“Good evening, my son,” said the priest from the temple back in Capalis. Druss nodded curtly, then donned his jerkin and sat down. The priest made no move to walk on but stood gazing down at the axeman. “I have been looking for you these past months.”
“You have found me,” said Druss, his voice even.
“May I join you for a few moments?”
“Why not?” responded Druss, making room on the seat where the priest sat alongside the black-garbed warrior.
“Our last meeting troubled me, my son. I have spent many an evening in prayer and meditation since then; finally I walked the Paths of Mist to seek out the soul of your loved one, Rowena. This proved fruitless. I journeyed through the Void on roads too dark to speak of. But she was not there, nor did I find any souls who knew of her death. Then I met a spirit, a grossly evil creature, who in this life bore the name Earin Shad. A corsair captain also called Bojeeba, the Shark, he knew of your wife, for this was the ship that plundered the vessel on which she was sailing. He told me that when his corsairs boarded the ship a merchant named Kabuchek, another man and a young woman leapt over the side. There were sharks everywhere, and much blood in the water once the slaughter started on the deck.”
“I don’t need to know how she died!” snapped Druss.
“Ah, but that is my point,” said the priest. “Earin Shad believes that she and Kabuchek were slain. But they were not.”
“What?”
“Kabuchek is in Resha, building more fortunes. He has a seeress with him whom they call Pahtai, the little dove. I have seen her, in spirit. I read her thoughts; she is Rowena, your Rowena.”
“She is alive?”
“Yes,” said the priest softly.
“Sweet Heaven!” Druss laughed and threw his arms around the priest’s scrawny shoulders. “By the gods, you have done me a great service. I’ll not forget it. If ever there is anything you need from me, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, my son. I wish you well in your quest. But there is one more matter to discuss: the axe.”
“What about it?” asked Druss, suddenly wary, his hands reaching down to curl around the haft.
“It is an ancient weapon, and I believe that spells were cast upon the blades. Someone of great power, in the distant past, used sorcery to enhance the weapon.”
“So?”
“There were many methods. Sometimes the spell would merely involve the armourer’s blood being splashed upon the blades. At other times a binding spell would be used. This served to keep the edge keen, giving it greater cutting power. Small spells, Druss. Occasionally a master of the arcane arts would bring his skills to bear on a weapon, usually one borne by a king or lord. Some blades could heal wounds, others could cut through the finest armour.”
“As indeed can Snaga,” said Druss, hefting the axe. The blades glittered in the moonlight and the priest drew back. “Do not be frightened,” said Druss. “I’ll not harm you, man.”
“I do not fear you, my son,” the priest told him. “I fear what lives within those blades.”
Druss laughed. “So someone cast a spell a thousand years ago? It is still an axe.”
“Yes, an axe. But the greatest of spells was woven around these blades, Druss. An enchantment of colossal skill was used. Your friend Sieben told me that when you were attacking the corsairs a sorcerer cast a spell at you, a spell of fire. When you lifted your axe Sieben saw a demon appear, scaled and horned; he it was who turned back the fire.”
“Nonsense,” said Druss, “it bounced from the blades. You know, Father, you shouldn’t take a great deal of notice when Sieben speaks. The man is a poet. He builds his tales well, but he embroiders them, adds little touches. A demon indeed!”
“He needed to add no touches, Druss. I know of Snaga the Sender. For in finding your wife I also learned something of you, and the weapon you bear: Bardan’s weapon. Bardan the Slayer, the butcher of babes, the rapist, the slaughterer. Once he was a hero, yes? But he was corrupted. Evil wormed into his soul, and the evil came from that!” he said, pointing to the axe.
“I don’t believe it. I am not evil, and I have carried this axe for almost a year now.”
“And you have noticed no change in yourself? No lusting after blood and death? You do not feel a need to hold the axe, even when battle is not near? Do you sleep with it beside you?”
“It is not possessed!” roared Druss. “It is a fine weapon. It is my….” he stumbled to silence.
“My friend”? Is that what you were going to say?”
“What if I was? I am a warrior, and in war only this axe will keep me alive. Better than any friend, eh?” As he spoke he lifted the axe… and it slipped from his grip. The priest threw up his hands as Snaga plunged down towards his throat, but in that instant Druss’s left hand slammed into the haft, just as the priest pushed at the shining blades. The axe crashed to the stones, sending up a shower of sparks from the flints embedded in the paving slabs.
“God, I’m sorry. It just slipped!” said Druss. “Are you hurt?”
The priest rose. “No, it did not cut me. And you are wrong, young man. It did not slip; it wanted me dead, and had it not been for your swift response, so would I have been.”
“It was an accident, Father, I assure you.”
The priest gave a sad smile. “You saw me push away the blades with my hand?”
“Aye?” responded Druss, mystified.
“Then look,” said the priest, lifting his hand with the palm outward. The flesh was seared and blackened, the skin burned black, blood and water streaming from the wound. “Beware, Druss, the beast within will seek to kill any who threaten it.”
Druss gathered the axe and backed from the priest. “Look after that wound,” he said. Then he turned and strode away.
He was shocked by what he had seen. He knew little of demons and spells, save what the storytellers sang of when they had visited the village. But he did know the value of a weapon like Snaga - especially in an alien, war-torn land. Druss came to a halt and, lifting the axe, he gazed into his own reflection in the blades.
“I need you,” he said softly, “If I am to find Rowena and get her home.” The haft was warm, the weapon light in his hand. He sighed. “I’ll not give you up. I can’t. And anyway, damn it all, you are mine!”
You are mine! came an echo deep inside his mind. You are mine!
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
BOOK THREE: The Chaos Warrior
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter One
Varsava was enjoying the first sip of his second goblet of wine when the body hit the table. It arrived head-first, splintering the central board of the trestle table, striking a platter of meat and sliding towards Varsava. With great presence of mind the bladesman lifted his goblet high and leaned back as the body hurtled past to slam head-first into the wall. Such was the impact that a jagged crack appeared in the white plaster, but there was no sound from the man who caused it as he toppled from the table and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Glancing to his right, Varsava saw that the inn was crowded, but the revellers had moved back to form a circle around a small group struggling to overcome a black-bearded giant. One fighter - a petty thief and pickpocket Varsava recognised - hung from the giant’s shoulders, his arms encircling the man’s throat. Another was slamming punches into the giant’s midriff, while a third pulled a dagger and ran in. Varsava sipped his wine. It was a good vintage - at least ten years old, dry and yet full-bodied.
The giant hooked one hand over his shoulder, grabbing the jerkin of the fighter hanging there. Spinning, he threw the man into the path of the oncoming knifeman, who stumbled and fell into the giant’s rising boot. There followed a sickening crack and the knifeman slumped to the floor, either his neck or his jaw broken.
The giant’s last opponent threw a despairing punch at the black-bearded chin and the fist landed - to no effect. The giant reached f
orward and pulled the fighter into a head butt. The sound made even Varsava wince. The fighter took two faltering steps backwards, then keeled over in perfect imitation of a felled tree.
“Anyone else?” asked the giant, his voice deep and cold. The crowd melted away and the warrior strode through the inn, coming to Varsava’s table. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, slumping down to sit opposite the bladesman.
“It is now,” said Varsava. Lifting his hand he waved to a tavern maid and, once he had her attention, pointed to his goblet. She smiled and brought a fresh flagon of wine. The bench table was split down the centre, and the flagon sat drunkenly between the two men. “May I offer you some wine?” Varsava asked.
“Why not?” countered the giant, filling a clay goblet. A low moan came from behind the table.
“He must have a hard head,” said Varsava. “I thought he was dead.”
“If he comes near me again, he will be,” promised the man. “What is this place?”
“It’s called the All but One,” Varsava told him.
“An odd name for an inn?”
Varsava looked into the man’s pale eyes. “Not really. It comes from a Ventrian toast: may all your dreams - save one - come true.”‘
“What does it mean?”
“Quite simply that a man must always have a dream unfulfilled. What could be worse than to achieve everything one has ever dreamed of? What would one do then?”
“Find another dream,” said the giant.
“Spoken like a man who understands nothing about dreams.”
The giant’s eyes narrowed. “Is that an insult?”
“No, it is an observation. What brings you to Lania?”
“I am passing through,” said the man. Behind him two of the injured men had regained their feet; both drew daggers and advanced towards them, but Varsava’s hand came up from beneath the table with a huge hunting-knife glittering in his fist. He rammed the point into the table and left the weapon quivering there.
“Enough,” he told the would-be attackers, the words softly spoken, a smile upon his face. “Pick up your friend here and find another place to drink.”
“We can’t let him get away with this!” said one of the men, whose eye was blackened and swollen almost shut.
“He did get away with it, my friends. And if you persist in this foolishness, I think he will kill you. Now go away, I am trying to hold a conversation.” Grumbling, the men sheathed their blades and moved back into the crowd. “Passing through to where?” he asked the giant. The fellow seemed amused.
“You handled that well. Friends of yours?”
“They know me,” answered the bladesman, offering his hand across the table. “I am Varsava.”
“Druss.”
“I’ve heard that name. There was an axeman at the siege of Capalis. There’s a song about him, I believe.”
“Song!” snorted Druss. “Aye, there is, but I had no part in the making of it. Damn fool of a poet I was travelling with - he made it up. Nonsense, all of it.”
Varsava smiled. “They speak in hushed whispers of Druss and his axe, even demons will scatter when this man attacks.”
Druss reddened. “Asta’s tits! You know there’s a hundred more lines of it?” He shook his head. “Unbelievable!”
“There are worse fates in life than to be immortalised in song. Isn’t there some part of it about a lost wife? Is that also an invention?”
“No, that’s true enough,” admitted Druss, his expression changing as he drained his wine and poured a second goblet. In the silence that followed, Varsava leaned back and studied his drinking companion. The man’s shoulders were truly immense and he had a neck like a bull. But it was not the size that gave him the appearance of a giant, Varsava realised, it was more a power that emanated from him. During the fight he had seemed seven feet tall, the other warriors puny by comparison. Yet here, sitting quietly drinking, Druss seemed no more than a large, heavily muscled young man. Intriguing, thought Varsava.
“If I remember aright, you were also at the relief of Ectanis, and four other southern cities?” he probed. The man nodded, but said nothing. Varsava called for a third flagon of wine and tried to recall all he had heard of the young axeman. At Ectanis, it was said, he had fought the Naashanite champion, Cuerl, and been one of the first to scale the walls. And two years later he had held, with fifty other men, the pass of Kishtay, denying the road to a full legion of Naashanite troops until Gorben could arrive with reinforcements.
“What happened to the poet?” asked Varsava, searching for a safe route to satisfy his curiosity.
Druss chuckled. “He met a woman… several women, in fact. Last I heard he was living in Pusha with the widow of a young officer.” He laughed again and shook his head. “I miss him; he was merry company.” The smile faded from Druss’s face. “You ask a lot of questions?”
Varsava shrugged. “You are an interesting man, and there is not much of interest these days in Lania. The war has made it dull. Did you ever find your wife?”
“No. But I will. What of you? Why are you here?”
“I am paid to be here,” said Varsava. “Another flagon?”
“Aye, and I’ll pay for it,” promised Druss. Reaching out, he took hold of the huge knife embedded in the table and pulled it clear. “Nice weapon, heavy but well balanced. Good steel.”
“Lentrian. I had it made ten years ago. Best money I ever spent. You have an axe, do you not?”
Druss shook his head. “I had one once. It was lost.”
“How does one lose an axe?”
Druss smiled. “One falls from a cliff into a raging torrent.”
“Yes, I would imagine that would do it,” responded Varsava. “What do you carry now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all? How did you cross the mountains to Lania without a weapon?”
“I walked.”
“And suffered no attacks from robbers? Did you travel with a large group?”
“I have answered enough questions. Now it is your turn. Who pays you to sit and drink in Lania?”
“A nobleman from Resha who has estates near here. While he was away fighting alongside Gorben, raiders came down from the mountains and plundered his palace. His wife and son were taken, his servants murdered - or fled. He has hired me to locate the whereabouts - if still alive - of his son.”
“Just the son?”
“Well, he wouldn’t want the wife back, would he?”
Druss’s face darkened. “He would - if he loved her.”
Varsava nodded. “Of course, you are a Drenai,” he said. “The rich here do not marry for love, Druss; they wed for alliances or wealth, or to continue family lines. It is not rare for a man to find that he does love the woman he has been told to marry, but neither is it common. And a Ventrian nobleman would find himself a laughing-stock if he took back a wife who had been - shall we say - abused. No, he has already divorced her; it is the son who matters to him. If I can locate him, I receive one hundred gold pieces. If I can rescue him, the price goes up to one thousand.”
Another flagon of wine arrived. Druss filled his goblet and offered the wine to Varsava, who declined. “My head is already beginning to spin, my friend. You must have hollow legs.”
“How many men do you have?” asked Druss.
“None. I work alone.”
“And you know where the boy is?”
“Yes. Deep in the mountains there is a fortress called Valia, a place for thieves, murderers, outlaws and renegades. It is ruled by Cajivak - you have heard of him?” Druss shook his head. “The man is a monster in every respect. Bigger than you, and terrifying in battle. He is also an axeman. And he is insane.”
Druss drank the wine, belched and leaned forward. “Many fine warriors are considered mad.”
“I know that - but Cajivak is different. During the last year he has led raids which have seen mindless slaughter that you would not believe. He has his victims impaled on spikes, or skin
ned alive. I met a man who served him for almost five years; that’s how I found out where the boy was. He said Cajivak sometimes speaks with a different voice, low and chilling, and that when he does so his eyes gleam with a strange light. And always - when such madness is upon him - he kills. It could be a servant or a tavern wench, or a man who looks up just as Cajivak’s eyes meet his. No, Druss, we are dealing with madness… or possession.”
“How do you intend to rescue the boy?”
Varsava spread his hands. “I was contemplating that when you arrived. As yet, I have no answers.”
“I will help you,” said Druss.
Varsava’s eyes narrowed. “For how much?”
“You can keep the money.”
“Then why?” asked the bladesman, mystified.
But Druss merely smiled and refilled his goblet.
Druss found Varsava an agreeable companion. The tall bladesman said little as they journeyed through the mountains and up into the high valleys far above the plain on which Lania sat. Both men carried packs, and Varsava wore a wide-brimmed brown leather hat with an eagle feather tucked into the brim. The hat was old and battered, the feather ragged and without sheen. Druss had laughed when first he saw it, for Varsava was a handsome man - his clothes immaculately styled from fine green wool, his boots of soft lambskin. “Did you lose a wager?” asked Druss.
“A wager?” queried Varsava.
“Aye. Why else would a man wear such a hat?”
“Ah!” said the bladesman. “I imagine that is what passes as humour among you barbarians. I’ll have you know that this hat belonged to my father.” He grinned. “It is a magic hat and it has saved my life more than once.”
“I thought Ventrians never lied,” said Druss.
“Only noblemen,” Varsava pointed out. “However, on this occasion I am telling the truth. The hat helped me escape from a dungeon.” He removed it and tossed it to Druss. “Take a look under the inside band.”
Druss did so and saw that a thin saw blade nestled on the right side, while on the left was a curved steel pin. At the front he felt three coins and slipped one clear; it was gold. “I take it all back,” said Druss. “It is a fine hat!”
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