The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Five

Oliquar was the first of the Immortals to see Druss striding down the hill. The soldier was sitting on an upturned barrel darning the heel of a sock when the axeman appeared. Laying the worn garment aside, Oliquar stood and called out Druss’s name. Several of the soldiers sitting nearby looked up as Oliquar ran to meet him, throwing his brawny arms around Druss’s neck.

Hundreds of other warriors gathered round, craning to see the Emperor’s champion, the famed axeman who fought like ten tigers. Druss grinned at his old comrade. “There are more grey hairs in that beard than I remember,” he said.

Oliquar laughed. “I earned every one. By the Holy Hands, it is good to see you, friend!”

“Life has been dull without me?”

“Not exactly,” answered Oliquar, gesturing towards the walls of Resha. “They fight well, these Naashanites. And they have a champion too: Michanek, a great warrior.”

The smile left Druss’s face. “We’ll see how great he is,” he promised.

Oliquar turned to Sieben and Eskodas. “We hear that you did not need to rescue our friend. It is said he slew the great killer Cajivak, and half the men of his fortress. Is it true?”

“Wait until you hear the song,” Sieben advised.

“Aye, there are dragons in it,” put in Eskodas.

Oliquar led the trio through the silent ranks of warriors to a tent set up near the river’s edge. Producing a jug of wine and several clay goblets, he sat down and looked at his friend. “You are a little thinner,” he said, “and your eyes are tired.”

“Pour me a drink and you’ll see them shine again. Why the black cloaks and helms?”

“We are the new Immortals, Druss.”

“You don’t look immortal, judging by that,” said Druss, pointing to the bloodstained bandage on Oliquar’s right bicep.

“It is a title - a great title. For two centuries the Immortals were the Emperor’s hand-picked honour guard. The finest soldiers, Druss: the elite. But twenty or so years ago the Immortal general, Vuspash, led a revolt, and the regiment was disbanded. Now the Emperor has re-formed them - us! It is a wondrous honour to be an Immortal.” He leaned forward and winked. “And the pay is better - double, in fact!”

Filling the goblets, he passed one to each of the newcomers. Druss drained his in a single swallow and Oliquar refilled it. “And how goes the siege?” asked the axeman.

Oliquar shrugged. “This Michanek holds them together. He is a lion, Druss, tireless and deadly. He fought Bodasen in single combat. We thought the war would be over. The Emperor offered two hundred wagons of food, for there is starvation in the city. The wager was that if Bodasen lost, the food would be delivered, but if he won then the city gates would be opened and the Naashanites allowed to march free.”

“He killed Bodasen?” put in Eskodas. “He was a great swordsman.”

“He didn’t kill him; he put him down with a chest wound, then stepped back. The first fifty wagons were delivered an hour ago and the rest go in tonight. It will leave us on short rations for a while.”

“Why didn’t he strike the killing blow?” asked Sieben. “Gorben could have refused to send the food. Duels are supposed to be to the death, aren’t they?”

“Aye, they are. But this Michanek, as I said, is special.”

“You sound as if you like the man,” snapped Druss, finishing the second goblet.

“Gods, Druss, it’s hard not to like him. I keep hoping they’ll surrender; I don’t relish the thought of slaughtering such bonny fighters. I mean, the war’s over - this is just the last skirmish. What point is there in more killing and dying?”

“Michanek has my wife,” said Druss, his voice low and cold. “He tricked her into marrying him, stole her memory. She does not know me at all.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Oliquar.

“Are you calling me a liar?” hissed Druss, his hand snaking round the haft of his axe.

“And I find this hard to believe,” said Oliquar. “What is the matter with you, my friend?”

Druss’s hand trembled on the haft, and he snatched it clear and robbed at his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile. “Ah, Oliquar! I am tired, and the wine has made me stupid. But what I said was true; it was told to me by a priest of Pashtar Sen. And tomorrow I will scale those walls, and I will find Michanek. Then we will see how special he is.”

Druss levered himself to his feet and entered the tent. For a while the three men sat in silence, then Oliquar spoke, keeping his voice low. “Michanek’s wife is called Pahtai. Some of the refugees from the city spoke of her. She is a gentle soul, and when plague struck the city she went to the homes of the sick and dying, comforting them, bringing them medicines. Michanek adores her, and she him. This is well known. And I say again, he is not the man to take a woman by trickery.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Eskodas. “It is like fate carved into stone. Two men and one woman; there must be blood. Isn’t that right, poet?”

“Sadly you are correct,” agreed Sieben. “But I can’t help wondering how she will feel when Druss marches in to her, drenched in the blood of the man she loves. What then?”

Lying on a blanket within the tent, Druss heard every word. They cut his soul with knives of fire.

Michanek shielded his eyes against the setting sun and watched the distant figure of the axeman walk down towards the Ventrian camp, saw the soldiers gather round him, heard them cheer.

“Who is it, do you think?” asked his cousin, Shurpac.

Michanek took a deep breath. “I’d say it was the Emperor’s champion, Druss.”

“Will you fight him?”

“I don’t think Gorben will offer us the chance,” answered Michanek. “There’s no need - we can’t hold for long now.”

“Long enough for Narin to return with reinforcements,” put in Shurpac, but Michanek did not reply. He had sent his brother out of the city with a written request for aid, though he knew there would be no help from Naashan; his one purpose had been to save his brother.

And yourself. The thought leapt unbidden from deep within him. Tomorrow was the first anniversary of his marriage, the day Rowena had predicted he would die with Narin on one side of him, Shurpac on the other. With Narin gone, perhaps the prophecy could be thwarted. Michanek squeezed shut his tired eyes. It felt as if sand was lodged under the lids.

The mining under the walls had stopped now and soon, when the winds permitted, the Ventrians would fire the timbers in the tunnel. He gazed out over the Ventrian camp. At least eleven thousand warriors were now gathered before Resha, and the defenders numbered only eight hundred. Glancing to left and right, Michanek saw the Naashanite soldiers sitting slumped by the battlements. There was little conversation, and much of the food that had just been carried up from the city was left untouched.

Michanek moved to the nearest soldier, a young man who was sitting with his head resting on his knees. His helm was beside him; it was split across the crown, dislodging the white horsehair plume.

“Not hungry, lad?” asked Michanek.

The boy looked up. His eyes were dark brown, his face beardless and feminine. “Too tired to eat, general,” he said.

“The food will give you strength. Trust me.”

The boy lifted a hunk of salted beef and stared down at it. “I’m going to die,” he said, and Michanek saw a tear spill to his dust-stained cheek.

The general laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Death is merely another journey, lad. But you won’t be walking that road alone - I’ll be with you. And who knows what adventures wait?”

“I used to believe that,” said the soldier sadly, “but I’ve seen so much death. I saw my brother die yesterday, his guts spilling out. His screams were terrible. Are you frightened of dying, sir?”

“Of course. But we are soldiers of the Emperor. We knew the risks when we first strapped on the breastplate and greaves. And what is better, lad, to live until we are toothless and mewling, our muscles like rotted string, or to face down our enemies in the fullness of our strength? We are all destined to die one day.”

“I don’t want to die; I want to get out of here. I want to marry and father children. I want to watch them grow.” The boy was openly weeping now and Michanek sat beside him, taking him in his arms and stroking his hair.

“So do I,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

After a while the sobbing ceased and the boy drew himself up. “I’m sorry, general. I won’t let you down, you know.”

“I knew that anyway. I’ve watched you, and you’re a brave lad: one of the best. Now eat your ration and get some sleep.”

Michanek rose and walked back to Shurpac. “Let’s go home,” he said. “I’d like to sit in the garden with Pahtai and watch the stars.”

Druss lay still, his eyes closed, allowing the buzz of conversation to drift over him. He could not remember feeling so low - not even when Rowena was taken. On that dreadful day his anger had been all-consuming, and since then his desire to find her had fuelled his spirit, giving him a strength of purpose that bound his emotions in chains of steel. Even in the dungeon he had found a way to fend off despair. But now his stomach was knotted, his emotions unravelling.

She was in love with another man. He formed the words in his mind, and they ground into his heart like broken glass in a wound.

He tried to hate Michanek, but even that was denied him. Rowena would never love a worthless or an evil man. Druss sat up and stared down at his hands. He had crossed the ocean to find his love, and these hands had killed, and killed, and killed in order that Rowena could be his once more.

He closed his eyes. Where should I be? he asked himself. In the front rank as they storm the walls? On the walls defending Rowena’s city? Or should I just walk away?

Walk away.

The tent entrance flapped as Sieben ducked under it. “How are you faring, old horse?” asked the poet.

“She loves him,” said Druss, his voice thick, the words choking him.

Sieben sat alongside the axeman. He took a deep breath. “If her memories were taken, then what she has done is no betrayal. She does not know you.”

“I understand that. I bear her no ill-will - how could I? She is the most… beautiful… I can’t explain it, poet. She doesn’t understand hatred, or greed, or envy. Soft but not weak, caring but not stupid.” He swore and shook his head. “As I said, I can’t explain it.”

“You’re doing fine,” said Sieben softly.

“When I’m with her there is no… no fire in my mind. No anger. When I was a child I hated to be laughed at. I was big and clumsy - I’d knock over pots, trip over my own big feet. But when people laughed at my clumsiness I wanted to… I don’t know… crush them. But I was with Rowena one day on the mountainside, and it had been raining. I lost my footing and fell headlong into a muddy pool. Her laughter was bright and fresh; I sat up, and I just laughed with her. And it was so good, poet, it was so good.”

“She’s still there, Druss. Just across the wall.”

The axeman nodded. “I know. What do I do - scale the wall, kill the man she loves and then march up to her and say, “Remember me?” I cannot win here.”

“One step at a time, my friend. Resha will fall. From what I gathered from Oliquar, Michanek will fight to the end, to the death. You don’t have to kill him, his fate is already sealed. And then Rowena will need someone. I can’t advise you, Druss, I have never truly been in love and I envy you that. But let us see what tomorrow brings, eh?”

Druss nodded and took a deep breath. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Gorben has asked to see you, Druss. Why not come with me? Bodasen is with him - and there’ll be wine and good food.”

Druss stood and gathered Snaga to him. The blades guttered in the light from the brazier burning at the centre of the tent. “A man’s best friend is said to be a dog,” said Sieben, stepping back as Druss lifted the axe.

The axeman ignored him and stepped out into the night.

Rowena stood by with a long robe as Michanek stepped from the bath. Smiling, she brushed two rose petals from his shoulder, then held the robe open. Michanek slid his arms into the sleeves, then tied the satin belt and turned towards her. Taking her hand he led her into the garden. Rowena leaned in towards him and he stopped and took her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. His body was rich with the smell of rose oil and she put her arms around him, snuggling in to the soft robe. Tilting back her head, she looked up into his dark brown eyes. “I love you,” she said.

Cupping her chin he kissed her, lingeringly. His mouth tasted of the peaches he had eaten while lazing in the bath. But there was no passion in the kiss and he drew away from her.

“What is wrong?” she asked. He shrugged and forced a smile.

“Nothing.”

“Why do you say that?” she chided. “I hate it when you lie to me.”

“The siege is almost over,” he said, leading her to a small circular bench beneath a flowering tree.

“When will you surrender?” she asked.

He shrugged. “When I receive orders to do so.”

“But the battle is unnecessary. The war is over. If you negotiate with Gorben he will allow us to leave. You can show me your home in Naashan. You always promised to take me to your estates near the Lakes; you said the gardens there would dazzle me with their beauty.”

“So they would,” he told her. Slipping his hands around her waist he stood and lifted her swiftly, lightly kissing her lips.

“Put me down. You’ll tear the stitches - you know what the surgeon said.”

He chuckled. “Aye, I listened to him. But the wound is almost healed.” Kissing her twice more, he lowered her to the ground and they walked on. “There are matters we must discuss,” he said, but when she waited for him to continue he merely glanced up at the stars and the silence grew.

“What matters?”

“You,” he said at last. “Your life.” Rowena looked at him, saw the lines of tension on his moonlit face, the tightening of the muscle in his jaw.

“My life is with you,” she said. “That’s all I want.”

“Sometimes we want more than we can have.”

“Don’t say that!”

“You used to be a seer - a good one. Kabuchek charged two hundred silver pieces for a single reading from you. You were never wrong.”

“I know all this, you have told me before. What difference does it make now?”

“All the difference in the world. You were born in the lands of the Drenai, you were taken by slavers. But there was a man…”

“I don’t want to hear this,” she said, pulling away from him and walking to the edge of the tiny lake. He did not follow, but his words did.

“The man was your husband.” Rowena sat down by the water’s edge, trailing her fingers across the surface, sending ripples through the moon’s reflection.

“The man with the axe,” she said dully.

“You remember?” he asked, walking forward and sitting beside her.

“No. But I saw him once - at the house of Kabuchek. And also in a dream, when he lay in a dungeon.”

“Well, he is not in a dungeon now, Pahtai. He is outside the city. He is Druss the Axeman, Gorben’s champion.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked him, turning to face him in the bright moonlight.

His white robe shimmered, and he looked ghostly, almost ethereal. “Do you think I want to?” he countered. “I’d sooner fight a lion with my hands than have this conversation. But I love you, Pahtai. I have loved you since our first meeting. You were standing with Pudri in the main corridor of Kabuchek’s home, and you told my future.”

“What did I tell you?”

He smiled. “You told me I would wed the woman I loved. But that is not important now. I think soon you will meet your… first… husband.”

“I don’t want to.” Her heart was beating fast and she felt faint. Michanek put his arms around her.

“I don’t know much about him, but I do know you,” he said. “You are Drenai; your customs are different from ours. You were not high-born, therefore it is likely you married for love. And think on this: Druss has followed you across the world for seven years. He must love you deeply.”

“I don’t want to talk about this!” she said, her voice rising as panic flooded her. She tried to rise, but he held her close.

“Neither do I,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I wanted to sit here with you and watch the stars. I wanted to kiss you, and to make love.” His head dropped, and she saw tears in his eyes.

Her panic disappeared and the cold touch of fear settled on her soul. She looked up-into his face. “You talk as if you are going to die.”

“Oh, I will some day,” he said, with a smile. “Now I must go. I am meeting Darishan and the other officers to discuss tomorrow’s strategy. They should be in the house now.”

“Don’t go!” she pleaded. “Stay with me a little while… just a little while?”

“I’ll always be with you,” he said softly.

“Darishan will die tomorrow. On the walls. I saw it; it was a vision. He was here today and I saw him die. My Talent is coming back. Give me your hand! Let me see our future.”

“No!” he said, rising and moving back from her. “A man’s fate is his own. You read my future once. Once was enough, Pahtai.”

“I predicted your death, didn’t I?” she said, but it was not a question for she knew the answer even before he spoke.

“You told me about my dreams, and you mentioned my brother, Narin. I don’t remember much of it now. We’ll talk later.”

“Why did you mention Druss? You think that if you die I will just go to him, and take up a life I know nothing of? If you die, I will have nothing to live for.” Her eyes locked to his. “And I will not live,” she said.

A figure moved out of the shadows. “Michi, why are you keeping us all waiting?” Rowena saw her husband flinch and glanced up to see Narin striding towards them.

“I sent you away,” said Michanek.. “What are you doing here?”

“I made it as far as the hills, but the Ventrians are everywhere. I came in through the sewers; the guards there recognised me, thank the gods. What is the matter with you? Are you not pleased to see me?”

Michanek did not answer. Turning to Rowena he smiled, but she saw the fear in his eyes. “I’ll not be long, my love. We’ll talk again later.”

She remained on the seat as the two men walked away. Closing her eyes she thought of the axeman, picturing the pale grey eyes and the broad, flat face. But even as she pictured him, another image came to her:

The face of a terrible beast, with talons of steel and eyes of fire.

Gorben leaned back on his couch and watched with appreciation the sword jugglers before the huge fire, the five razor-sharp blades spinning in the air between the two men. It was a display of rare skill as the jugglers deftly caught the swords, before sending them soaring back across the open ground. The men were clad in loincloths, their skin shone red-gold in the firelight. Around them sat more than five hundred Immortals, enjoying the martial display.”

Beyond the dancing flames of the camp-fire Gorben could see the walls of Resha, and the few defenders there. It was all but over. Against all the odds he had won.

Yet there was no sense of joy in his heart. The years of battle, the stresses and the fears had taken their toll on the young Emperor. For every victory he had seen childhood friends cut down: Nebuchad at Ectanis, Jasua in the mountains above Porchia, Bodasen before the gates of Resha. He glanced to his right where Bodasen was lying on a raised bed, his face pale. The surgeons said he would live, and they had managed to re-inflate his collapsed lung. You are like my Empire, thought Gorben, wounded almost unto death. How long would it take to rebuild Ventria? Years? Decades?

A great roar went up from the watching men as the sword jugglers completed their performance. The men bowed to the Emperor. Gorben rose and tossed them a pouch full of gold pieces. There was great laughter when the first of the jugglers reached out and failed to catch the pouch.

“You are better with blades than coins,” said Gorben.

“Money has always slipped through his fingers, Lord,” said the second man.

Gorben returned to his seat and smiled down at Bodasen. “How are you feeling, my friend?”

“My strength is returning, Lord.” The voice was weak, his breathing ragged as Gorben reached out and patted his shoulder. The heat of the skin and the sharpness of the bone beneath his hand almost made him recoil. Bodasen’s eyes met his. “Do not concern yourself about me, Lord. I’ll not die on you.” The swordsman’s eyes flickered to the left, and he smiled broadly. “By the gods, there’s a sight to gladden the eyes!”

Gorben turned to see Druss and Sieben walking towards them. The poet dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Druss gave a perfunctory bow.

“Well met, axeman,” said Gorben, stepping forward and embracing Druss. Turning, he took Sieben’s arm and raised him to his feet. “And I have missed your talents, saga-master. Come, join us.”

Servants brought two couches for the Emperor’s guests, and golden goblets filled with fine wine. Druss moved to Bodasen. “You look as weak as a three-day kitten,” he said. “Are you going to live?”

“I’ll do my best, axeman.”

“He cost me two hundred wagons of food,” said Gorben. “I blame myself for believing him to be unbeatable.”

“How good is this Michanek?” asked Druss.

“Good enough to leave me lying here scarce able to breathe,” answered Bodasen. “He’s fast, and he’s fearless. The best I ever met. I tell you truly, I wouldn’t want to face him again.”

Druss turned to Gorben. “You want me to take him?”

“No,” said Gorben. “The city will fall in the next day or two - there is no need for single combat to decide the issue. The walls are undermined. Tomorrow, if the wind is good, we will fire them. Then the city will be ours and this ghastly war will be over. Now, tell me about your adventures. I hear you were held captive?”

“I escaped,” Druss told him, then drained his goblet. A servant ran forward to refill it.

Sieben laughed. “I will tell you, Lord,” he said, and launched into a richly embroidered account of Druss’s time in the dungeons of Cajivak.

The huge camp-fire was burning low and several men moved forward to throw logs upon it. Suddenly the ground heaved beneath one of them, pitching him to the earth. Gorben looked up, and watched the man struggle to rise. All around the fire the seated men were scrambling back. “What is happening?” asked Gorben, rising and striding forward. The ground lurched beneath him.

“Is it an earthquake?” he heard Sieben ask Druss.

Gorben stood still and gazed down. The earth was writhing. The camp-fire suddenly flared, sending bright sparks into the night sky. The heat was intense and Gorben moved back from it, staring into the flames. Logs exploded out from the blaze and a huge shape appeared within the fire, a beast with outspread arms. The flames died and Gorben found himself staring at a colossal bear, more than twelve feet tall.

Several soldiers carrying spears ran at the creature, plunging their weapons into the great belly. The first of the spears snapped on impact. The beast roared, a deafening sound like captured thunder. One of the mighty arms swept down, steel talons ripping through the first soldier, cutting him in half at the waist.

Surging from the fading fire, the beast leapt towards Gorben.

As the creature of fire appeared Sieben, who was sitting alongside Bodasen, found all sensation of time and reality slipping away from him. His eyes fastened on the beast, and an image flew from the halls of his memory, linking what he could see in terrifying life to a still, small moment three years ago in the main Library at Drenan. Researching for an epic poem, he had been scanning the ancient leather-bound books in the archives. The pages were dry and yellow, and much of the ink and paint had faded from them, but on one page the colours were still vibrant, fierce hues - glowing gold, savage crimsons, sun-bright yellows. The figure painted there was colossal, and flames sprouted like blooms from its eyes. Sieben could still picture the carefully painted letters above the painting…

The Kalith of Numar

Beneath the heading were the words: The Chaos Beast, the Stalker, the Hound of the Invincible, whose skin no blade of man shall pierce. Where he walks, death follows.

As Sieben recalled the night of the monster in later days, he would wonder anew at the lack of fear he experienced. He watched men die horribly, saw a beast from the depths of Hell tear human limbs asunder, disembowelling warriors, ripping their lives from them. He heard the ghastly howling and smelt the stench of death on the night breeze. Yet there was no fear.

A dark legend had come to life and he, the saga-master, was on hand to witness it.

Gorben was standing stock-still, rooted to the spot. A soldier Sieben recognised as Oliquar threw himself at the beast, slashing at it with a sabre; but the blade clanged against the creature’s side, and the sound that followed was like the dim tolling of a distant bell. A taloned paw swept down, and Oliquar’s face and head disappeared in a bloody spray of shattered bone. Several archers shot arrows, but these either shattered on impact or ricocheted away. The creature advanced on Gorben.

Sieben saw the Emperor flinch, then hurl himself to his right, rolling to his feet smoothly. The enormous beast turned ponderously, the glowing coals of its eyes seeking out Gorben.

Loyal soldiers, showing incredible bravery, threw themselves into the path of the beast, stabbing at it ineffectually. Each time the talons slashed down, and blood sprayed across the camp-site. Within a few heartbeats there were at least twenty dead or maimed soldiers. The Chaos Beast’s talons ripped into a soldier’s chest, lifting him from his feet and hurling him across the dying fire. Sieben heard the man’s ribs snap, and saw his entrails spill out like a tattered banner as the corpse sailed through the air.

Druss, axe in his hand, strode out towards the creature. Soldiers were falling back before it, but still they formed a wall between the beast and the Emperor. Looking tiny and insubstantial against the colossal frame of the Kalith, Druss stepped into its path. The moon was bright in the night sky, shining from his shoulder-guards and glinting on Snaga’s terrible blades.

The Chaos Beast paused and seemed to stare down at the tiny man before it. Sieben’s mouth was dry, and he could feel the hammering of his own heart.

And the Kalith spoke, voice deep and rumbling, words slurred by its foot-long tongue.

“Step aside, brother,” it said. “I have not come for you.”

The axe began to glow as red as blood. Druss stood his ground, with Snaga held in both hands.

“Step aside,” repeated the Kalith, “or I must kill you!”

“In your dreams,” said Druss.

The creature lunged forward, one great paw sweeping in towards the axeman. Druss dropped to one knee and swung the blood-red axe, the blade striking the beast’s wrist and cleaving through. As the taloned paw fell to the ground beside the axeman, the Kalith reeled back. No blood issued from the wound, but an oily smoke pumped out into the air, billowing and growing. Fire blazed from the creature’s mouth and it lunged again at the mortal before it. But instead of jumping back Druss leapt in to meet it, swinging Snaga high over his head and bringing the weapon down in a lethal arc that clove into the Kalith’s chest, smashing the sternum and ripping a wound from throat to groin.

Flames exploded from the beast, engulfing the axeman. Druss staggered - and the Kalith fell back, and as the huge form struck the ground even Sieben, some thirty feet away, felt the tremor of the earth. A breeze blew up, the smoke disappearing.

And there was no sign of the Kalith…

Sieben ran to where Druss stood. The axeman’s eyebrows and beard were singed, but he bore no marks of burns. “By the gods, Druss,” Sieben shouted, slapping his friend’s back. “Now that’ll make a song to bring us both fame and riches!”

“It killed Oliquar,” said Druss, shrugging off Sieben’s embrace and letting fall the axe.

Gorben moved alongside him. “That was nobly done, my friend. I’ll not forget - I owe you my life.” Bending his body, he lifted the axe. It was now black and silver once more. “This is an enchanted weapon,” whispered the Emperor. “I will give you twenty thousand in gold for it.”

“It is not for selling, my Lord,” said Druss.

“Ah, Druss, and I thought you liked me.”

“I do, laddie. That’s why I’ll not sell it to you.”

A cold wind swirled around the cave. Anindais felt the chill and swung from the altar, looking back to see the Old Woman rise from her seat outside the golden circle. “What is happening?” he asked. “The axeman has killed the beast. Can we send another?”

“No,” she told him. “But he did not kill it, he merely sent it back to the Pit.”

“Well, what now?”

“Now we pay for the services of the Kalith.”

“You said the payment would be the blood of Gorben.”

“Gorben did not die.”

“Then I do not understand you. And why is it so cold?”

A shadow fell across the Naashanite, who swung round to see a huge shape rearing above him. Talons flashed down, slicing into his chest.

“Not even intelligence,” repeated the Old Woman, turning her back on his screams. Returning to her apartments, she sat back in an old wicker chair. “Ah, Druss,” she whispered, “perhaps I should have let you die back in Mashrapur.”