the valley. “There must be fifty homes here,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Varsava. “Farmers mostly. Cajivak leaves them alone, for they supply him with meat and grain during the winter months. But it will be best if we make a cold camp in the trees, for Cajivak will have spies in the village, and I don’t want our presence announced.”
The two men moved out from the pass and into the shelter of the trees. The wind was less powerful here and they walked on, seeking a camp-site. The landscape was similar to the mountains of home and Druss found himself once more thinking of days of happiness with Rowena. When he had set out with Shadak to find her, he had been convinced that only a matter of days separated them. Even on board ship he had believed his quest was almost over. But the months, and years, of pursuit had gnawed at his confidence. He knew he would never give up the hunt, but to what purpose? What if she were wed, or had children? What if she had found happiness without him? What then, as he walked back into her life?
His thoughts were broken by the sounds of laughter echoing through the trees. Varsava stopped and moved silently from the trail and Druss followed him. Ahead and to the left was a hollow through which ran a ribbon stream, and at the centre of the hollow a group of men were throwing knives at a tree-trunk. An old man was tied to the trunk, his arms spread. A blade had nicked the skin of his face, there were wounds to both arms and a knife jutted from his thigh. It was obvious to Druss that the men were playing a game wjth the old man, seeing how close they could come with their knives. To the left of the scene three other men were struggling with a young girl, who screamed as they tore her dress and pushed her to the earth. As Druss loosed his pack and started down the slope, Varsava grabbed him. “What are you doing? There are ten of them!”
But Druss shrugged him off and strode through the trees to come up behind the seven knife-throwers. Intent as they were on their victim, they did not notice his approach. Reaching out, he grabbed the heads of the two nearest knifemen and rammed them together; there followed a sickening crack and both men dropped without a murmur. A third man swung at the sound, but had no time to register surprise as a silver-skinned gauntlet slammed into his mouth, splintering teeth. Unconscious, the knifeman flew backwards to cannon into a comrade. A warrior leapt at Druss, thrusting his blade towards his belly, but Druss slapped the blade aside and hammered a straight left into the man’s chin. The remaining warriors ran at him, and a knife-blade slashed through his jerkin, ripping a narrow gash across his hip. Druss grabbed the nearest warrior, dragging him into a ferocious head butt, then swung and backhanded another attacker. The man cartwheeled across the hollow, struggled to rise, then sat back against a tree having lost all interest in the fight.
Grappling with two men, Druss heard a bloodcurdling scream. His attackers froze. Druss dragged an arm free and struck the first of the men a terrible blow to the neck. The second released his hold on the axeman and sprinted from the hollow. Druss’s pale eyes scanned the area, seeking new opponents. But only Varsava was standing there, his huge hunting-knife dripping blood. Two corpses lay beside him. Three other men Druss had struck lay where they had fallen, and the warrior he had backhanded was still sitting by the tree. Druss walked to where he sat, then hauled him to his feet. “Time to go, laddie!” said Druss.
“Don’t kill me!” pleaded the man.
“Who said anything about killing? Be off with you!”
The man tottered away on boneless legs as Druss moved to the old man tied to the tree. Only one of his wounds was deep. Druss untied him and eased him to the ground. Swiftly he dragged the knife clear of the man’s thigh as Varsava came alongside. That will need stitching,” he said. “I’ll get my pack.”
The old man forced a smile. “I thank you, my friends. I fear they would have killed me. Where is Dulina?”
Druss glanced round, but the girl was nowhere in sight. “She was not harmed,” he said. “I think she ran when the fight started.” Druss applied a tourniquet to the thigh wound, then stood and moved back to check the bodies. The two men who had attacked Varsava were dead, as was one other, his neck broken. The remaining two were unconscious. Rolling them to their backs, Druss shook them awake and then pulled them upright. One of the men immediately sagged back to the ground.
“Who are you?” asked the warrior still standing.
“I am Druss.”
“Cajivak will kill you for this. Were I you, I would leave the mountains.”
“You are not me, laddie. I go where I please. Now pick up your comrade and take him home.”
Druss dragged the fallen warrior to his feet and watched as the two men left the hollow. When Varsava returned with his pack, a young girl was walking beside him. She was holding her ruined dress in place. “Look what I found,” said Varsava. “She was hiding under a bush.” Ignoring the girl, Druss grunted and moved to the stream where he knelt and drank.
Had Snaga been with him, the hollow would now be awash in blood and bodies. He sat back and stared at the rippling water.
When the axe was lost Druss had felt as if a burden had been lifted from his heart. The priest back in Capalis had been right: it was a demon blade. He had felt its power growing as the battles raged, had enjoyed the soaring, surging blood-lust that swept over him like a tidal wave. But after the battles came the sense of emptiness and disenchantment. Even the spiciest food was tasteless; summer days seemed grey and colourless.
Then came the day in the mountains when the Naashanites had come upon him alone. He had killed five, but more than fifty men had pursued him through the trees. He had tried to traverse the cliff, but holding to the axe made his movements slow and clumsy. Then the ledge had given way and he had fallen, twisting and turning through the air. Even as he fell he hurled the axe from him, and tried to turn the fall into a dive; but his timing was faulty and he had landed on his back, sending up a huge splash, the air exploding from his lungs. The river was in flood and the currents swept him on for more than two miles before he managed to grab a root jutting from the river-bank. Hauling himself clear he had sat, as now, staring at the water.
Snaga was gone.
And Druss felt free. “Thank you for helping my grandfather,” said a sweet voice and he turned and smiled.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Only a little,” said Dulina. “They hit me in the face.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve - almost thirteen.” She was a pretty child with large hazel eyes and light brown hair.
“Well, they’ve gone now. Are you from the village?”
