The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Six

Rowena opened her eyes and saw Michanek sitting at her bedside. He was wearing his ceremonial armour of bronze and gold, the helm with the red crest, and the enamelled cheek-guards, the moulded breastplate covered in sigils and motifs.

“You look very handsome,” she said sleepily.

“And you are very beautiful.”

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. “Why are you wearing that today? It is not as strong as your old breastplate of iron.”

“It will lift morale among the men.” Taking her hand he kissed her palm, then rose and moved towards the door. At the doorway he paused and spoke without looking back. “I have left something for you - in my study. It is wrapped in velvet.”

And then he was gone.

Within minutes Pudri appeared, bearing a tray which he laid down beside her. There were three honey-cakes and a goblet of apple-juice. “The Lord looks very magnificent today,” said the little man, and Rowena saw that his expression was sorrowful.

“What is wrong, Pudri?”

“I don’t like battles,” he told her. “So much blood and pain. But it is even worse when the reasons for battle have long been overtaken by events. Men will die today for no reason. Their lives will be snuffed out like midnight candles. And for why? And will it end here? No. When Gorben is strong enough he will lead a vengeance invasion against the people of Naashan. Futile and stupid!” He shrugged. “Maybe it is because I am a eunuch that I do not understand such matters.”

“You understand them very well,” she said. “Tell me, was I a good seeress?”

“Ah, you must not ask me this, my lady. That was yesterday, and it has flown away into the past.”

“Did the Lord Michanek ask you to withhold my past from me?”

He nodded glumly. “It was for love that he asked this of me. Your Talent almost killed you and he did not wish for you to suffer again. Anyway, your bath is prepared. It is hot and steaming, and I managed to find some rose oil for the water.”

An hour later Rowena was walking through the garden when she saw that the window to Michanek’s study was open. This was unusual, for there were many papers here and the summer breezes would often scatter them around the room. Moving inside,àshe opened the door and pulled shut the small window. Then she saw the package on the oak deskî It was small and, as Michanek had said, was wrapped in purple velvetî

àSlowly she unwrapped theàvelvet toàfind a small, unadorned wooden box withàa hinged lid, which she opened. Within lay a brooch which was simply,àeven crudely, made of soft copper strands surrounding a moonstone. Her mouth was suddenly dry. A part ofàher mind told her the brooch was new to her,àbut a tiny warning bell was ringing in the deep recesses of her soul. This is mine!

Her right hand dropped slowly towards the brooch, then stopped, the fingers hovering just above the moonstone. Rowena drew back, then sat down. She heard Pudri enter the room.

“You were wearing that when I first saw you,” he said gently. She nodded, but did not answer. The little Ventrian approached and handed her a letter, sealed with red wax. “The Lord asked me to give you this when you had seen his… gift.”

Rowena broke the seal and opened the letter. It was written in Michanek’s bold, clear script.

Greetings, Beloved.

I am skilled with the sword, and yet, at this moment, I would sell my soul to be as skilful with words. A long time ago, as you lay dying, I paid three sorcerers to seal your Talents deep within you. In doing so they closed also the doorways of memory.

The brooch was, they told me, made for you as a gift of love. It is the key to your past, and a gift for your future. Of all the pain I have known, there is no suffering greater than the knowledge that your future will be without me. Yet I have loved you, and would not change a single day. And if, by some miracle, I was allowed to return to the past and court you once more, I would do so in the same way, in ful knowledge of the same outcome.

You are the light in my life and the love of my heart.

Farewell, Pahtai. May your paths be made easy, and your soul know many joys.

The letter fell from her hands, floating to the floor. Pudri stepped forward swiftly and placed his slender arm around her shoulders. “Take the brooch, my lady!”

She shook her head. “He’s going to die.”

“Yes,” admitted the Ventrian. “But he bade me urge you to take the brooch. It was his great wish. Do not deny him!”

“I’ll take the brooch,” she said solemnly, “but when he dies, I shall die with him.”

Druss sat in the near deserted camp and watched the attack on the walls. From this distance it seemed that the attackers were insects, swarming up tiny ladders. He watched bodies topple and fall, heard the sound of battle horns and the occasional high-pitched scream that drifted on the shifting breeze. Sieben was beside him.

“The first time I’ve ever seen you miss a fight, Druss. Are you mellowing in your old age?”

Druss did not answer. His pale eyes watched the fighting and saw the smoke seeping out from under the wall. The timber and brushwood in the tunnels were burning now, and soon the foundations of the wall would disappear. As the smoke grew thicker the attackers fell back and waited.

Time passed slowly now in the great silence that descended over the plain. The smoke thickened, then faded. Nothing happened.

Druss gathered his axe and stood. Sieben rose with him. “It didn’t work,” said the poet.

“Give it time,” grunted Druss and he marched forward, Sieben followed until they were within thirty yards of the wall. Gorben was waiting here with his officers around him. No one spoke.

A jagged line, black as a spider’s leg, appeared on the wall, followed by a high screeching sound. The crack widened and a huge block of masonry dislodged itself from a nearby tower, thundering down to crash on the rocks before the wall. Druss could see defenders scrambling back. A second crack appeared… then a third. A huge section of wall crumbled and a high tower pitched to the right, smashing down on the ruined wall and sending up an immense cloud of dust. Gorben covered his mouth with his cloak, and waited until the dust settled.

Where moments before there had been a wall of stone, there were now only jagged ruins like the broken teeth of a giant.

The battle horns sounded. The black line of the Immortals surged forward.

Gorben turned to Druss. “Will you join them in the slaughter?”

Druss shook his head. “I have no stomach for slaughter,” he said.

The courtyard was littered with corpses and pools of blood. Michanek glanced to his right where his brother Narin was lying on his back with a lance jutting from his chest, his sightless eyes staring up at the crimson-stained sky.

Almost sunset, thought Michanek. Blood ran from a wound in his temple and he could feel it trickling down his neck. His back hurt, and when he moved he could feel the arrow that was lodged above his left shoulder-blade gouging into muscle and flesh. It made holding the heavy shield impossible, and Michanek had long since abandoned it. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. A man groaned to his left. It was his cousin Shurpac; he had a terrible wound in his belly, and was attempting to stop his entrails from gushing forth.

Michanek transferred his gaze to the enemy soldiers surrounding him. They had fallen back now, and were standing in a grim circle. Michanek turned slowly. He was the last of the Naashanites still standing. Glaring at the Immortals, he challenged them. “What’s the matter with you? Frightened of Naashanite steel?” They did not move. Michanek staggered and almost fell, but then righted himself.

All pain was fading now.

It had been quite a day. The undermined wall had collapsed, killing a score of his men, but the rest had regrouped well and Michanek was proud of them. Not one had suggested surrender. They had fallen back to the second line of defence and met the Ventrians with arrows, spears and even stones. But there were too many, and it had been impossible to hold a line.

Michanek had led the last fifty warriors towards the inner Keep, but they were cut off and forced down a side road that led to the courtyard of Kabuchek’s old house.

What were they waiting for?

The answer came to him instantly: They are waiting for you to die.

He saw a movement at the edge of the circle, the men moving aside as Gorben appeared - dressed now in a robe of gold, a seven-spiked crown upon his head. He looked every inch the Emperor. Beside him was the axeman, the husband of Pahtai.

“Ready for another duel… my Lord?” called Michanek. A racking cough burst from his lungs, spraying blood into the air.

“Put up your sword, man. It is over!” said Gorben.

“Do I take it you are surrendering?” Michanek asked. “If not, then let me fight your champion!”

Gorben turned to the axeman, who nodded and moved forward. Michanek steadied himself, but his mind was wandering. He remembered a day with Pahtai, by a waterfall. She had made a crown of white water-lilies which she placed on his brow. The flowers were wet and cool; he could feel them now…

No. Fight! Win!

He looked up. The axeman seemed colossal now, towering above him, and Michanek realised he had fallen to his knees. “No,” he said, the words slurring, “I’ll not die on my knees.” Leaning forward he tried to push himself upright, but fell again. Two strong hands took hold of his shoulders, drawing him upright, and he looked into the pale eyes of Druss the Axeman.

“Knew… you would… come,” he said. Druss half carried the dying warrior to a marble bench at the wall of the courtyard, laying him gently to the cool stone. An Immortal removed his own cloak and rolled it into a pillow for the Naashanite general.

Michanek gazed up at the darkening sky, then turned his head. Druss was kneeling alongside him, and beyond the axeman the Immortals waited. At an order from Gorben they drew their swords and held them high, saluting their enemy.

“Druss! Druss!”

“I am here.”

Treat… her… gently.”

“Michanek did not hear his answer.

He was sitting on the grass by a waterfall, the cool petals of a water-lily crown against his skin.

There was no looting in Resha, nor any organised slaughter amongst the population. The Immortals patrolled the city, having first marched through to the centre past cheering crowds who were waving banners and hurling flower petals beneath the feet of the soldiers. In the first hours there were isolated outbursts of violence, as angry citizens gathered in mobs to hunt down Ventrians accused of collaborating with the Naashanite conquerors.

Gorben ordered the mobs dispersed, promising judicial inquiries at a later date to identify those who could be accused of treason. The bodies of the slain were buried in two mass graves beyond the city walls, and the Emperor ordered a monument built above the Ventrian fallen, a huge stone Kon with the names of the dead carved into the base. Above the Naashanite grave there was to be no stone. Michanek, however, was laid to rest in the Hall of the Fallen, below the Great Palace on the Hill that stood like a crown at the centre of Resha.

Food was brought in to feed the populace, and builders began work, removing the dams that had starved the city of water, rebuilding the walls and repairing those houses and shops damaged by the huge stones of the ballistae that had hurtled over the walls during the past three months.

Druss had no interest in the affairs of the city. Day by day he sat at Rowena’s bedside, holding to her cold, pale hand.

After Michanek had died Druss had sought out his house, the directions supplied by a Naashanite soldier who had survived the last assault. With Sieben and Eskodas he had run through the city streets until at last he had come to the house on the hill, entering it through a beautiful garden. There he saw a small man, sitting weeping by an ornamental lake. Druss seized him by his woollen tunic, hauling him to his feet. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“She is dead,” wailed the man, his tears flowing freely. “She took poison. There is a priest with the body.” He pointed to the house, then fell to weeping again. Releasing him, Druss ran in to the house and up the curved stairs. The first three rooms were empty, but in the fourth he found the priest of Pashtar Sen sitting by the bedside.

“Gods, no!” said Druss as he saw the still form of his Rowena, her face grey, her eyes closed. The priest looked up, his eyes tired.

“Say nothing,” urged the priest, his voice weak and seemingly far away. “I have sent for a… a friend. And it is taking all my power to hold her to life.” He closed his eyes. At a loss, Druss walked to the far side of the bed and gazed down on the woman he had loved for so long.

It was seven years since last he had laid eyes on her, and her beauty tore at his heart with talons of steel. Swallowing hard, he sat at the bedside. The priest was holding to her hand; sweat was flowing down his face, making grey streaks on his cheeks, and he seemed mortally weary. When Sieben and Eskodas entered the room Druss waved them to silence, and they sat and waited.

It was almost an hour before another man entered: a bald, portly man with a round red face and comically protruding ears, He was dressed in a long white tunic, and carried a large leather bag slung from his shoulder by a long gold-embroidered strap. Without a word to the three men he moved to the bedside, placing his fingers against Rowena’s neck.

The priest of Pashtar Sen opened his eyes. “She has taken yasroot, Shalitar,” he said.

The bald man nodded. “How long ago?”

“Three hours, though I have prevented most of it from spreading through the blood. But a minute part has reached the lymphatic system.”

Shalitar clicked his teeth, then delved into the leather bag. “One of you fetch water,” he ordered. Eskodas stood and left the room, returning moments later with a silver jug. Shalitar told him to stand close to the head of the bed, then from the bag he produced a small packet of powder which he tipped into the jug. It foamed briefly, then settled. Delving into the bag again, he pulled clear a long grey tube and a funnel. Reaching down, he opened Rowena’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” stormed Druss, grabbing the man’s hand.

The surgeon was unperturbed. “We must get the potion into her stomach. As you can see, she is in no condition to drink, therefore I intend to insert this tube in her throat and pour the potion in through the funnel. It is a delicate business, for I would not want to flood her lungs. It would be hard for me to do it correctly with a broken hand.”

Druss released him, and watched in silent anguish as the tube was eased into her throat. Shalitar held the funnel in place and ordered Eskodas to pour. When half of the contents of the jug had vanished, Shalitar nipped the tube between thumb and forefinger and withdrew it. Kneeling by the bed, he pressed his ear to Rowena’s breast.

“The heartbeat is very slow,” he said, “and weak. A year ago I treated her for plague; she almost died then, but the illness left its mark. The heart is not strong.” He turned to the men. “Leave me now, for I must keep her circulation strong, and that will involve rubbing oil into her legs, arms and back.”

“I’ll not leave,” said Druss.

“Sir, this lady is the widow of the Lord Michanek. She is well loved here - despite being wed to a Naashanite. It is not fitting for men to observe her naked - and any man who causes her shame will not survive the day.”

“I am her husband,” hissed Druss. “The others can go. I stay.”

Shalitar rubbed his chin, but looked ready to argue no further. The priest of Pashtar Sen touched the surgeon’s arm. “It is a long story, my friend, but he speaks truly. Now do your best.”

“My best may not be good enough,” muttered Shalitar.

Three days passed. Druss ate little and slept by the bedside. There was no change in Rowena’s condition, and Shalitar grew ever more despondent. The priest of Pashtar Sen returned on the morning of the fourth day.

“The poison is gone from her body,” said Shalitar, “yet she does not wake.”

The priest nodded sagely. “When first I came, as she was sinking into the coma, I touched her spirit. It was fleeing from life; she had no will to live.”

“Why?” asked Druss. “Why would she want to die?”

The man shrugged. “She is a gentle soul. She first loved you, back in your own lands, and carried that love within as something pure in a tarnished world. Knowing you were coming for her, she was ready to wait. Her Talents grew astonishingly swiftly and they overwhelmed her.

“Shalitar, and some others, saved her life by closing the pathways of that Talent, but in doing so they also took her memory. So here she woke, in the house of Michanek. He was a good man, Druss, and he loved her - as much as you love her. He nursed her to health, and he won her heart. But he did not tell her his greatest secret - that she had, as a seeress, predicted his death… one year to the day after he was wed.

“For several years they lived together, and she succumbed to the plague. During her illness and, as I have said, with no knowledge of her life as a seeress, she asked Michanek why he had never married her. In his fear at her condition, he believed that a marriage would save her. Perhaps he was right. Now we come to the taking of Resha. Michanek left her a gift - this gift,” he said, passing the brooch to Druss.

Druss took the delicate brooch in his huge hand and closed his fingers around it. “I made this,” he said. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”

“This was the key which Michanek knew would unlock her memory. He thought, as I fear men will, that a return of memory would help her assuage her grief at his passing. He believed that if she remembered you, and that if you still loved her, she would have a safe future. His reasoning was flawed, for when she touched the brooch what struck her most was a terrible guilt. She had asked Michanek to marry her, thus assuring - as she saw it - his death. She had seen you, Druss, at the house of Kabuchek, and had run away, frightened to find out her past, terrified it would destroy her new-found happiness. In that one moment she saw herself as a betrayer, and as a harlot and, I fear, as a killer.”

“None of it was her fault,” said Druss. “How could she think it was?”

The priest smiled, but it was Shalitar who spoke. “Any death produces guilt, Druss. A son dies of plague, and the mother will berate herself for not taking the child away to somewhere safe before the disease struck. A man falls to his death, and his wife will think, “If only I had asked him to stay home today.” It is the nature of good people to draw burdens to themselves. All tragedy could be avoided, if only we knew it; therefore when it strikes we blame ourselves. But for Rowena, the weight of guilt was overpowering.”

“What can I do?” the axeman asked.

“Nothing. We must just hope she returns.”

The priest of Pashtar Sen seemed about to speak, but instead stood and walked to the window. Druss saw the change in the man. “Speak,” he said. “What were you about to say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly.

“Let me be the judge of that, if it concerns Rowena.”

The priest sat down and rubbed his tired eyes. “She hovers,” he said at last, “between death and life, her spirit wandering in the Valley of the Dead. Perhaps, if we could find a sorcerer, we could send his spirit after her to bring her home.” He spread his hands. “But I do not know where to find such a man - or woman. And I don’t think we have the time to search.”

“What about your Talent?” asked Druss. “You seem to know of this place.”

The man’s eyes swung away from Druss’s gaze. “I… I do have the Talent, but not the courage. It is a terrible place.” He forced a smile. “I am a coward, Druss. I would die there. It is no place for men of little spirit.”

“Then send me. I’ll find her.”

“You would have no chance. We are talking of a… a realm of dark magic and demons. You would be defenceless against them, Druss; they would overwhelm you.”

“But you could send me there?”

“There is no point. It would be madness.”

Druss turned to Shalitar. “What will happen to her if we do nothing?”

“She has maybe a day… perhaps two. Already she is fading.”

“Then there are no choices, priest,” said Druss, rising and moving to stand before the man. “Tell me how I reach this Valley.”

“You must die,” the priest whispered.

A grey mist swirled, though there was no discernible breeze, and strange sounds echoed eerily from all around him.

The priest was gone now, and Druss was alone.

Alone?

Around him shapes moved in the mist, some huge, some low and slithering. “Keep to the path,” the priest had said. “Follow the road through the mist. Under no circumstances allow yourself to be led from the road.”

Druss glanced down. The road was seamless and grey, as if it had been created from molten stone. It was smooth and flat and the mist held to it, floating and swaying in cold tendrils that swirled around his legs and lower body.

A woman’s voice called to him from the side of the road. He paused and glanced to his right. A dark-haired woman, scarce more than a girl, was sitting on a rock with legs apart, her right hand stroking her thigh. She licked her lips and tossed her head. “Come here,” she called. “Come here!”

Druss shook his head. “I have other business.”

She laughed at him. “Here? You have other business here?” Her laughter rang out and she moved closer to him, but he saw that she did not set foot upon the road. Her eyes were large and golden but there were no pupils, merely black slits in the gold. When her mouth opened a forked tongue darted between her lips, which Druss now saw were grey-blue. Her teeth were small and sharp.

Ignoring her he walked on. An old man was sitting in the centre of the road with shoulders hunched. Druss paused. “Which way, brother?” asked the old man. “Which way do I go? There are so many paths.”

“There is only one,” said Druss.

“So many paths,” repeated the other man. Again Druss moved on, and behind him he heard the woman’s voice speaking to the old man. “Come here! Come here!” Druss didn’t look back, but only moments later he heard a terrible scream.

The road moved ever on through the mist, level and straight as a spear. There were others on the road, some walking tall, others shuffling. No one spoke. Druss moved through them silently, scanning their faces, seeking Rowena.

A young woman stumbled from the path, falling to her knees. Instantly a scaled hand caught at her cloak, dragging her back. Druss was too far back to help, and he cursed and moved on.

Many pathways merged with the road and Druss found himself travelling with a multitude of silent people, young and old. Their faces were blank, their expressions preoccupied. Many left the path and wandered through the mist.

It seemed to the axeman that he had walked for many days. There was no sense of time here, nor any fatigue, nor hunger. Gazing ahead, he could see vast numbers of souls wending their way through the mist-enveloped road.

Despair touched him. How would he find her among so many? Ruthlessly he pushed the fear from his mind, concentrating only on scanning the faces as he moved ever on. Nothing would ever have been achieved, he thought, if men had allowed themselves to be diverted by the scale of the problems faced.

After a while Druss noted that the road was rising. He could see further ahead, and the mist was thinning. There were no more merging pathways now; the road itself was more than a hundred feet wide.

On and on he moved, forcing his way through the silent throng. Then he saw that the road was beginning to diverge once more, into scores of pathways leading to arched tunnels, dark and forbidding.

A small man in a robe of coarse brown wool was moving back through the river of souls. He saw Druss and smiled. “Keep moving, my son,” he said, patting Druss’s shoulder.

“Wait!” called the axeman as the man moved past him. Brown Robe swung back, surprised. Stepping to Druss, he gestured him to the side of the road.

“Let me see your hand, brother,” he said.

“What?”

“Your hand, your right hand. Show me the palm!” The little man was insistent. Druss held out his hand and Brown Robe grasped it, peering intently at the calloused palm. “But you are not ready to pass over, brother. Why are you here?”

“I am looking for someone.”

“Ah,” said the man, apparently relieved. “You are the despairing heart. Many of you try to pass through. Did your loved one die? Has the world treated you savagely? Whatever the answer, brother, you must return whence you came. There is nothing for you here - unless you stray from the path. And then there is only an eternity of suffering. Go back!”

“I cannot. My wife is here. And she is alive - just like me.”

“If she is alive, brother, then she will not have passed the portals before you. No living soul can enter. You do not have the coin.” He held out his own hand. Nestling there was a black shadow, circular and insubstantial. “For the Ferryman,” he said, “and the road to Paradise.”

“If she could not pass the tunnels, then where could she be?” asked Druss.

“I don’t know, brother. I have never left the path and I know not what lies beyond, save that it is inhabited by the souls of the damned. Go to the Fourth Gateway. Ask for Brother Domitori. He is the Keeper.”

Brown Robe smiled, then moved away to be swallowed up by the multitude. Druss joined the flow and eased his way through to the Fourth Gateway where another man in a brown, hooded robe stood silently by the entrance. He was tall and round-shouldered, with sad, solemn eyes. “Are you Brother Domitori?” asked Druss.

The man nodded, but did not speak.

“I am looking for my wife.”

“Pass on, brother. If her soul lives you will find her.”

“She had no coin,” said Druss. The man nodded and pointed to a narrow, winding path that led up and around a low hill.

“There are many such,” said Domitori, “beyond the hill. There they flicker and fade, and rejoin the road when they are ready, when their bodies give up the fight, when the heart ceases.”

Druss turned away, but Domitori called out to him. “Beyond the hill the road is no more. You will be in the Valley of the Dead. Best you arm yourself.”

“I have no weapons here.”

Domitori raised his hand and the flow of souls ceased to move through the Gateway. He stepped alongside Druss. “Bronze and steel have no place here, though you will see what appear to be swords and lances. This is a place of Spirit, and a man’s spirit can be steel or water, wood or fire. To cross the hill - and return - will require courage, and so much more. Do you have faith?”

“In what?”

The man sighed. “In the Source? In yourself? What do you hold most dear?”

“Rowena - my wife.”

“Then holdfast to your love, my friend. No matter what assails you. What do you fear most?”

“Losing her.”

“What else?”

“I fear nothing.”

“All men fear something. And that is your weakness. This place of the Damned and the Dead has an uncanny talent for bringing a man face to face with what he fears. I pray that the Source will guide you. Go in peace, brother.”

Returning to the Gateway he lifted his hand once more, and the entrance opened, the grim, silent flow of souls continuing without pause.

“You gutless whoreson!” stormed Sieben. “I should kill you!”

The surgeon Shalitar stepped between Sieben and the priest of Pashtar Sen. “Be calm,” he urged. The man has admitted to lacking courage and has no need to apologise for it. Some men are tall, some short, some brave, others not so brave.”

“That may be true,” conceded Sieben, “but what chance does Druss have in a world of enchantment and sorcery? Tell me that!”

“I don’t know,” Shalitar admitted.

“No, but he does,” said Sieben. “I have read of the Void; a great many of my tales are centred there. I have spoken to Seekers and mystics who have journeyed through the Mist. All agree on one point - without access to the powers of sorcery a man is finished there. Is that not true, priest?”

The man nodded, but did not look up. He was sitting beside the wide bed upon which lay the still figures of Druss and Rowena. The axeman’s face was pale, and he did not seem to be breathing.

“What will he face there?” insisted Sieben. “Come on, man!”

“The horrors of his past,” answered the priest, his voice barely audible.

“By the gods, priest, I tell you this: If he dies, you will follow him.”

Druss had reached the brow of the hill and gazed down into a parched valley. There were trees, black and dead, silhouetted against the slate-grey earth, as if sketched there with charcoal. There was no wind, no movement save for the few souls who wandered aimlessly across the face of the valley. A little way down the hill he saw an old woman sitting on the ground with head bowed and shoulders hunched. Druss approached her. “I am looking for my wife,” he said.

“You are looking for more than that,” she told him.

He squatted down opposite her. “No, just my wife. Can you help me?”

Her head came up and he found himself staring into deep-set eyes that glittered with malice. “What can you give me, Druss?”

“How is it you know me?” he countered.

“The Axeman, the Silver Slayer, the man who fought the Chaos Beast. Why should I not know you? Now, what can you give me?”

“What do you want?”

“Make me a promise.”

“What promise?”

“You will give me your axe.”

“I do not have it here.”

“I know that, boy,” she snapped. “But in the world above you will give me your axe.”

“Why do you need it?”

“That is no part of the bargain. But look around you, Druss. How will you begin to find her in the time that is left?”

“You can have it,” he said. “Now, where is she?”

“You must cross a bridge. You will find her there. But the bridge is guarded, Druss, by an awesome warrior.”

“Just tell me where it is.”

A staff lay beside the old woman and she used it to lever herself to her feet. “Come,” she said, and began to walk towards a low line of hills. As they walked, Druss saw many new souls wandering down into the valley.

“Why do they come here?” he asked.

“They are weak,” she told him. “Victims of despair, of guilt, of longing. Suicides, mostly. As they wander here their bodies are dying - like Rowena.”

“She is not weak.”

“Of course she is. She is a victim of love - just as you are. And love is the ultimate downfall of Man. There is no abiding strength in love, Druss. It erodes the natural strength of man, it taints the heart of the hunter.”

“I do not believe that.”

She laughed, a dry sound like the rattling of bones.”Yes, you do,”‘ she said. “‘You are not a man of love, Druss. Or was it love that led you to leap upon the decks of the corsair ship, cutting and killing? Was it love that sent you over the battlements at Ectanis? Was it love that carried you through the battles in the sand circles of Mashrapur?” She halted in her stride and turned to face him.”Was it?”

“Yes. Everything was for Rowena - to help me find her. I love her.”

“It is not love, Druss; it is perceived need. You cannot bear what you are without her - a savage, a killer, a brute. But with her it is a different story. You can leach from her purity, suck it in like fine wine. And then you can see the beauty in a flower, smell the essence of life upon the summer breeze. Without her you see yourself as a creature without worth. And answer me this, axeman: If it was truly love, would you not wish for her happiness above all else?”

“Aye, I would. And I do!”

“Really? Then when you found that she was happy, living with a man who loved her, her life rich and secure, what did you do? Did you try to persuade Gorben to spare Michanek?”

“Where is this bridge?” he asked.

“It is not easy to face, is it?” she persisted.

“I am no debater, woman. I only know that I would die for her.”

“Yes, yes. Typical of the male - always look for the easy solutions, the simple answers.” She walked on, cresting the hill, and paused, resting on her staff. Druss gazed down into the chasm beyond. Far, far below a river of fire, at this distance a slender ribbon of flame, flowed through a black gorge. Across the gorge stretched a narrow bridge of black rope and grey timber. At the centre stood a warrior in black and silver with a huge axe in his hands.

“She is on the far side,” said the old woman. “But to reach her you must pass the guardian. Do you recognise him?”

“No.”

“You will.”

The bridge was secured by thick black ropes tied to two blocks of stone. The wooden slats that made up the main body of the structure were, Druss judged, around three feet long and an inch thick. He stepped out on to the bridge, which immediately began to sway. There were no guiding ropes attached by which a man could steady himself and, looking down, Druss felt a sick sense of vertigo.

Slowly he walked out over the chasm, his eyes fixed to the boards.He was half-way to the man in black and silver before he looked up. Then shock struck him like a blow.

The man smiled, bright teeth shining white against the black and silver beard. “I am not you, boy,” he said. “I am everything you could have been.”

Druss stared hard at the man. He was the very image of Druss himself, except that he was older and his eyes, cold and pale, seemed to hold many secrets.

“You are Bardan,” said Druss.

“And proud of it. I used my strength, Druss. I made men shake with fear. I took my pleasures where I wanted them. I am not like you, strong in body but weak in heart. You take after Bress.”

“I take that as a compliment,” said Druss. “For I would never have wanted to be like you - a slayer of babes, an abuser of women. There is no strength in that.”

“I fought men. No man could accuse Bardan of cowardice. Shemak’s balls, boy, I fought armies!”

“I say you were a coward,” said Druss. “The worst kind. What strength you had came from that,” he said, pointing to the axe. “Without it you were nothing. Without it you are nothing.”

Bardan’s face reddened, then grew pale. “1 don’t need this to deal with you, you weak-kneed whoreson. I could take you with my hands.”

“In your dreams,” mocked Druss.

Bardan made as if to lay down the axe, but then hesitated. “You can’t do it, can you?” taunted Druss. “The mighty Bardan! Gods, I spit on you!”

Bardan straightened, the axe still in his right hand. “Why should I lay aside my only friend? No one else stood by me all those lonely years. And here - even here he has been my constant aid.”

“Aid?” countered Druss. “He destroyed you, just as he destroyed Cajivak and all others who took him to their hearts. But I don’t need to convince you, Grandfather: You know it, but you are too weak to acknowledge it.”

“I’ll show you weakness!” roared Bardan, leaping forward with axe raised. The bridge swayed perilously, but Druss leapt in under the swinging axe, hammering a ferocious punch to Bardan’s chin. As the other man staggered, Druss took one running step and leapt feet first, his boots thudding into Bardan’s chest to hurl him back. Bardan lost his grip on the axe and teetered on the edge.

Druss rolled to his feet and dived at the man. Bardan, recovering his footing, snarled and met him head-on. Druss smashed a blow to the other man’s chin, but Bardan rolled with the punch, sending an uppercut which snapped the axeman’s head back. The power in the blow was immense and Druss reeled. A second blow caught him above the ear, smashing him to the boards. Rolling as a booted foot slashed past his ear, he grabbed Bardan’s leg and heaved. The warrior fell heavily. As Druss pushed himself upright, Bardan launched himself from the boards, his hands circling Druss’s throat. The bridge was swaying wildly now and both men fell and rolled towards the edge. Druss hooked his foot into the space between two boards, but he and Bardan were hanging now over the awesome drop.

Druss tore himself free of Bardan’s grip and thundered a punch to the warrior’s chin. Bardan grunted and toppled from the bridge. His hand snaked out to grab Druss’s arm - the wrenching grasp almost pulled Druss over the edge.

Bardan hung above the river of fire, his pale eyes looking up into Druss’s face.

“Ah, but you’re a bonnie fighter, laddie,” said Bardan softly. Druss got a grip on the other man’s jerkin and tried to pull him up on to the bridge.

“Time to die at last,” said Bardan. “You were right. It was the axe, always the axe.” Releasing his hold, he smiled. “Let me go, boy. It’s over.”

“No! Damn you, take my hand!”

“May the gods smile on you, Druss!” Bardan twisted up and hit out at Druss’s arm, dislodging his grip. The bridge swayed again and the black and silver warrior fell. Druss watched him fall, spinning down, down, until he was just a dark speck swallowed up by the river of fire.

Pushing himself to his knees he glanced at the axe. Red smoke swirled from it to form a crimson figure - the skin scaled, the head horned at the temples. There was no nose, merely two slits in the flesh above a shark-like mouth.

“You were correct, Druss,” said the demon affably. “He was weak. As was Cajivak, and all the others. Only you have the strength to use me.”

“I want no part of you.”

The demon’s head lifted and his laughter sounded. “Easy to say, mortal. But look yonder.” At the far end of the bridge stood the Chaos Beast, huge and towering, its taloned paws glinting, its eyes glowing like coals of fire.

Druss felt a swelling of despair and his heart sank as the axe-demon stepped closer, his voice low and friendly. “Why do you hesitate, Man? When have I failed you? On the ship of Earin Shad, did I not turn away the fire? Did I not slip in Cajivak’s grasp? I am your friend, Mortal. I have always been your friend. And in these long and lonely centuries I have waited for a man with your strength and determination. With me you can conquer the world. Without me you will never leave this place, never feel the sun upon your face. Trust me, Druss! Slay the beast - and then we can go home.”

The demon shimmered into smoke, flowing back into the black haft of the axe.

Druss glanced up to see the Chaos Beast waiting at the far end of the bridge. It was even more monstrous now: massive shoulders beneath the black fur, saliva dripping from its huge maw. Stepping forward, Druss gripped the haft of Snaga, swinging the blades into the air.

Instantly his strength returned, and with it a soaring sense of hatred and a lust to cleave and kill. His mouth was dry with the need for battle, and he moved towards the flame-eyed bear. The beast waited with arms at its sides.

It seemed to Druss then that all the evil of the world rested in the creature’s colossal frame, all the frustrations of life, the angers, the jealousies, the vileness - everything that he had ever suffered could be laid upon the black soul of the Chaos Beast. Fury and madness made his limbs tremble and he felt his lips draw back in a snarl as he lifted high the axe and ran at the creature.

The beast did not move. It stood still, arms down and head drooping.

Druss slowed in his charge. Kill it! Kill it! Kill it! He reeled with the intensity of his need to destroy, then looked down at the axe in his hand.

“No!” he shouted, and with one tremendous heave hurled the axe high in the air and out over the chasm. It spun glistening towards the ribbon of flame, and Druss saw the demon spew from it, blackagainst the silver of the blades. Then the axe struck the river of fire. Exhausted, Druss turned back to face the beast.

Rowena stood alone and naked, her gentle eyes watching him.

He groaned and walked towards her. “Where is the beast?” he said.

“There is no beast, Druss. Only me. Why did you change your mind about killing me?”

“You? I would never hurt you! Sweet heaven, how could you think it?”

“You looked at me with hate and then you ran at me with your axe.”

“Oh, Rowena! I saw only a demon. I was bewitched! Forgive me!” Stepping in close he tried to put his arms around her, but she moved back from him.

“I loved Michanek,” she said.

He sighed and nodded. “I know. He was a good man - perhaps a great one. I was with him at the end. He asked me… urged me to look after you. He didn’t need to ask that of me. You are everything to me, you always were. Without you there was no light in my life. And I’ve waited so long for this moment. Come back with me, Rowena. Live!”

“I was looking for him,” she said, tears in her eyes, “but I couldn’t find him.”

“He’s gone where you cannot follow,” said Druss. “Come home.”

“I am both a wife and widow. Where is my home, Druss? Where?”

Her head drooped and bright tears fell to her cheeks. Druss took her in his arms, drawing her in to him. “Wherever you choose to make your home,” he whispered,”I will build it for you. But it should be where the sun shines, and where you can hear the birdsong, smell the flowers. This place is not for you - nor would Michanek want you here. I love you, Rowena. But if you want to live without me I will bear it. Just so long as you live. Come back with me. We’ll talk again in the light.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” she said, clinging to him. “But I miss him so.”

The words tore at Druss, but he held her close and kissed her hair. “Let’s go home,” he said. “Take my hand.”

Druss opened his eyes and drew in a great gulp of air. Beside him Rowena slept. He felt a moment of panic, but then a voice spoke. “She is alive.” Druss sat up, and saw the Old Woman sitting in a chair by the bedside.

“You want the axe? Take it!”

She chuckled, the sound dry and cold. “Your gratitude is overwhelming, axeman. But no, I do not need Snaga. You exorcised the demon from the weapon and he is gone. But I shall find him. You did well, boy. All that hatred and lust for death - yet you overcame it. What a complex creature is Man.”

“Where are the others?” asked Druss.

Taking up her staff, she eased herself to her feet. “Your friends are sleeping. They were exhausted and it took little effort to send them deep into dreams. Good luck to you, Druss. I wish you and your lady well. Take her back to the Drenai mountains, enjoy her company while you can. Her heart is weak, and she will never see the white hair of a human winter. But you will, Druss.”

She sniffed and stretched, her bones creaking. “What did you want with the demon?” asked Druss as she made her way to the door.

She turned in the doorway. “Gorben is having a sword made - a great sword. He will pay me to make it an enchanted weapon. And I shall, Druss. I shall.”

And then she was gone.

Rowena stirred and woke.

Sunlight broke through the clouds and bathed the room.