secondly, it would be like signing his death warrant. Rowena had predicted that he would die here, with Narin beside him, one year to the day after he was wed.
She no longer remembered this prediction either, for the sorcerers had done their work well. Her Talent was lost to her, and all the memories of her youth in the lands of the Drenai. Michanek felt no guilt over this. Her Talent had been tearing her apart and now, at least, she smiled and was happy. Only Pudri knew the whole truth, and he was wise enough to stay silent.
Michanek turned up the Avenue of Laurels and pushed open the gates of his house. There were no gardeners now, and the flower-beds were choked with weeds. The fountain was no longer in operation, the fish-pool dry and cracked. As he strode to the house, Pudri came running out to him.
“Master, come quickly, it is the Pahtair’
“What has happened?” cried Michanek, grabbing the little man by his tunic.
“The plague, master,” he whispered, tears in his dark eyes. “It is the plague.”
Varsava found a cave nestling against the rock-face to the north; it was deep and narrow, and curled like a figure six. He built a small fire near the back wall, below a split in the rock that created a natural chimney. The old man, whom Druss had carried to the cave, had fallen into a deep, healing sleep with the child, Dulina, alongside him. Having walked from the cave to check whether the glare of the fire could be seen from outside, Varsava was now sitting in the cave-mouth staring out over the night-dark woods.
Druss joined him. “Why so angry, bladesman?” he asked. “Do you not feel some satisfaction at having rescued them?”
“None at all,” replied Varsava. “But then no one ever made a song about me. I look after myself.”
“That does not explain your anger.”
“Nor could I explain it in any way that would be understood by your simple mind. Borza’s Blood!” He rounded on Druss. “The world is such a mind-numbingly uncomplicated place for you, Druss. There is good, and there is evil. Does it ever occur to you that there may be a vast area in between that is neither pure nor malevolent? Of course it doesn’t! Take today as an example. The old man could have been a vicious sorcerer who drank the blood of innocent babes; the men punishing him could have been the fathers of those babes. You didn’t know, you just roared in and downed them.” Varsava shook his head and took a deep breath.
“You are wrong,” said Druss softly. “I have heard the arguments before, from Sieben and Bodasen - and others. I will agree that I am a simple man. I can scarcely read more than my name, and I do not understand complicated arguments. But I am not blind. The man tied to the tree wore homespun clothes, old clothes; the child was dressed in like manner. These were not rich, as a sorcerer would be. And did you listen to the laughter of the knife- throwers? It was harsh, cruel. These were not farmers; their clothes were bought, their boots and shoes of good leather. They were scoundrels.”
“Maybe they were,” agreed Varsava, “but what business was it of yours? Will you criss-cross the world seeking to right wrongs and protect the innocent? Is this your ambition in life?”
“No,” said Druss, “though it would not be a bad ambition.” He fell silent for several minutes, lost in thought. Shadak had given him a code, and impressed upon him that without such an iron discipline he would soon become as evil as any other reaver. Added to this there was Bress, his father, who had lived his whole life bearing the terrible burden of being the son of Bardan. And lastly there was Bardan himself, driven by a demon to become one of the most hated and vilified villains in history. The lives, the words and deeds of these three men had created the warrior who now sat beside Varsava. But Druss had no words to explain, and it surprised him that he desired them; he had never felt the need to explain to Sieben or Bodasen. “I had no choice,” he said at last.
“No choice?” echoed Varsava. “Why?”
“Because I was there. There wasn’t anyone else.”
Feeling Varsava’s eyes upon him, and seeing the look of blank incomprehension, Druss turned away and stared at the night sky. It made no sense, he knew that, but he also knew that he felt good for having rescued the girl and the old man. It might make no sense, but it was right.
Varsava rose and moved back to the rear of the cave, leaving Druss alone. A cold wind whispered across the mountainside, and Druss could smell the coming of rain. He remembered another cold night, many years before, when he and Bress had been camped in the mountains of Lentria. Druss was very young, seven or eight, and he was unhappy. Some men had shouted at his father, and gathered outside the workshop that Bress had set up in a small village. He had expected his father to rush out and thrash them but instead, as night fell, he had gathered a few belongings and led the boy out into the mountains.
“Why are we running away?” he had asked Bress.
“Because they will talk a lot, and then come back to burn us out.”
“You should have killed them,” said the boy.
“That would have been no answer,” snapped Bress. “Mostly they are good men, but they are frightened. We will find somewhere where no one knows of Bardan.”
“I won’t run away, not ever,” declared the boy and Bress had sighed. Just then a man approached the camp- fire. He was old and bald, his clothes ragged, but his eyes were bright and shrewd.
“May I share your fire?” he asked and mess had welcomed him, offering some dried meat and a herb tisane which the man accepted gratefully. Druss had fallen asleep as the two men talked, but had woken several hours later. Bress was asleep, but the old man was sitting by the fire feeding the flames with twigs. Druss rose from his blankets and walked to sit alongside him.
“Frightened of the dark, boy?”
“I am frightened of nothing,” Druss told him.
“That’s good,” said the old man, “but I am. Frightened of the dark, frightened of starvation, frightened of dying. All my life I’ve been frightened of something or other.”
“Why?” asked the boy, intrigued.
The old man laughed. “Now there’s a question! Wish I could answer it.” As he picked up a handful of twigs and reached out, dropping them to the dying flames, Druss saw his right arm was criss-crossed with scars.
