The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter One

Varsava was enjoying the first sip of his second goblet of wine when the body hit the table. It arrived head-first, splintering the central board of the trestle table, striking a platter of meat and sliding towards Varsava. With great presence of mind the bladesman lifted his goblet high and leaned back as the body hurtled past to slam head-first into the wall. Such was the impact that a jagged crack appeared in the white plaster, but there was no sound from the man who caused it as he toppled from the table and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Glancing to his right, Varsava saw that the inn was crowded, but the revellers had moved back to form a circle around a small group struggling to overcome a black-bearded giant. One fighter - a petty thief and pickpocket Varsava recognised - hung from the giant’s shoulders, his arms encircling the man’s throat. Another was slamming punches into the giant’s midriff, while a third pulled a dagger and ran in. Varsava sipped his wine. It was a good vintage - at least ten years old, dry and yet full-bodied.

The giant hooked one hand over his shoulder, grabbing the jerkin of the fighter hanging there. Spinning, he threw the man into the path of the oncoming knifeman, who stumbled and fell into the giant’s rising boot. There followed a sickening crack and the knifeman slumped to the floor, either his neck or his jaw broken.

The giant’s last opponent threw a despairing punch at the black-bearded chin and the fist landed - to no effect. The giant reached forward and pulled the fighter into a head butt. The sound made even Varsava wince. The fighter took two faltering steps backwards, then keeled over in perfect imitation of a felled tree.

“Anyone else?” asked the giant, his voice deep and cold. The crowd melted away and the warrior strode through the inn, coming to Varsava’s table. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, slumping down to sit opposite the bladesman.

“It is now,” said Varsava. Lifting his hand he waved to a tavern maid and, once he had her attention, pointed to his goblet. She smiled and brought a fresh flagon of wine. The bench table was split down the centre, and the flagon sat drunkenly between the two men. “May I offer you some wine?” Varsava asked.

“Why not?” countered the giant, filling a clay goblet. A low moan came from behind the table.

“He must have a hard head,” said Varsava. “I thought he was dead.”

“If he comes near me again, he will be,” promised the man. “What is this place?”

“It’s called the All but One,” Varsava told him.

“An odd name for an inn?”

Varsava looked into the man’s pale eyes. “Not really. It comes from a Ventrian toast: may all your dreams - save one - come true.”‘

“What does it mean?”

“Quite simply that a man must always have a dream unfulfilled. What could be worse than to achieve everything one has ever dreamed of? What would one do then?”

“Find another dream,” said the giant.

“Spoken like a man who understands nothing about dreams.”

The giant’s eyes narrowed. “Is that an insult?”

“No, it is an observation. What brings you to Lania?”

“I am passing through,” said the man. Behind him two of the injured men had regained their feet; both drew daggers and advanced towards them, but Varsava’s hand came up from beneath the table with a huge hunting-knife glittering in his fist. He rammed the point into the table and left the weapon quivering there.

“Enough,” he told the would-be attackers, the words softly spoken, a smile upon his face. “Pick up your friend here and find another place to drink.”

“We can’t let him get away with this!” said one of the men, whose eye was blackened and swollen almost shut.

“He did get away with it, my friends. And if you persist in this foolishness, I think he will kill you. Now go away, I am trying to hold a conversation.” Grumbling, the men sheathed their blades and moved back into the crowd. “Passing through to where?” he asked the giant. The fellow seemed amused.

“You handled that well. Friends of yours?”

“They know me,” answered the bladesman, offering his hand across the table. “I am Varsava.”

“Druss.”

“I’ve heard that name. There was an axeman at the siege of Capalis. There’s a song about him, I believe.”

“Song!” snorted Druss. “Aye, there is, but I had no part in the making of it. Damn fool of a poet I was travelling with - he made it up. Nonsense, all of it.”

Varsava smiled. “They speak in hushed whispers of Druss and his axe, even demons will scatter when this man attacks.”

Druss reddened. “Asta’s tits! You know there’s a hundred more lines of it?” He shook his head. “Unbelievable!”

“There are worse fates in life than to be immortalised in song. Isn’t there some part of it about a lost wife? Is that also an invention?”

“No, that’s true enough,” admitted Druss, his expression changing as he drained his wine and poured a second goblet. In the silence that followed, Varsava leaned back and studied his drinking companion. The man’s shoulders were truly immense and he had a neck like a bull. But it was not the size that gave him the appearance of a giant, Varsava realised, it was more a power that emanated from him. During the fight he had seemed seven feet tall, the other warriors puny by comparison. Yet here, sitting quietly drinking, Druss seemed no more than a large, heavily muscled young man. Intriguing, thought Varsava.

“If I remember aright, you were also at the relief of Ectanis, and four other southern cities?” he probed. The man nodded, but said nothing. Varsava called for a third flagon of wine and tried to recall all he had heard of the young axeman. At Ectanis, it was said, he had fought the Naashanite champion, Cuerl, and been one of the first to scale the walls. And two years later he had held, with fifty other men, the pass of Kishtay, denying the road to a full legion of Naashanite troops until Gorben could arrive with reinforcements.

“What happened to the poet?” asked Varsava, searching for a safe route to satisfy his curiosity.

Druss chuckled. “He met a woman… several women, in fact. Last I heard he was living in Pusha with the widow of a young officer.” He laughed again and shook his head. “I miss him; he was merry company.” The smile faded from Druss’s face. “You ask a lot of questions?”

Varsava shrugged. “You are an interesting man, and there is not much of interest these days in Lania. The war has made it dull. Did you ever find your wife?”

“No. But I will. What of you? Why are you here?”

“I am paid to be here,” said Varsava. “Another flagon?”

“Aye, and I’ll pay for it,” promised Druss. Reaching out, he took hold of the huge knife embedded in the table and pulled it clear. “Nice weapon, heavy but well balanced. Good steel.”

“Lentrian. I had it made ten years ago. Best money I ever spent. You have an axe, do you not?”

Druss shook his head. “I had one once. It was lost.”

“How does one lose an axe?”

Druss smiled. “One falls from a cliff into a raging torrent.”

“Yes, I would imagine that would do it,” responded Varsava. “What do you carry now?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all? How did you cross the mountains to Lania without a weapon?”

“I walked.”

“And suffered no attacks from robbers? Did you travel with a large group?”

“I have answered enough questions. Now it is your turn. Who pays you to sit and drink in Lania?”

“A nobleman from Resha who has estates near here. While he was away fighting alongside Gorben, raiders came down from the mountains and plundered his palace. His wife and son were taken, his servants murdered - or fled. He has hired me to locate the whereabouts - if still alive - of his son.”

“Just the son?”

“Well, he wouldn’t want the wife back, would he?”

Druss’s face darkened. “He would - if he loved her.”

Varsava nodded. “Of course, you are a Drenai,” he said. “The rich here do not marry for love, Druss; they wed for alliances or wealth, or to continue family lines. It is not rare for a man to find that he does love the woman he has been told to marry, but neither is it common. And a Ventrian nobleman would find himself a laughing-stock if he took back a wife who had been - shall we say - abused. No, he has already divorced her; it is the son who matters to him. If I can locate him, I receive one hundred gold pieces. If I can rescue him, the price goes up to one thousand.”

Another flagon of wine arrived. Druss filled his goblet and offered the wine to Varsava, who declined. “My head is already beginning to spin, my friend. You must have hollow legs.”

“How many men do you have?” asked Druss.

“None. I work alone.”

“And you know where the boy is?”

“Yes. Deep in the mountains there is a fortress called Valia, a place for thieves, murderers, outlaws and renegades. It is ruled by Cajivak - you have heard of him?” Druss shook his head. “The man is a monster in every respect. Bigger than you, and terrifying in battle. He is also an axeman. And he is insane.”

Druss drank the wine, belched and leaned forward. “Many fine warriors are considered mad.”

“I know that - but Cajivak is different. During the last year he has led raids which have seen mindless slaughter that you would not believe. He has his victims impaled on spikes, or skinned alive. I met a man who served him for almost five years; that’s how I found out where the boy was. He said Cajivak sometimes speaks with a different voice, low and chilling, and that when he does so his eyes gleam with a strange light. And always - when such madness is upon him - he kills. It could be a servant or a tavern wench, or a man who looks up just as Cajivak’s eyes meet his. No, Druss, we are dealing with madness… or possession.”

“How do you intend to rescue the boy?”

Varsava spread his hands. “I was contemplating that when you arrived. As yet, I have no answers.”

“I will help you,” said Druss.

Varsava’s eyes narrowed. “For how much?”

“You can keep the money.”

“Then why?” asked the bladesman, mystified.

But Druss merely smiled and refilled his goblet.

Druss found Varsava an agreeable companion. The tall bladesman said little as they journeyed through the mountains and up into the high valleys far above the plain on which Lania sat. Both men carried packs, and Varsava wore a wide-brimmed brown leather hat with an eagle feather tucked into the brim. The hat was old and battered, the feather ragged and without sheen. Druss had laughed when first he saw it, for Varsava was a handsome man - his clothes immaculately styled from fine green wool, his boots of soft lambskin. “Did you lose a wager?” asked Druss.

“A wager?” queried Varsava.

“Aye. Why else would a man wear such a hat?”

“Ah!” said the bladesman. “I imagine that is what passes as humour among you barbarians. I’ll have you know that this hat belonged to my father.” He grinned. “It is a magic hat and it has saved my life more than once.”

“I thought Ventrians never lied,” said Druss.

“Only noblemen,” Varsava pointed out. “However, on this occasion I am telling the truth. The hat helped me escape from a dungeon.” He removed it and tossed it to Druss. “Take a look under the inside band.”

Druss did so and saw that a thin saw blade nestled on the right side, while on the left was a curved steel pin. At the front he felt three coins and slipped one clear; it was gold. “I take it all back,” said Druss. “It is a fine hat!”

The air was fresh and cool here and Druss felt free. It had been almost four years since he had left Sieben in Ectanis and journeyed alone to the occupied city of Resha, searching for the merchant Kabuchek and, through him, Rowena. He had found the house, only to discover that Kabuchek had left a month before to visit friends in the lands of Naashan. He had followed to the Naashanite city of Pieropolis, and there lost all traces of the merchant.

Back once more in Resha, he discovered that Kabuchek had sold his palace and his whereabouts were unknown. Out of money and supplies, Druss took employment with a builder in the capital who had been commissioned to rebuild the shattered walls of the city. For four months he laboured every day until he had enough gold to head back to the south.

In the five years since the victories at Capalis and Ectanis the Ventrian Emperor, Gorben, had fought eight major battles against the Naashanites and their Ventrian allies. The first two had been won decisively, the last also. But the others had been fought to stalemate, with both sides suffering huge losses. Five years of bloody warfare and neither side, as yet, could claim they were close to victory.

“Come this way,” said Varsava. “There is something I want you to see.”

The bladesman left the path and climbed a short slope to where a rusted iron cage had been set into the earth. Within the domed cage was a pile of mouldering bones, and a skull that still had vestiges of skin and hair clinging to it.

Varsava knelt down by the cage. “This was Vashad - the peacemaker,” he said. “He was blinded and his tongue cut out. Then he was chained here to starve to death.”

“What was his crime?” asked Druss.

“I have already told you: he was a peacemaker. This world of war and savagery has no place for men like Vashad.” Varsava sat down and removed his wide-brimmed leather hat.

Druss eased his pack from his shoulders and sat beside the bladesman. “But why would they kill him in such a fashion?” he asked.

Varsava smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes. “Do you see so much and know so little, Druss? The warrior lives for glory and battle, testing himself against his fellows, dealing death. He likes to see himself as noble, and we allow him such vanities because we admire him. We make songs about him; we tell stories of his greatness. Think of all the Drenai legends. How many concern peacemakers or poets? They are stories of heroes - men of blood and carnage. Vashad was a philosopher, a believer in something he called the nobility of man. He was a mirror, and when warmakers looked into his eyes they saw themselves - their true selves - reflected there. They saw the darkness, the savagery, the lust and the enormous stupidity of their lives. They could not resist killing him, they had to smash the mirror: so, they put out his eyes and they ripped out his tongue. Then they left him here… and here he lies.”

“You want to bury him? I’ll help with the grave.”

“No,” said Varsava sadly, “I don’t want to bury him. Let others see him, and know the folly of trying to change the world.”

“Did the Naashanites kill him?” asked Druss.

“No, he was killed long before the war.”

“Was he your father?”

Varsava shook his head, his expression hardening. “I only knew him long enough to put out his eyes.” He stared hard at Druss’s face, trying to read his reaction, then he spoke again. “I was a soldier then. Such eyes, Druss - large and shining, blue as a summer sky. And the last sight they had was of my face, and the burning iron that melted them.”

“And now he haunts you?”

Varsava stood. “Aye, he haunts me. It was an evil deed, Druss. But those were my orders and I carried them out as a Ventrian should. Immediately afterwards, I resigned my commission and left the army.” He glanced at Druss. “What would you have done in my place?”

“I would not be in your place,” said Druss, hoisting his pack to his shoulder.

“Imagine that you were. Tell me!”

“I would have refused.”

“I wish I had,” Varsava admitted, and the two men returned to the trail. They walked on in silence for a mile, then Varsava sat down beside the path. The mountains loomed around them, huge and towering, and a shrill wind was whistling through the peaks. High overhead two eagles were circling. “Do you despise me, Druss?” asked Varsava.

“Yes,” admitted Druss, “but I also like you.”

Varsava shrugged. “I do so admire a plain speaker. I despise myself sometimes. Have you ever done anything which shamed you?”

“Not yet, but I came close in Ectanis.”

“What happened?” asked Varsava.

“The city had fallen several weeks beforehand when the army arrived the walls were already breached. I went in with the first assault and I killed many. And then, with the bloodlust on me, I forced my way into the main barracks. A child ran at me. He was carrying a spear and before I could think about what I was doing I cut at him with my axe. He slipped, and only the flat of the blade caught him; he was knocked out. But I had tried to kill him. Had I succeeded it would not have sat well with me.”

“And that is all?”

“It is enough,” said Druss.

“You have never raped a woman? Or killed an unarmed man? Or stolen?”

“No. And I never shall.”

Varsava rose. “You are an unusual man, Druss. I think this world will either come to hate you or revere you.”

“I don’t much care which,” said Druss. “How far to this mountain city?”

“Another two days. We’ll camp in the high pines, where it will be cold but the air is wonderfully fresh. By the way, you haven’t told me yet why you offered to help me.”

“That’s true,” said Druss, with a grin. “Now let us find a campsite.”

They walked on, through a long pass which opened out on to a stand of pine trees and a wide pear-shaped valley beyond. Houses dotted the valley, clustered in the main along both banks of a narrow river. Druss scanned the valley. “There must be fifty homes here,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Varsava. “Farmers mostly. Cajivak leaves them alone, for they supply him with meat and grain during the winter months. But it will be best if we make a cold camp in the trees, for Cajivak will have spies in the village, and I don’t want our presence announced.”

The two men moved out from the pass and into the shelter of the trees. The wind was less powerful here and they walked on, seeking a camp-site. The landscape was similar to the mountains of home and Druss found himself once more thinking of days of happiness with Rowena. When he had set out with Shadak to find her, he had been convinced that only a matter of days separated them. Even on board ship he had believed his quest was almost over. But the months, and years, of pursuit had gnawed at his confidence. He knew he would never give up the hunt, but to what purpose? What if she were wed, or had children? What if she had found happiness without him? What then, as he walked back into her life?

His thoughts were broken by the sounds of laughter echoing through the trees. Varsava stopped and moved silently from the trail and Druss followed him. Ahead and to the left was a hollow through which ran a ribbon stream, and at the centre of the hollow a group of men were throwing knives at a tree-trunk. An old man was tied to the trunk, his arms spread. A blade had nicked the skin of his face, there were wounds to both arms and a knife jutted from his thigh. It was obvious to Druss that the men were playing a game wjth the old man, seeing how close they could come with their knives. To the left of the scene three other men were struggling with a young girl, who screamed as they tore her dress and pushed her to the earth. As Druss loosed his pack and started down the slope, Varsava grabbed him. “What are you doing? There are ten of them!”

But Druss shrugged him off and strode through the trees to come up behind the seven knife-throwers. Intent as they were on their victim, they did not notice his approach. Reaching out, he grabbed the heads of the two nearest knifemen and rammed them together; there followed a sickening crack and both men dropped without a murmur. A third man swung at the sound, but had no time to register surprise as a silver-skinned gauntlet slammed into his mouth, splintering teeth. Unconscious, the knifeman flew backwards to cannon into a comrade. A warrior leapt at Druss, thrusting his blade towards his belly, but Druss slapped the blade aside and hammered a straight left into the man’s chin. The remaining warriors ran at him, and a knife-blade slashed through his jerkin, ripping a narrow gash across his hip. Druss grabbed the nearest warrior, dragging him into a ferocious head butt, then swung and backhanded another attacker. The man cartwheeled across the hollow, struggled to rise, then sat back against a tree having lost all interest in the fight.

Grappling with two men, Druss heard a bloodcurdling scream. His attackers froze. Druss dragged an arm free and struck the first of the men a terrible blow to the neck. The second released his hold on the axeman and sprinted from the hollow. Druss’s pale eyes scanned the area, seeking new opponents. But only Varsava was standing there, his huge hunting-knife dripping blood. Two corpses lay beside him. Three other men Druss had struck lay where they had fallen, and the warrior he had backhanded was still sitting by the tree. Druss walked to where he sat, then hauled him to his feet. “Time to go, laddie!” said Druss.

“Don’t kill me!” pleaded the man.

“Who said anything about killing? Be off with you!”

The man tottered away on boneless legs as Druss moved to the old man tied to the tree. Only one of his wounds was deep. Druss untied him and eased him to the ground. Swiftly he dragged the knife clear of the man’s thigh as Varsava came alongside. That will need stitching,” he said. “I’ll get my pack.”

The old man forced a smile. “I thank you, my friends. I fear they would have killed me. Where is Dulina?”

Druss glanced round, but the girl was nowhere in sight. “She was not harmed,” he said. “I think she ran when the fight started.” Druss applied a tourniquet to the thigh wound, then stood and moved back to check the bodies. The two men who had attacked Varsava were dead, as was one other, his neck broken. The remaining two were unconscious. Rolling them to their backs, Druss shook them awake and then pulled them upright. One of the men immediately sagged back to the ground.

“Who are you?” asked the warrior still standing.

“I am Druss.”

“Cajivak will kill you for this. Were I you, I would leave the mountains.”

“You are not me, laddie. I go where I please. Now pick up your comrade and take him home.”

Druss dragged the fallen warrior to his feet and watched as the two men left the hollow. When Varsava returned with his pack, a young girl was walking beside him. She was holding her ruined dress in place. “Look what I found,” said Varsava. “She was hiding under a bush.” Ignoring the girl, Druss grunted and moved to the stream where he knelt and drank.

Had Snaga been with him, the hollow would now be awash in blood and bodies. He sat back and stared at the rippling water.

When the axe was lost Druss had felt as if a burden had been lifted from his heart. The priest back in Capalis had been right: it was a demon blade. He had felt its power growing as the battles raged, had enjoyed the soaring, surging blood-lust that swept over him like a tidal wave. But after the battles came the sense of emptiness and disenchantment. Even the spiciest food was tasteless; summer days seemed grey and colourless.

Then came the day in the mountains when the Naashanites had come upon him alone. He had killed five, but more than fifty men had pursued him through the trees. He had tried to traverse the cliff, but holding to the axe made his movements slow and clumsy. Then the ledge had given way and he had fallen, twisting and turning through the air. Even as he fell he hurled the axe from him, and tried to turn the fall into a dive; but his timing was faulty and he had landed on his back, sending up a huge splash, the air exploding from his lungs. The river was in flood and the currents swept him on for more than two miles before he managed to grab a root jutting from the river-bank. Hauling himself clear he had sat, as now, staring at the water.

Snaga was gone.

And Druss felt free. “Thank you for helping my grandfather,” said a sweet voice and he turned and smiled.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Only a little,” said Dulina. “They hit me in the face.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve - almost thirteen.” She was a pretty child with large hazel eyes and light brown hair.

“Well, they’ve gone now. Are you from the village?”

“No. Grandfather is a tinker. We go from town to town; he sharpens knives and mends things. He’s very clever.”

“Where are your parents?”

The girl shrugged. “I never had any; only grandfather. You are very strong - but you are bleeding!”

Druss chuckled. “I heal fast, little one.” Removing his jerkin, he examined the wound on his hip. The surface skin had been sliced, but the cut was not deep.

Varsava joined them. “That should also be stitched, great hero,” he said, irritation in his voice.

Blood was still flowing freely from the wound. Druss stretched out and lay still while Varsava, with little gentleness, drew the flaps of skin together and pierced them with a curved needle. When he had finished the bladesman stood. “I suggest we leave this place and head back for Lania. I think our friends will return before too long.”

Druss donned his jerkin. “What about the city and your thousand gold pieces?”

Varsava shook his head in disbelief. “This… escapade… of yours has put paid to any plan of mine. I shall return to Lania and claim my hundred gold pieces for locating the boy. As to you, well, you can go where you like.”

“You give up very easily, bladesman. So we cracked a few heads! What difference does that make? Cajivak has hundreds of men; he won’t interest himself in every brawl.”

“It is not Cajivak who concerns me, Druss. It is you. I am not here to rescue maidens or kill dragons, or whatever else it is that makes heroes of myth. What happens when we walk into the city and you see some… some hapless victim? Can you walk by? Can you hold fast to a plan of action that will see us succeed in our mission?”

Druss thought for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I will never walk by.”

“I thought not, damn you! What are you trying to prove, Druss? You want more songs about you? Or do you just want to die young?”

“No, I have nothing to prove, Varsava. And I may die young, but I’ll never look in a mirror and be ashamed because I let an old man suffer or a child be raped. Nor will I ever be haunted by a peacemaker who died unjustly. Go where you will, Varsava. Take these people back to Lania. I shall go to the city.”

“They’ll kill you there.”

Druss shrugged. “All men die. I am not immortal.”

“No, just stupid,” snapped Varsava and spinning on his heel, the bladesman strode away.

Michanek laid his bloody sword on the battlements and untied the chin-straps of his bronze helm, lifting it clear and enjoying the sudden rush of cool air to his sweat-drenched head. The Ventrian army was falling back in some disarray, having discarded the huge battering-ram which lay outside the gate, surrounded by corpses. Michanek walked to the rear of the ramparts and yelled orders to a squad of men below.

“Open the gate and drag that damned ram inside,” he shouted. Pulling a rag from his belt, he wiped his sword clean of blood and sheathed it.

The fourth attack of the day had been repulsed; there would be no further righting today. However, few of the men seemed anxious to leave the wall. Back in the city the plague was decimating the civilian population. No, he thought, it is worse than decimation. Far more than one in ten were now suffering the effects.

Gorben had not dammed the river. Instead he had filled it with every kind of corruption - dead animals, bloated and maggot-ridden, rotting food, and the human waste from an army of eleven thousand men. Small wonder that sickness had ripped into the population.

Water was now being supplied by artesian wells, but no one knew how deep they were or how long the fresh water would last. Michanek gazed up at the clear blue sky: not a cloud in sight, and rain had not fallen for almost a month.

A young officer approached him. “Two hundred with superficial wounds, sixty dead, and another thirty-three who will not fight again,” he said.

Michanek nodded, his mind elsewhere. “What news from the inner city, brother?” he asked.

“The plague is abating. Only seventy dead yesterday, most of them either children or old people.”

Michanek stood and smiled at the young man. “Your section fought well today,” he said, clapping his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I shall see that a report is placed before the Emperor when we return to Naashan.” The man said nothing and their eyes met, the unspoken thought passing between them: if we return to Naashan. “Get some rest, Narin. You look exhausted.”

“So do you, Michi. And I was only here for the last two attacks - you’ve been here since before dawn.”

“Yes, I am tired. Pahtai will revive me; she always does.”

Narin chuckled. “I never expected love to last so long for you. Why don’t you marry the girl? You’ll never find a better wife. She’s revered in the city. Yesterday she toured the poorest quarter, healing the sick. It’s amazing; she has more skill than any of the doctors. It seems that all she needs to do is lay her hands upon the dying and their sores disappear.”

“You sound as if you’re in love with her yourself,” said Michanek.

“I think I am - a little,” admitted Narin, reddening. “Is she still having those dreams?”

“No,” lied Michanek. “I’ll see you this evening.” He moved down the battlement steps and strode through the streets towards his home. Every other house, it seemed, boasted the white chalked cross denoting plague. The market was deserted, the stalls standing empty. Everything was rationed now, the food - four ounces of flour, and a pound of dried fruit - doled out daily from storehouses in the west and east.

Why don’t you marry her!

For two reasons he could never share. One: she was already wed to another, though she did not know it. And secondly, it would be like signing his death warrant. Rowena had predicted that he would die here, with Narin beside him, one year to the day after he was wed.

She no longer remembered this prediction either, for the sorcerers had done their work well. Her Talent was lost to her, and all the memories of her youth in the lands of the Drenai. Michanek felt no guilt over this. Her Talent had been tearing her apart and now, at least, she smiled and was happy. Only Pudri knew the whole truth, and he was wise enough to stay silent.

Michanek turned up the Avenue of Laurels and pushed open the gates of his house. There were no gardeners now, and the flower-beds were choked with weeds. The fountain was no longer in operation, the fish-pool dry and cracked. As he strode to the house, Pudri came running out to him.

“Master, come quickly, it is the Pahtair’

“What has happened?” cried Michanek, grabbing the little man by his tunic.

“The plague, master,” he whispered, tears in his dark eyes. “It is the plague.”

Varsava found a cave nestling against the rock-face to the north; it was deep and narrow, and curled like a figure six. He built a small fire near the back wall, below a split in the rock that created a natural chimney. The old man, whom Druss had carried to the cave, had fallen into a deep, healing sleep with the child, Dulina, alongside him. Having walked from the cave to check whether the glare of the fire could be seen from outside, Varsava was now sitting in the cave-mouth staring out over the night-dark woods.

Druss joined him. “Why so angry, bladesman?” he asked. “Do you not feel some satisfaction at having rescued them?”

“None at all,” replied Varsava. “But then no one ever made a song about me. I look after myself.”

“That does not explain your anger.”

“Nor could I explain it in any way that would be understood by your simple mind. Borza’s Blood!” He rounded on Druss. “The world is such a mind-numbingly uncomplicated place for you, Druss. There is good, and there is evil. Does it ever occur to you that there may be a vast area in between that is neither pure nor malevolent? Of course it doesn’t! Take today as an example. The old man could have been a vicious sorcerer who drank the blood of innocent babes; the men punishing him could have been the fathers of those babes. You didn’t know, you just roared in and downed them.” Varsava shook his head and took a deep breath.

“You are wrong,” said Druss softly. “I have heard the arguments before, from Sieben and Bodasen - and others. I will agree that I am a simple man. I can scarcely read more than my name, and I do not understand complicated arguments. But I am not blind. The man tied to the tree wore homespun clothes, old clothes; the child was dressed in like manner. These were not rich, as a sorcerer would be. And did you listen to the laughter of the knife-throwers? It was harsh, cruel. These were not farmers; their clothes were bought, their boots and shoes of good leather. They were scoundrels.”

“Maybe they were,” agreed Varsava, “but what business was it of yours? Will you criss-cross the world seeking to right wrongs and protect the innocent? Is this your ambition in life?”

“No,” said Druss, “though it would not be a bad ambition.” He fell silent for several minutes, lost in thought. Shadak had given him a code, and impressed upon him that without such an iron discipline he would soon become as evil as any other reaver. Added to this there was Bress, his father, who had lived his whole life bearing the terrible burden of being the son of Bardan. And lastly there was Bardan himself, driven by a demon to become one of the most hated and vilified villains in history. The lives, the words and deeds of these three men had created the warrior who now sat beside Varsava. But Druss had no words to explain, and it surprised him that he desired them; he had never felt the need to explain to Sieben or Bodasen. “I had no choice,” he said at last.

“No choice?” echoed Varsava. “Why?”

“Because I was there. There wasn’t anyone else.”

Feeling Varsava’s eyes upon him, and seeing the look of blank incomprehension, Druss turned away and stared at the night sky. It made no sense, he knew that, but he also knew that he felt good for having rescued the girl and the old man. It might make no sense, but it was right.

Varsava rose and moved back to the rear of the cave, leaving Druss alone. A cold wind whispered across the mountainside, and Druss could smell the coming of rain. He remembered another cold night, many years before, when he and Bress had been camped in the mountains of Lentria. Druss was very young, seven or eight, and he was unhappy. Some men had shouted at his father, and gathered outside the workshop that Bress had set up in a small village. He had expected his father to rush out and thrash them but instead, as night fell, he had gathered a few belongings and led the boy out into the mountains.

“Why are we running away?” he had asked Bress.

“Because they will talk a lot, and then come back to burn us out.”

“You should have killed them,” said the boy.

“That would have been no answer,” snapped Bress. “Mostly they are good men, but they are frightened. We will find somewhere where no one knows of Bardan.”

“I won’t run away, not ever,” declared the boy and Bress had sighed. Just then a man approached the camp-fire. He was old and bald, his clothes ragged, but his eyes were bright and shrewd.

“May I share your fire?” he asked and mess had welcomed him, offering some dried meat and a herb tisane which the man accepted gratefully. Druss had fallen asleep as the two men talked, but had woken several hours later. Bress was asleep, but the old man was sitting by the fire feeding the flames with twigs. Druss rose from his blankets and walked to sit alongside him.

“Frightened of the dark, boy?”

“I am frightened of nothing,” Druss told him.

“That’s good,” said the old man, “but I am. Frightened of the dark, frightened of starvation, frightened of dying. All my life I’ve been frightened of something or other.”

“Why?” asked the boy, intrigued.

The old man laughed. “Now there’s a question! Wish I could answer it.” As he picked up a handful of twigs and reached out, dropping them to the dying flames, Druss saw his right arm was criss-crossed with scars.

“How did you get them?” asked the boy.

“Been a soldier most of my life, son. Fought against the Nadir, the Vagrians, the Sathuli, corsairs, brigands. You name the enemy, and I’ve crossed swords with them.”

“But you said you were a coward.”

“I said no such thing, lad. I said I was frightened. There’s a difference. A coward is a man who knows what’s right, but is afraid to do it; there’re plenty of them around. But the worst of them are easy to spot: they talk loud, they brag big, and given a chance they’re as cruel as sin.”

“My father is a coward,” said the boy sadly.

The old man shrugged. “If he is, boy, then he’s the first in a long, long while to fool me. And if you are talking about him running away from the village, there’s times when to run away is the bravest thing a man can do. I knew a soldier once. He drank like a fish, rutted like an alley-cat and would fight anything that walked, crawled or swam. But he got religion; he became a Source priest. When a man he once knew, and had beaten in a fist-fight, saw him walking down the street in Drenan, he walked up and punched the priest full in the face, knocking him flat. I was there. The priest surged to his feet and stopped. He wanted to fight - everything in him wanted to fight. But then he remembered what he was, and he held back. Such was the turmoil within him that he burst into tears. And he walked away. By the gods, boy, that took some courage.”

“I don’t think that was courage,” said Druss.

“Neither did anyone else who was watching. But then that’s something you’ll learn, I hope. If a million people believe a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.”

Druss’s mind jerked back to the present. He didn’t know why he had remembered that meeting, but the recollection left him feeling sad and low in spirit.