He picked up the axe, but it too fell to the floor, the prongs of the blades embedding in a wooden plank. “Go back and sleep, sir. I’ll bring your… weapon with me later.”
“He nodded and weaved his way towards the door.
Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the fading sunlight, his stomach lurching. Someone spoke from his left, asking him a question. Druss tried to turn, but stumbled into the man and they both fell against the wall. He tried to right himself, grabbing the man’s shoulder and heaving himself upright. Through the fog in his mind he heard other men running in. One of them screamed. Druss lurched back and saw a long-bladed dagger clatter to the ground. The former wielder was standing alongside him, his right arm raised unnaturally. Druss blinked. The man’s wrist was pinned to the inn door by a throwing knife.
He heard the rasp of swords being drawn. “Defend yourself, you fool!” came a voice.
A swordsman ran at him and Druss stepped in to meet him, parrying the lunging blade with his forearm and slamming a right cross to the warrior’s chin. The swordsman went down as if poleaxed. Swinging to meet the second attacker, Druss lost his balance and fell heavily. But in mid-swing the swordsman also stumbled and Druss lashed out with his foot, catching his assailant on the heel and catapulting him to the ground. Rolling to his knees, Druss grabbed the fallen man by the hair and hauled him close, delivering a bone-crunching head butt to the warrior’s nose. The man slumped forward, unconscious. Druss released him.
Another man moved alongside him and Druss recognised the handsome young poet. “Gods, you reek of cheap wine,” said Sieben.
“Who… are you?” mumbled Druss, trying to focus on the man with his arm pinned to the door.
“Miscreants,” Sieben told him, moving alongside the stricken warrior and levering his knife clear. The man screamed in pain but Sieben ignored him and returned to the street. “I think you’d better come with me, old horse.”
Druss remembered little of the walk through the town, only that he stopped twice to vomit, and his head began to ache abominably.
He awoke at midnight and found himself lying on a porch under the stars. Beside him was a bucket. He sat up… and groaned as the terrible pounding began in his head. It felt as if an iron band had been riveted to his brow. Hearing sounds from within the house, he stood and moved to the door. Then he halted. The sounds were unmistakable.
“Oh, Sieben… Oh… Oh… !”
Druss swore and returned to the edge of the porch. A breath of wind touched his face, bringing with it an unpleasant smell, and he gazed down at himself. His jerkin was soiled with vomit, and he stank of stale sweat and travel. To his left was a well. Forcing himself upright, he walked to it, and slowly raised the bucket. Somewhere deep within his head a demon began to strike at his skull with a red-hot hammer. Ignoring the pain, Druss stripped to the waist and washed himself with the cold water.
He heard the door open and turned to see a dark-haired young woman emerge from the house. She looked at him, smiled, then ran off through the narrow streets. Lifting the bucket, Druss tipped the last of the contents over his head.
“At the risk of being offensive,” said Sieben from the doorway, “I think you need a little soap. Come inside. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and I’ve heated some water. Gods, it’s freezing out here.”
Gathering his clothes, Druss followed the poet inside. The house was small, only three rooms, all on the ground floor - a cook-room with an iron stove, a bedroom and a square dining-room with a stone-built hearth in which a fire was blazing. There was a table with four wooden chairs and on either side of the hearth were comfort seats of padded leather stuffed with horsehair.
Sieben led him to the cloakroom where he filled a bowl with hot water. Handing Druss a slab of white soap and a towel, he opened a cupboard door and removed a plate of sliced beef and a loaf of bread. “Come in and eat when you’re ready,” said the poet, as he walked back to the dining-room.
Druss scrubbed himself with the soap, which smelled of lavender, then cleaned his jerkin and dressed. He found the poet sitting by the fire with his long legs stretched out, a goblet of wine in one hand. The other slender hand swept through the shoulder-length blond hair, sweeping it back over his head. Holding it in place, he settled a black leather headband over his brow; at the centre of the band was a glittering opal. The poet lifted a small oval mirror and studied himself. “Ah, what a curse it is to be so good-looking,” he said, laying aside the mirror. “Care for a drink?” Druss felt his stomach heave and shook his head. “Eat, my large friend. You may feel as if your stomach will revolt, but it is the best thing for you. Trust me.”
Druss tore off a hunk of bread and sat down, slowly chewing it. It tasted of ashes and bile, but he finished it manfully. The poet was right. His stomach settled. The salted beef was harder to take but, washed down with cool water, he soon began to feel his strength returning. “I drank too much,” he said.
“No, really? Two quarts, I understand.”
“I don’t remember how much. Was there a fight?”
“Not much of one, by your standards.”
“Who were they?”
“Some of the raiders you attacked.”
“I should have killed them.”
“Perhaps - but in the state you were in you should consider yourself lucky to be alive.”
Druss filled a clay cup with water and drained it. “You helped me, I remember that. Why?”
“A passing whim. Don’t let it concern you. Now, tell me again about your wife and the raid.”
“To what purpose? It’s done. All I care about is finding Rowena.”
“But you will need my help - otherwise Shadak wouldn’t have sent you to me. And I like to know the kind of man I’m expected to travel with. You understand? So tell me.”
“There isn’t a great deal to tell. The raiders…”
