“Then you will have a chance to start anew. For after we have finished she will have no memory. What will you tell her?”
“I don’t know. But I will give her love.”
“You intend to marry her?”
Michanek thought back to her prophecy. “No, my friend. I have decided never to marry.”
Druss wandered along the dark streets of the newly captured city, his head aching, his mood restless. The battle had been bloody and all too brief, and he was filled with a curious sense of anti-climax. He sensed a change in himself, unwelcome and yet demanding; a need for combat, to feel the axe crushing bone and flesh, to watch the light of life disappear from an enemy’s eyes.
The mountains of his homeland seemed an eternity from him, lost in some other time.
How many men had he slain since setting off in search of Rowena? He no longer knew, nor cared. The axe felt light in his hand, warm and companionable. His mouth was dry and he longed for a cool drink of water. Glancing up, he saw a sign proclaiming “Spice Street.” Here in more peaceful times traders had delivered their herbs and spices to be packed into bales for export to the west. Even now there was a scent of pepper in the air. At the far end of the street, where it intersected with the market square, was a fountain and beside it a brass pump with a long curved handle and a copper cup attached by a slender chain to an iron ring. Druss filled the cup, then resting the axe against the side of the fountain wall he sat quietly drinking. Every so often, though, his hand would drop to touch Snaga’s black haft.
When Gorben had ordered the last attack on the doomed Naashanites, Druss had longed to hurl himself into the fray, had felt the call of blood and the need to kill. It had taken all of his strength to resist the demands of his turbulent spirit. For the enemy in the keep had begged to surrender and Druss had known with certainty that such a slaughter was wrong. The words of Shadak came back to him:
“The true warrior lives by a code. He has to. For each man there are different perspectives, but at the core they are the same. Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These things are for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into pursuit of evil.”
Numbering only a few hundred, the Naashanites had had no chance. But Druss still felt somehow cheated, especially when, as now, he recalled the warm, satisfying, triumphant surging of spirit during the fight in the camp of Harib Ka, or the blood-letting following his leap to the deck of the corsair trireme. Pulling clear his helm, he dipped his head into the water of the fountain pool and then stood, removed his jerkin and washed his upper body. Movement from his left caught his eye as a tall, bald man in robes of grey wool came into sight.
“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.”
