The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter One

The axe was four feet long, with a ten-pound head, the blade flared, and sharp as any sword. The haft was of elm, beautifully curved, and more than forty years old. For most men it was a heavy tool, unwieldy and imprecise. But in the hands of the dark-haired young man who stood before the towering beech it sang through the air, seemingly as light as a sabre. Every long swing saw the head bite exactly where the woodsman intended, deeper and deeper into the meat of the trunk.

Druss stepped back, then glanced up. There were several heavy branches jutting towards the north. He moved around the tree, gauging the line where it would fall, then returned to his work. This was the third tree he had tackled today and his muscles ached, sweat gleaming on his naked back. His short-cropped black hair was soaked with perspiration that trickled over his brow, stinging his ice-blue eyes. His mouth was dry, but he was determined to finish the task before allowing himself the reward of a cooling drink.

Some way to his left the brothers Pilan and Yorath were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing and talking, their hatchets beside them. Theirs was the task of stripping the trunks, hacking away smaller branches and limbs that could be used for winter firewood. But they stopped often and Druss could hear them discussing the merits and alleged vices of the village girls. They were handsome youths, blond and tall, sons of the blacksmith, Tetrin. Both were witty and intelligent, and popular among the girls.

Druss disliked them. To his right several of the older boys were sawing through the larger branches of the first tree Druss had felled, while elsewhere young girls were gathering deadwood, kindling for winter fires, and loading them to wheelbarrows to be pushed downhill to the village.

At the edge of the new clearing stood the four workhorses, hobbled now and grazing, waiting for the trees to be cleaned so that chain traces could be attached to the trunks for the long haul into the valley. Autumn was fading fast, and the village elders were determined that the new perimeter wall would be finished before winter. The frontier mountains of Skoda boasted only one troop of Drenai cavalry, patrolling an area of a thousand square miles. Raiders, cattle thieves, slavers, robbers and outlaws roamed the mountains, and the ruling council in Drenai made it clear they would accept no responsibility for the new settlements on the Vagrian borders.

But thoughts of the perils of frontier life did not discourage the men and women who journeyed to Skoda. They sought a new life, far removed from the more civilised south and east, and built their homes where land was still free and wild, and where strong men did not need to tug the forelock nor bow when the nobles rode by.

Freedom was the key word, and no talk of raiders could deter them.

Druss hefted his axe, then thundered the blade into the widening notch. Ten times more he struck, deep into the base of the trunk. Then another ten smooth, powerful strokes. Three more axe-blows and the tree would groan and give, wrenching and tearing as she fell.

Stepping back he scanned the ground along the line of the fall. A movement caught his eye, and he saw a small child with golden hair sitting beneath a bush, a rag doll in her hand. “Kiris!” bellowed Druss.”If you are not out of there by the time I count to three I’ll tear off your leg and beat you to death with the wet end! One! Two!”

The child’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widening. Dropping her rag doll she scrambled clear of the bush and ran crying from the forest. Druss shook his head and walked forward to retrieve the doll, tucking it into his wide belt. He felt the eyes of the others on him, and guessed what they were thinking: Druss the Brute, Druss the Cruel - that’s how they saw him. And maybe they were right.

Ignoring them, he walked back to the tree and hefted his axe.

Only two weeks before he had been felling a tall beech, and had been called away with the work almost completed. When he returned it was to find Kiris sitting in the topmost branches with her doll, as always, beside her.

“Come down,” he had coaxed. The tree is about to fall.”

“Won’t,” said Kiris. “We like it here. We can see for ever.”

Druss had looked around, for once hoping that some of the village girls were close by. But there was no one. He examined the huge cleft in the trunk, a sudden wind could cause the trunk to topple. “Come down, there’s a good girl. You’ll be hurt if the tree falls.”

“Why should it fall?”

“Because I’ve been hitting it with my axe. Now come down.”

“All right,” she said, then started to climb down. The tree suddenly tilted and Kiris screamed and clung to a branch. Druss’s mouth was dry.

“Quickly now,” he said. Kiris said nothing, nor did she move. Druss swore and, setting his foot to a low knot, levered himself up to the first branch. Slowly and with great care he climbed the half-felled tree, higher and higher towards the child.

At last he reached her. “Put your arms around my neck,” he commanded. She did so, and he began the climb down.

Half-way to the ground Druss felt the tree shudder - and snap. Leaping clear he hugged the child to him, then hit the ground, landing awkwardly with his left shoulder slamming into the soft earth. Shielded by his bulk, Kiris was unhurt, but Druss groaned as he rose.

“Are you hurt?” asked Kiris.

Druss’s pale eyes swung on the child. “If I catch you near my trees again, I shall feed you to the wolves!” he roared. “Now begone!” She had sprinted away as if her dress was on fire. Chuckling at the memory now, he hefted his axe and thundered the blade into the beech. A great groan came from the tree, a wrenching, tearing sound that drowned out the nearby thudding of hatchets and the sawing of boughs.

The beech toppled, twisting as it fell. Druss turned towards the water-sack hanging from a branch nearby; the felling of the tree signalled the break for the midday meal, and the village youngsters gathered in groups in the sunshine, laughing and joking. But no one approached Druss. His recent fight with the former soldier Alarm had unsettled them, and they viewed him even more warily than before. He sat alone, eating bread and cheese and taking long, cool swallows of water.

Pilan and Yorath were now sitting with Berys and Tailia, the daughters of the miller. The girls were smiling prettily, tilting their heads and enjoying the attention. Yorath leaned in close to Tailia, kissing her ear. Tailia feigned outrage.

Their games ceased when a black-bearded man entered the clearing. He was tall, with massive shoulders and eyes the colour of winter clouds. Druss saw his father approach, and stood.

“Clothe yourself and walk with me,” said Bress, striding away into the woods. Druss donned his shirt and followed his father. Out of earshot of the others, the tall man sat down beside a fast-moving stream and Druss joined him.

“You must learn to control that temper, my son,” said Bress. “You almost killed the man.”

“I just hit him… once.”

“The once broke his jaw and dislodged three teeth.”

“Have the Elders decided on a penalty?”

“Aye. I must support Alarin and his family through the winter. Now I can ill afford that, boy.”

“He spoke slightingly of Rowena and I’ll not tolerate that. Ever.”

Bress took a deep breath, but before speaking he lifted a pebble and hurled it into the stream. Then he sighed. “We are not known here, Druss - save as good workers and fellow villagers. We came a long way to be rid of the stigma my father bequeathed our family. But remember the lessons of his life. He could not control his temper - and he became an outcast and a renegade, a bloodthirsty butcher. Now they say blood runs true. In our case I hope they are wrong.”

“I’m not a killer,” argued Druss. “Had I wanted him dead, I could have broken his neck with a single blow.”

“I know. You are strong - you take after me in that regard. And proud; that I think came from your mother, may her soul know peace. The gods alone know how often I have been forced to swallow my pride.” Bress tugged at his beard and turned to face his son. “We are a small settlement now, and we cannot have violence among ourselves - we would not survive as a community. Can you understand that?”

“What did they ask you to tell me?”

Bress sighed. “You must make your peace with Alarin. And know this - if you attack any other man of the village you will be cast out.”

Druss’s face darkened. “I work harder than any man. I trouble no one. I do not get drunk like Pilan and Yorath, nor try to make whores of the village maids like their father. I do not steal. I do not lie. Yet they will cast me out?”

“You frighten them, Druss. You frighten me too.”

“I am not my grandfather. I am not a murderer.”

Bress sighed. “I had hoped that Rowena, with all her gentleness, would have helped to calm that temper of yours. But on the morning after your wedding you half-kill a fellow settler. And for what? Don’t tell me he spoke slightingly. All he said was that you were a lucky man and he’d like to have bedded her himself. By all the gods, son! If you feel you have to break a man’s jaw for every compliment he pays your wife, there won’t be any men left in this village to work at all.”

“It wasn’t said as a compliment. And I can control my temper, but Alarin is a loud-mouthed braggart - and he received exactly what he deserved.”

“I hope you’ll take note of what I’ve said, son.” Bress stood and stretched his back. “I know you have little respect for me. But I hope you’ll think of how Rowena would fare if you were both declared outcast.”

Druss gazed up at him and swallowed back his disappointment. Bress was a physical giant, stronger than any man Druss had ever known, but he wore defeat like a cloak. The younger man rose alongside his father.

“I’ll take heed,” he said.

Bress smiled wearily. “I have to get back to the wall. It should be finished in another three days; we’ll all sleep sounder then.”

“You’ll have the timber,” Druss promised.

“You’re a good man with an axe, I’ll say that.” Bress walked away for several paces, then turned. “If they did cast you out, son, you wouldn’t be alone. I’d walk with you.”

Druss nodded. “It won’t come to that. I’ve already promised Rowena I’ll mend my ways.”

“I’ll wager she was angry,” said Bress, with a grin.

“Worse. She was disappointed in me.” Druss chuckled. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is the disappointment of a new wife.”

“You should laugh more often, my boy. It suits you.”

But as Bress walked away the smile faded from the young man’s face as he gazed down at his bruised knuckles and remembered the emotions that had surged within him as he struck Alarin. There had been anger, and a savage need for combat. But when his fist landed and Alarin toppled there had been only one sensation, brief and indescribably powerful.

Joy. Pure pleasure, of a kind and a power he had not experienced before. He closed his eyes, forcing the scene from his mind.

“I am not my grandfather,” he told himself. “I am not insane.” That night he repeated the words to Rowena as they lay in the broad bed Bress had fashioned for a wedding gift.

Rolling to her stomach she leaned on his chest, her long hair feeling like silk upon his massive shoulder. “Of course you are not insane, my love,” she assured him. “You are one of the gentlest men I’ve known.”

“That’s not how they see me,” he told her, reaching up and stroking her hair.

“I know. It was wrong of you to break Alarin’s jaw. They were just words - and it matters not a whit if he meant them unpleasantly. They were just noises, blowing into the air.”

Easing her from him, Druss sat up. “It is not that easy, Rowena. The man had been goading me for weeks. He wanted that fight - because he wanted to humble me. But he did not. No man ever will.” She shivered beside him. “Are you cold?” he asked, drawing her into his embrace.

“Deathwalker,” she whispered.

“What? What did you say?”

Her eyelids fluttered. She smiled and kissed his cheek. “It doesn’t matter. Let us forget Alarin, and enjoy each other’s company.”

“I’ll always enjoy your company,” he said. “I love you.”

Rowena’s dreams were dark and brooding and the following day, at the riverside, she could not force the images from her mind. Druss, dressed in black and silver and bearing a mighty axe, stood upon a hillside. From the axe-blades came a great host of souls, flowing like smoke around their grim killer. Death-walker! The vision had been powerful. Squeezing the last of the water from the shirt she was washing, she laid it over a flat rock alongside the drying blankets and the scrubbed woollen dress. Stretching her back, she rose from the water’s edge and walked to the tree line where she sat, her right hand closing on the brooch Druss had fashioned for her in his father’s workshop - soft copper strands entwined around a moonstone, misty and translucent. As her fingers touched the stone her eyes closed and her mind cleared. She saw Druss sitting alone by the high stream.

“I am with you,” she whispered. But he could not hear her and she sighed.

No one in the village knew of her Talent, for her father, Voren, had impressed upon her the need for secrecy. Only last year four women in Drenan had been convicted of sorcery and burnt alive by the priests of Missael. Voren was a careful man. He had brought Rowena to this remote village, far from Drenan, because, as he told her, “Secrets cannot live quietly among a multitude. Cities are full of prying eyes and attentive ears, vengeful minds and malevolent thoughts. You will be safer in the mountains.”

And he had made her promise to tell no one of her skills. Not even Druss. Rowena regretted that promise as she gazed with the eyes of Spirit upon her husband. She could see no harshness in his blunt, flat features, no swirling storm-clouds in those grey-blue eyes, no hint of sullenness in the flat lines of his mouth. He was Druss - and she loved him. With a certainty born of her Talent she knew she would love no other man as she loved Druss. And she knew why… he needed her. She had gazed through the window of his soul and had found there a warmth and a purity, an island of tranquillity set in a sea of roaring violent emotions. While she was with him Druss was tender, his turbulent spirit at peace. In her company he smiled. Perhaps, she thought, with my help I can keep him at peace. Perhaps the grim killer will never know life.

“Dreaming again, Ro,” said Mari, moving to sit alongside Rowena. The young woman opened her eyes and smiled at her friend. Mari was short and plump, with honey-coloured hair and a bright, open smile.

“I was thinking of Druss,” said Rowena.

Mari nodded and looked away and Rowena could feel her concern. For weeks her friend had tried to dissuade her from marrying Druss, adding her arguments to those of Voren and others.

“Will Pilan be your partner at the Solstice Dance?” asked Rowena, changing the subject.

Mari’s mood changed abruptly, and she giggled. “Yes. But he doesn’t know yet.”

“When will he find out?”

“Tonight.” Mari lowered her voice, though there was no one else within earshot. “We’re meeting in the lower meadow.”

“Be careful,” warned Rowena.

“Is that the advice of the old married woman? Didn’t you and Druss make love before you were wed?”

“Yes, we did,” Rowena admitted, “but Druss had already made his pledge before the Oak. Pilan hasn’t.”

“Just words, Ro. I don’t need them. Oh, I know Pilan’s been flirting with Tailia, but she’s not for him. No passion, you see. All she thinks about is wealth. She doesn’t want to stay in the wilderness, she yearns for Drenan. She’ll not want to keep a mountain man warm at night, nor make the beast with two backs in a wet meadow, with the grass tickling her…”

“Mari! You really are too frank,” admonished Rowena.

Mari giggled and leaned in close. “Is Druss a good lover?”

Rowena sighed, all tension and sadness disappearing. “Oh, Mari! Why is it that you can talk about forbidden subjects and make them seem so…so wonderfully ordinary? You are like the sunshine that follows rain.”

“They’re not forbidden here, Ro. That’s the trouble with girls born in cities and surrounded by stone walls and marble, and granite. You don’t feel the earth any more. Why did you come here?”

“You know why,” said Rowena uneasily. “Father wanted a life in the mountains.”

“I know that’s what you’ve always said - but I never believed it. You’re a terrible liar - your face goes red and you always look away!”

“I… can’t tell you. I made a promise.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mari. “I love mysteries. Is he a criminal? He was a book-keeper, wasn’t he? Did he steal some rich man’s money?”

“No! It was nothing to do with him. It was me! Don’t ask me any more. Please?”

“I thought we were friends,” said Mari. “I thought we could trust one another.”

“We can. Honestly!”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I know,” said Rowena sadly. “But it would spoil our friendship.”

“Nothing could do that. How long have you been here - two seasons? Have we ever fought? Oh, come on, Ro. Where’s the harm? You tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine.”

“I know yours already,” whispered Rowena. “You gave yourself to the Drenai captain when he and his men passed through here on patrol in the summer. You took him to the low meadow.”

“How did you find out?”

“I didn’t. It was in your mind when you told me you would share a secret with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can see what people are thinking. And I can sometimes tell what is going to happen. That’s my secret.”

“You have the Gift? I don’t believe it! What am I thinking now?”

“A white horse with a garland of red flowers.”

“Oh, Ro! That’s wonderful. Tell my fortune,” she pleaded, holding out her hand.

“You won’t tell anyone else?”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t work.”

Try anyway,” urged Mari, thrusting out her plump hand. Rowena reached out, her slender fingers closing on Mari’s palm, but suddenly she shuddered and the colour faded from her face.

“What is it?”

Rowena began to tremble. “I… I must find Druss. Can’t… talk…” Rising, she stumbled away, the washed clothes forgotten.

“Ro! Rowena, come back!”

On the hillside above, a rider stared down at the women by the river. Then he turned his horse and rode swiftly towards the north.

Bress closed the door of the cabin and moved through to his work room, where from a small box he took a lace glove. It was old and yellowed, and several of the pearls which had once graced the wrist were now missing. It was a small glove and Bress sat at his bench staring down at it, his huge fingers stroking the remaining pearls.

“I am a lost man,” he said softly, closing his eyes and picturing Arithae’s sweet face. “He despises me. Gods, I despise myself.” Leaning back in his chair he gazed idly at the walls, and the many shelves bearing strands of copper and brass, work tools, jars of dye, boxes of beads. It was rare now for Bress to find the time to make jewellery; there was little call for such luxuries here in the mountains. Now it was his skills as a carpenter which were valued; he had become merely a maker of doors and tables, chairs and beds.

Still nursing the glove, he moved back into the hearth room.

“I think we were born under unlucky stars,” he told the dead Arithae. “Or perhaps Bardan’s evil stained our lives. Druss is like him, you know. I see it in the eyes, in the sudden rages. I don’t know what to do. I could never convince father. And I cannot reach Druss.”

His thoughts drifted back - memories, dark and painful, flooding his mind. He saw Bardan on that last day, blood-covered, his enemies all around him. Six men were dead, and that terrible axe was still slashing left and right… Then a lance had been thrust into Bardan’s throat. Blood bubbled from the wound but Bardan slew the lance wielder before falling to his knees. A man ran in behind him and delivered a terrible blow to Bardan’s neck.

From his hiding-place high in the oak the fourteen-year-old Bress had watched his father die, and heard one of the killers say: “The old wolf is dead - now where is the pup?”

He had stayed in the tree all night, high above the headless body of Bardan. Then, in the cold of the dawn he had climbed down and stood by the corpse. There was no sadness, only a terrible sense of relief combined with guilt. Bardan was dead: Bardan the Butcher. Bardan the Slayer. Bardan the Demon.

He had walked sixty miles to a settlement, and there had found employment, apprenticed to a carpenter. But just as he was settling down, the past came back to torment him when a travelling tinker recognised him: he was the son of the Devil! A crowd gathered outside the carpenter’s shop, an angry mob armed with clubs and stones.

Bress had climbed from the rear window and fled from the settlement. Three times during the next five years he had been forced to run - and then he had met Alithae.

Fortune smiled on him then and he remembered Alithae’s father, on the day of the wedding, approaching him and offering him a goblet of wine. “I know you have suffered, boy,” said the old man. “But I am not one who believes that a father’s evil is visited upon the souls of his children. I know you, Bress. You are a good man.”

Aye, thought Bress, as he sat by the hearth, a good man.

Lifting the glove he kissed it softly. Alithae had been wearing it when the three men from the south had arrived at the settlement where Bress and his wife and new son had made their homes. Bress had a small but thriving business making brooches and rings and necklets for the wealthy. He was out walking one morning, Alithae beside him carrying the babe.

“It’s Bardan’s son!” he heard someone shout and he glanced round. The three riders had stopped their horses, and one of the men was pointing at him; they spurred their mounts and rode at him. Alithae, struck by a charging horse, fell heavily, and Bress had leapt at the rider, dragging him from the saddle. The other men hurled themselves from their saddles. Bress struck left and right, his huge fists clubbing them to the ground.

As the dust settled he turned back to Alithae….

Only to find her dead, the babe crying beside her.

From that moment he lived like a man with no hope. He rarely smiled and he never laughed.

The ghost of Bardan was upon him, and he took to travelling, moving through the lands of the Drenai with his son beside him. Bress took what jobs he could find: a labourer in Drenan, acarpenter in Delnoch, a bridge-builder in Mashrapur, a horse-handler in Corteswain. Five years ago he had wed a farmer’s daughter named Patica - a simple lass, plain of face and none too bright. Bress cared for her, but there was no room left for love in his heart for Alithae had taken it with her when she died. He had married Patica to give Druss a mother, but the boy had never taken to her.

Two years ago, with Druss now fifteen, they had come to Skoda. But even here the ghost remained - born again, it seemed, into the boy.

“What can I do, Alithae?” he asked.

Patica entered the cabin, holding three fresh loaves in her arms. She was a large woman with a round pleasant face framed by auburn hair. She saw the glove and tried to mask the hurt she felt. “Did you see Druss?” she asked.

“Aye, I did. He says he’ll try to curb his temper.”

“Give him time. Rowena will calm him.”

Hearing the thunder of hooves outside, Bress placed the glove on the table and moved to the door. Armed men were riding into the village, swords in their hands.

Bress saw Rowena running into the settlement, her dress hitched up around her thighs. She saw the raiders and tried to turn away but a horseman bore down on her. Bress ran into the open and leapt at the man, pulling him from the saddle. The rider hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his sword. Bress snatched it up, but a lance pierced his shoulder and with a roar of anger he twisted round and the lance snapped. Bress lashed out with the sword. The rider fell back, and the horse reared.

Riders surrounded him, with lances levelled.

In that instant Bress knew he was about to die. Time froze for him. He saw the sky, filled with lowering clouds, and smelled the new-mown grass of the meadows. Other raiders were galloping through the settlement, and he heard the screams of the dying villagers. Everything they had built was for nothing. A terrible anger raged inside him. Gripping the sword, he let out the battle-cry of Bardan.

“Blood and death!” he bellowed.

And charged.

Deep within the woods Druss leaned on his axe, a rare smile on his normally grim face. Above him the sun shone through a break in the clouds, and he saw an eagle soaring, golden wings seemingly aflame. Druss removed his sweat-drenched linen headband, laying it on a stone to dry. Lifting a waterskin, he took a long drink. Nearby Pilan and Yorath laid aside their hatchets.

Soon Tailia and Berys would arrive with the haul-horses and the work would begin again, attaching the chains and dragging the timbers down to the village. But for now there was little to do but sit and wait. Druss opened the linen-wrapped package Rowena had given him that morning; within was a wedge of meat pie, and a large slice of honey cake.

“Ah, the joys of married life!” said Pilan.

Druss laughed. “You should have tried harder to woo her. Too late to be jealous now.”

“She wouldn’t have me, Druss. She said she was waiting for a man whose face would curdle milk and that if she married me she would spend the rest of her life wondering which of her pretty friends would steal me from her. It seems her dream was to find the world’s ugliest man.”

His smile faded as he saw the expression on the woodsman’s face, and the cold gleam that appeared in his pale eyes. “Only jesting,” said Pilan swiftly, the colour ebbing from his face.

Druss took a deep breath and, remembering his father’s warning, fought down his anger. “I am not… good with jests,” he said, the words tasting like bile in his mouth.

“No harm done,” said Pilan’s brother, moving to sit alongside the giant. “But if you don’t mind my saying so, Druss, you need to develop a sense of humour. We all make jests at the expense of our… friends. It means nothing.”

Druss merely nodded and turned his attention to the pie. Yorath was right. Rowena had said exactly the same words, but from her it was easy to take criticism. With her he felt calm and the world had colour and joy. He finished the food and stood. “The girls should have been here by now,” he said.

“I can hear horses,” said Pilan, rising.

“They’re coming fast,” Yorath added.

Tailia and Berys came running into the clearing, their faces showing fear, their heads turning towards the unseen horsemen. Druss snatched his axe from the stump and ran towards them as Tailia, looking back, stumbled and fell.

Six horsemen rode into sight, armour gleaming in the sunlight. Druss saw raven-winged helms, lances and swords. The horses were lathered and, on seeing the three youths, the warriors shouted battle cries and spurred their mounts towards them.

Pilan and Yorath sprinted away towards the right. Three riders swung their horses to give chase, but the remaining three came on towards Druss.

The young man stood calmly, the axe held loosely across his naked chest. Directly in front of him was a felled tree. The first of the riders, a lancer, leaned forward in the saddle as his gelding jumped over the fallen beech. At that moment Druss moved, sprinting forward and swinging his axe in a murderous arc. As the horse landed the axe-blade hissed over its head, plunging into the chest of the lancer to splinter his breastplate and smash his ribs to shards. The blow hammered the man from the saddle. Druss tried to wrench the axe clear, but the blade was caught by the fractured armour. A sword slashed down at the youth’s head and Druss dived and rolled. As a horseman moved in close he hurled himself from the ground, grabbing the stallion’s right foreleg. With one awesome heave he toppled horse and rider. Hurdling the fallen tree, he ran to where the other two youths had left their hatchets. Scooping up the first he turned as a raider galloped towards him. Druss’ arm came back, then snapped forward. The hatchet sliced through the air, the iron head crunching into the man’s teeth. He swayed in the saddle. Druss ran forward to drag him from the horse. The raider, having dropped his lance, tried to draw a dagger. Druss slapped it from his hand, delivered a bone-breaking punch to the warrior’s chin and then, snatching up the dagger, rammed it into the man’s unprotected throat.

“Look out, Druss!” yelled Tailia. Druss spun, just as a sword flashed for his belly. Parrying the blade with his forearm, he thundered a right cross which took the attacker full on the jaw, spinning him from his feet. Druss leapt on the man, one huge hand grabbing his chin, the other his brow. With one savage twist Druss heard the swordsman’s neck snap like a dry stick.

Moving swiftly to the first man he had killed, Druss tore the felling axe clear of the breastplate as Tailia ran from her hiding-place in the bushes. “They are attacking the village,” she said, tears in her eyes.

Pilan came running into the clearing, a lancer behind him. “Swerve!” bellowed Druss. But Pilan was too terrified to obey and he ran straight on - until the lance pierced his back, exiting in a bloody spray from his chest. The youth cried out, then slumped to the ground. Druss roared in anger and raced forward. The lancer desperately tried to wrench his weapon clear of the dying boy. Druss swung wildly with the axe, which glanced from the rider’s shoulder and plunged into the horse’s back. The animal whinnied in pain and reared before falling to the earth, its legs flailing. The rider scrambled clear, blood gushing from his shoulder and tried to run, but Druss’s next blow almost decapitated him.

Hearing a scream, Druss began to run towards the sound and found Yorath struggling with one raider; the second was kneeling on the ground, blood streaming from a wound in his head. The body of Berys was beside him, a blood-smeared stone in her hand. The swordsman grappling with Yorath suddenly head-butted the youth, sending Yorath back several paces. The sword came up. Druss shouted, trying to distract the warrior. But to no avail. The weapon lanced into Yorath’s side.

The swordsman dragged the blade clear and turned towards Druss. “Now your time to die, farm boy!” he said.

“In your dreams!” snarled the woodsman. Swinging the axe over his head, Druss charged. The swordsman side-stepped to his right - but Druss had been waiting for the move, and with all the power of his mighty shoulders he wrenched the axe, changing its course. It clove through the man’s collarbone, smashing the shoulder-blade and ripping into his lungs. Tearing the axe loose, Druss turned from the body to see the first wounded warrior struggling to rise; jumping forward, he struck him a murderous blow to the neck. “Help me!” called Yorath.

“I’ll send Tailia,” Druss told him, and began to run back through the trees.

Reaching the crest of the hill he gazed down on the village. He could see scattered bodies, but no sign of raiders. For a moment he thought the villagers had beaten them back… but there was no movement at all.

“Rowena!” he yelled. “Rowena!”

Druss ran down the slope. He fell and rolled, losing his grip on the felling-axe, but scrambling to his feet he pounded on - down into the meadow, across the flat, through the half-finished gates. Bodies lay everywhere. Rowena’s father, the former book-keeper Voren, had been stabbed through the throat, and blood was staining the earth beneath him. Breathing hard, Druss stopped, and stared around the settlement square.

Old women, young children and all the men were dead. As he stumbled on he saw the golden-haired child, Kins, beloved of all the villagers, lying sprawled in death alongside her rag doll. The body of an infant lay against one building, a bloodstain on the wall above showing how it had been slain.

He found his father lying in the open with four dead raiders around him. Patica was beside him, a hammer in her hand, her plain brown woollen dress drenched in blood. Druss fell to his knees by his father’s body. There were terrible wounds to the chest and belly, and his left arm was almost severed at the wrist. Bress groaned and opened his eyes. “Druss….”

“I am here, Father.”

“They took the young women…. Rowena… was among them.”

“I’ll find her.”

The dying man glanced to his right at the dead woman beside him. “She was a brave lass; she tried to help me. I should have… loved her better.” Bress sighed, then choked as blood flowed into his throat. He spat it clear. “There is… a weapon. In the house… far wall, beneath the boards. It has a terrible history. But… but you will need it.”

Druss stared down at the dying man and their eyes met. Bress lifted his right hand. Druss took it. “I did my best, boy,” said his father.

“I know.” Bress was fading fast, and Druss was not a man of words. Instead he lifted his father into his arms and kissed his brow, hugging him close until the last breath of life rasped from the broken body.

Then he pushed himself to his feet and entered his father’s home. It had been ransacked - cupboards hauled open, drawers pulled from the dressers, rugs ripped from the walls. But by the far wall the hidden compartment was undiscovered and Druss prised open the boards and hauled out the chest that lay in the dust below the floor. It was locked. Moving through into his father’s workshop, he returned with a large hammer and a chisel which he used to pry off the hinges. Then he took hold of the lid and wrenched it clear, the brass lock twisting and tearing free. Inside, wrapped in oilskin, was an axe. And such an axe! Druss unwrapped it reverently.

The black metal haft was as long as a man’s arm, the double heads shaped like the wings of a butterfly. He tested the edges with his thumb; the weapon was as sharp as his father’s shaving-knife. Silver runes were inscribed on the haft, and though Druss could not read them he knew the words etched there. For this was the awful axe of Bardan, the weapon that had slain men, women, and even children during the reign of terror. The words were part of the dark folklore of the Drenai.

Snaga, the Sender, the blades of no return

He lifted the axe clear, surprised by its lightness and its perfect balance in his hand.

Beneath it in the chest was a black leather jerkin, the shoulders reinforced by strips of silver steel; two black leather gauntlets, also protected by shaped metal knuckle-guards; and a pair of black, knee-length boots. Beneath the clothes was a small pouch, and within it Druss found eighteen silver pieces.

Kicking off his soft leather shoes, Druss pulled on the boots and donned the jerkin. At the bottom of the chest was a helm of black metal, edged with silver; upon the brow was a small silver axe flanked by silver skulls. Druss settled the helm into place, then lifted the axe once more. Gazing down at his reflection in the shining blades, he saw a pair of cold, cold blue eyes, empty, devoid of feeling.

Snaga, forged in the Elder days, crafted by a master. The blade had never been sharpened, for it had never dulled despite the many battles and skirmishes that filled the life of Bardan. And even before that the blade had been in use. Bardan had acquired the battle-axe during the Second Vagrian War, looting it from an old barrow in which lay the bones of an ancient battle king, a monster of Legend, Caras the Axeman.

“It was an evil weapon,” Bress had once told his son. “All the men who ever bore it were killers with no souls.”

“Why do you keep it then?” asked his thirteen-year-old son.

“It cannot kill where I keep it,” was all Bress had answered.

Druss stared at the blade. “Now you can kill,” he whispered.

Then he heard the sound of a walking horse. Slowly he rose.