David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

Jarid heaved himself from her, pulled his leggings up from around his ankles and rolled to his feet. Tess smoothed down her red dress and sat up. Jarid tossed her a full silver piece. 'You want to stay for a little, Jarid? I have some wine.'

'No, I have work to do.' He smiled at her. 'It was good tonight.'

'The best,' she assured him.

Druss finished his meal and pushed away the wooden platter. The meat had been good — lean and tender, covered with savoury spices and a rich, dark gravy. Yet despite the quality of the meal he had barely tasted it. His thoughts remained confused, and melancholy. Meeting Klay had not helped. Damn it, he liked the man!

Druss lifted his tankard and swallowed half the contents. The ale was thin, but refreshing, and brought back memories of his youth and the beer brewed in the mountains. He had grown to manhood among common folk; men and women of simple pleasures who worked from first light to dusk, and lived for their families, battling to put enough bread on the table. Often on summer evenings they would gather in the communal hall and drink ale, sing songs and swap stories. Not for them the great questions of politics, the compromises, the betrayals of ideals. Life was hard, yet uncomplicated.

He had been torn from that life when the renegade Collan led an attack on the village, slaughtering the men and the older women, and taking the young girls captive to be sold as slaves.

Among them had been Druss's wife, Rowena, his love and his life. He had been felling trees, high in the timber-line, when the attack took place. He had returned to the ruins of the village and set off after the killers, and he had found them.

Druss slew many of the raiders, and freed the girls, but Rowena was not with them; Collan had taken her to Mashrapur and sold her to a Ventrian merchant. In order to earn money for passage to Ventria, Druss had become a fighter in the sand circles of Mashrapur. And moment by bone-crunching moment the young farmer had changed, his natural strength and ferocity honed until he became the most feared fighter in the city.

At last he journeyed on, in the company of Sieben and the Ventrian officer Bodasen, joining in the Ventrian Wars and fast earning a deadly reputation. The Silver Slayer, they called him, for his deeds with the shining double-headed axe, Snaga.

Druss fought in a score of battles, and hundreds of skirmishes. Many times he was wounded, yet always he emerged triumphant.

When, after many years, he found Rowena and brought her home, he truly believed that his wanderings and his battles were blood-dreams of the past. Rowena knew differently. Day by day Druss grew more morose. He was no longer a farmer, and could find no pleasure in tilling the earth or tending his cattle. A little more than a year had passed when he journeyed to Dros Delnoch to join a militia force formed to counter raids by Sathuli tribesmen. Six months later, with the Sathuli forced back into the mountains, he returned home with fresh scars and fond memories.

Closing his eyes, he recalled Rowena's words on the night he returned from the Sathuli campaign. Sitting on the goatskin rug before a log fire, she had reached out and taken his hand. 'My poor Druss. How can a man live for war? It is so futile.'

He had seen the sorrow in her hazel eyes, and struggled to find an answer. 'It is not the fighting alone, Rowena. It is the comradeship, the fire in the blood, the facing of fear. When danger threatens I become. . a man.'

Rowena sighed. 'You are what you are, my love. But it saddens me. There is great beauty here — bringing food from the earth, watching the sun rise over the mountains and the moon's reflection dancing upon the lakes. There is contentment, and joy. Yet it is not for you. Tell me, Druss, why did you cross the world for me?'

'Because I love you. You are everything to me.'

She had shaken her head. 'If that were true you would have no desire to leave me and go wandering in search of war. Look around you at the other farmers. Do they rush off to battle?'

Druss rose and strode to the window, pushing the shutters wide and staring out at the distant stars. 'I am not like them any more. I do not know if ever I was. I am a man fitted for war, Rowena.'

'I know,' she said sadly. 'Oh, Druss, I know. .' Draining his tankard now, Druss caught the eye of a blonde serving-maid. 'Another!' he called out, waving the tankard in the air.

'Just a moment, sir,' she answered him. The tavern was almost full, the atmosphere bright and noisy. Druss had found a booth in the corner of the room, where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the crowd. Usually he enjoyed the gently chaotic rhythms of a tavern, the mix of laughter, conversation, the clattering of plates, the clinking of tankards, the shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs. But not tonight.

The maid brought him a second tankard of ale; she was a buxom girl, full-breasted and wide-hipped. 'Did you enjoy your meal, sir?' she asked, leaning forward with her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers stroked up into his short-cropped, dark hair. Rowena often did the same thing, when he was tense or angry. Always it soothed him. He smiled at the girl.

'It was a meal fit for a king, lass. But I didn't enjoy it as I should. Too many weighty problems that I haven't the brain to solve.'

'You need to relax in the company of a woman,' she said, her fingers now stroking his dark beard.

Taking her hand, he gently moved it away from his face. 'My woman is a long way from here, girl. But always she is close to my heart. And pretty as you are, I'll wait to enjoy her company.' Dipping into the pouch at his belt, Druss drew out two silver pieces. 'The one is for the meal, the second for you.'

'You are very kind. If you change your mind. .'

'I won't.'

As she moved away, Druss felt a cold draught upon his cheek.

In that instant all sound died away. Druss blinked. The serving-maid was standing statue-still — her wide skirt, which swished as she walked, motionless. All around him the diners and revellers were frozen in their places. When Druss flicked his gaze to the fire, the tongues of flame were no longer dancing between the logs but standing steady, the smoke above them hanging solid in the chimney. And the normal smells of a tavern, roasted meats, wood-smoke, and stale sweat — had disappeared, to be replaced by the sickly-sweet odour of cinnamon and burning sandalwood.

A small Nadir dressed in a tunic of goat's hair stepped into sight, weaving his way through the silent revellers. He was old, but not ancient, his thinning black hair greasy and lank. Swiftly he crossed the room and seated himself opposite Druss. 'Well met, axeman,' he said, his voice soft, almost sibilant.

Druss looked deep into the man's dark, slanted eyes and read the hatred there. 'Your magic will need to be very strong to stop me reaching across and snapping your scrawny neck,' he said.

The old man grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. 'I am not here to bring you harm, axeman. I am Nosta Khan, shaman to the Wolfshead tribe. You aided a young friend of mine, Talisman; you fought alongside him.'

'What of it?'

'He is important to me. And we Nadir like to repay our debts.'

'I have no need of repayment. There is nothing you can offer me.'

Nosta Khan shook his head. 'Never be too sure, axeman. Firstly, would it surprise you to know that even now there are a dozen men waiting outside, armed with clubs and knives? Their purpose is to prevent you fighting the Gothir Champion. They have been told to cripple you if they can, and kill you if they must.'

'It seems everyone wants me to lose,' said Druss. 'Why do you warn me? And don't insult me with talk of repayment. I can see the hatred in your eyes.'