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 forward 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.
