“I certainly would,” muttered Druss. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been sliced.”
“I’ll get it,” said Orases swiftly.
“I think he’s a little in awe of you, Druss,” said Diagoras as Orases raced from the tent.
“It happens,” said Druss. “Why don’t you ask me to sit down?”
Diagoras chuckled and pulled up a chair. Druss reversed it and sat. The others followed suit and the atmosphere eased. The world is getting younger, thought Druss, wishing he had never come.
“May I see your axe, sir?” asked Certak.
“Certainly,” said Druss, pulling Snaga smoothly from the oiled sheath. In the older man’s hands the weapon seemed almost weightless, but as it passed to Certak the officer grunted.
“The blade that smote the Chaos Hound,” whispered Certak, turning it over in his hands, then returning it to Druss.
“Do you believe everything you hear?” said Archytas, sneering.
“Did it happen, Druss?” said Diagoras, before Certak could answer.
“Yes. A long time ago. But it scarce pierced its hide.”
“Was it true they were sacrificing a princess?” asked Certak.
“No. Two small children. But tell me about yourselves,” said Druss. “Wherever I go people ask me the same questions and I get very bored.”
“If you’re that bored,” said Archytas, “why do you take the poet with you on all your adventures?”
“What does that mean?”
“Quite simply that it seems strange for a man as modest as you seem to be to take a saga master with him. Although it proved very convenient.”
“Convenient?”
“Well, he created you, didn’t he? Druss the Legend. Fame and fortune. Surely any wandering warrior with such a companion could have been boosted into legend?”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Druss. “I’ve known a lot of men in my time whose deeds are forgotten, but who were worthy of remembrance in song or tale. I never really thought of it before.”
“How much of Sieben’s great saga is exaggerated?” asked Archytas.
“Oh do shut up,” snapped Diagoras.
“No,” said Druss, lifting his hand. “You’ve no idea how good this is. Always people ask me about the stories, and whenever I tell them they are - shall we say - rounded, they disbelieve me. But it’s true. The stories are not about me. They are based on the truth, but they have grown. I was the seed; they have become the tree. I never met a princess in my life. But to answer your first question. I never took Sieben on my quest. He just came. I think he was bored and wanted to see the world.”
“But did you slay the werebeast in the mountains of Pelucid?” said Certak.
“No. I just killed a lot of men in a lot of battles.”
“Then why do you allow the poems to be sung?” asked Archytas.
“If I could have stopped them I would,” Druss told him. “The first few years of my return were a nightmare. But I’ve got used to it since. People believe what they want to believe. The truth rarely makes a difference. People need heroes, and if they don’t have any, they invent them.”
Orases returned with a bowl of stew and a loaf of black bread. “Have I missed anything?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Druss. “We were just chatting.”
“Druss has been telling us that his legend is all lies,” said Archytas. “It’s been most revealing.”
Druss chuckled with genuine humour and shook his head. “You see,” he told Diagoras and Certak, “people believe what they want to believe, and hear only what they wish to hear.” He glanced across at the tight-lipped Archytas. “Boy, there was a time when your blood would now be staining the walls of this tent. But I was younger then, and headstrong. Now I get no delight from killing puppies. But I am still Druss, so I tell you this, walk softly around me from now on.”
Archytas forced a laugh. “You cause me no concern, old man,” he said. “I don’t think…”
Druss rose swiftly and backhanded him across the face. Archytas hurtled backwards over his chair to lie groaning on the tent floor, his nose smashed and leaking blood.
“No, you don’t think,” said Druss. “Now give me that stew, Orases. It must be getting cold.”
“Welcome to Skeln, Druss,” said Diagoras, grinning.
For three days Druss remained at the camp. Sieben had woken in Delnar’s trent, complaining of chest pains. The regimental surgeon examined him and ordered him to rest, explaining to Druss and Delnar that the poet had suffered a serious spasm of the heart.
“How bad is it?” asked Druss.
The surgeon’s eyes were bleak. “If he rests for a week or two he could be fine. The danger is that the heart might cramp suddenly - and fail. He’s not a young man, and the journey here was hard for him.”
“I see,” said Druss. “Thank you.” He turned to Delnar. “I am sorry, but we must stay.”
“Do not concern yourself, my friend,” responded the Earl, waving his hand. “Despite what I said when you
