Gemmell, David - The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

“No, I would mourn for theirs.” She sighed.

“Tell me of him. Is he a swordsman? A soldier?”

“No, he is the son of a carpenter. But once I dreamt I saw him on a mountainside. He was black-bearded and his axe was smeared with blood. And before him were hundreds of souls. They stood mourning their lives. More flowed from his axe, and they wailed. Men of many nations, billowing like smoke until broken by the breeze. All slain by Druss. Mighty Druss. The Captain of the Axe. The Deathwalker.”

“And this is your husband?”

“No, not yet. This is the man he will become if you do not free me. This is the man you created when you slew his father and took me prisoner. You will not stop him, Harib Ka.”

He sent her away then, and ordered the guards to let her remain unmolested.

Collan had come to him and had laughed at his misery. “By Missael, Harib, she is just a village wench and now a slave. She is property. Our property. And her gift makes her worth ten times the price we will receive for any of the others. She is attractive and young - I’d say around a thousand gold pieces’ worth. There is that Ventrian merchant, Kabuchek; he’s always looking for seers and fortune-tellers. I’ll wager he’d pay a thousand.”

Harib sighed. “Aye, you are right, my friend. Take her. We’ll need coin upon our arrival. But don’t touch her, Collan,” he warned the handsome swordsman. “She really does have the Gift, and she will see into your soul.”

“There is nothing to see,” answered Collah, with a harsh, forced smile.

Druss edged his way along the river-bank, keeping close to the undergrowth and pausing to listen. There were no sounds save the rustling of autumn leaves in the branches above, no movement apart from the occasional swooping flight of bat or owl. His mouth was dry, but he felt no fear.

Across the narrow river he saw a white jutting boulder, cracked down the centre. According to Shadak, the first of the sentries was positioned almost opposite. Moving carefully Druss crept back into the woods, then angled towards the river-bank, timing his approach by the wind which stirred the leaves above him, the rustling in the trees masking the sound of his movements.

The sentry was sitting on a rock no more than ten feet to Druss’s right, and he had stretched out his right leg. Taking Snaga in his left hand, Druss wiped his sweating palm on his trews, his eyes scanning the undergrowth for the second sentry. He could see no one.

Druss waited, his back against a broad tree. From a little distance to the left came a harsh, gurgling sound. The sentry heard it too, and rose.

“Bushin! What are you doing there, you fool?”

Druss stepped out behind the man. “He is dying,” he said.

The man spun, hand snaking down for the sword at his hip. Snaga flashed up and across, the silver blade entering the neck just below the ear and shearing through sinew and bone. The head toppled to the right, the body to the left.

Shadak stepped from the undergrowth. “Well done,” he whispered. “Now, when I send the women down to you, get them to wade across by the boulder, then head north up into the canyon to the cave.”

“We’ve been over this many times,” Druss pointed out.

Ignoring the comment, Shadak laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Now, whatever happens, do not come back into the camp. Stay with the women. There is only one path up to the cave, but several leading from it to the north. Get the women moving on the north-west route. You hold the path.”

Shadak faded back into the undergrowth and Druss settled down to wait.

Shadak moved carefully to the edge of the camp. Most of the women were asleep, and a guard was sitting by them; his head was resting against a wagon wheel, and Shadak guessed he was dozing. Unbuckling his sword-belt, he moved forward on his belly, drawing himself on his elbows until he reached the wagon. Slipping his hunting-knife from the sheath at his hip, Shadak came up behind the man - his left hand reached through the wheel, fingers closing on the sentry’s throat. The knife rammed home into the man’s back; his leg jerked once, then he was still.

Moving back from beneath the wagon, Shadak came to the first girl. She was sleeping close to several other women, huddled together for warmth. He clamped a hand over her mouth and shook her. She awoke in a panic and started to struggle.

“I am here to rescue you!” hissed Shadak. “One of your villagers is by the river-bank and he will lead you to safety. You understand? When I release you, slowly wake the others. Head south to the river. Druss, the son of Bress, is waiting there. Nod if you understand me.”

He felt her head move against his hand. “Good. Make sure none of the others make a noise. You must move slowly. Which one is Rowena?”

“She is not with us,” whispered the girl. They took her away.”

“Where?”

“One of the leaders, a man with a scarred cheek, he rode out with her just after dusk.”

Shadak swore softly. There was no time for a second plan. “What is your name?”

“Mari.”

“Well, Mari, get the others moving - and tell Druss to follow the original plan,”

Shadak moved away from the girl, gathered his swords and belted them to his waist. Then he stepped out into the open and strolled casually towards the tent. Only a few men were awake, and they paid little heed to the figure moving through the shadows so confidently.

Lifting the tent-flap he swiftly entered, drawing his right-hand sword as he did so. Harib Ka was sitting on a canvas chair with a goblet of wine in his left hand, a sabre in his right. “Welcome to my hearth, Wolf-man,” he said, with a smile. He drained the goblet and stood. Wine had run into his dark, forked beard, making it shine in the lantern light as if oiled. “May I offer you a drink?”

“Why not?” answered Shadak, aware that if they began to fight too soon the noise of clashing steel would wake the other raiders and they would see the women fleeing.

“You are far from home,” remarked Harib Ka.

“These days I have no home,” Shadak told him.

Harib Ka filled a second goblet and passed it to the hunter. “You are here to kill me?”

“I came for Collan. I understand he has gone?”

“Why Collan?” asked Harib Ka, his dark eyes glittering in the golden light.

“He killed my son in Corialis.”

“Ah, the blond boy. Fine swordsman, but too reckless.”

“A vice of the young.” Shadak sipped his wine, his anger controlled like an armourer’s fire, hot but contained.

“That vice killed him,” observed Shadak. “Collan is very skilled. Where did you leave the young villager, the one with the axe?”

“You are well informed.”

“Only a few hours ago his wife stood where you now stand; she told me he was coming. She’s a witch - did you know that?”

“No. Where is she?”

“On her way to Mashrapur with Collan. When do you want the fight to begin?”

“As soon as…” began Shadak, but even as he was speaking Harib attacked, his sabre slashing for Shadak’s throat. The hunter ducked, leaned to the left and kicked out at Harib’s knee. The Ventrian crashed to the floor and Shadak’s sword touched the skin of Harib’s throat. “Never fight drunk,” he said softly.

“I’ll remember that. What now?”

“Now tell me where Collan stays in Mashrapur.”

“The White Bear Inn. It’s in the western quarter.”

“I know that. Now, what is your life worth, Harib Ka?”

“To the Drenai authorities? Around a thousand gold pieces. To me? I have nothing to offer - until I sell my slaves.”

“You have no slaves.”

“I can find them again. Thirty women on foot in the mountains will pose me no problem.”