I can’t. And anyway, damn it all, you are mine!”

You are mine! came an echo deep inside his mind. You are mine!