them.
Not even close. The right deed… for the wrong reason. He patted the old man’s shoulder and returned to the cave-mouth where he saw that the storm was moving on towards the east, the rain lessening. Druss’s spirits sank. He wished Sieben were with him. Irritating as the poet could be, he still had a talent for lifting the axeman’s mood.
But Sieben had refused to accompany him, preferring the pleasures of city life to an arduous journey across the mountains to Resha. No, thought Druss, not the journey; that was just an excuse.
“I’ll make a bargain with you though, old horse,” said Sieben on that last day. “Leave the axe and I’ll change my mind. Bury it. Throw it in the sea. I don’t care which.”
“Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense?”
“I saw it, Druss. Truly. It will be the death of you - or at least the death of the man I know.”
Now he had no axe, no friend, and no Rowena. Unused to despair Druss felt lost, his strength useless.
Dawn brightened the sky, the land glistening and fresh from the rain as Dulina came alongside him. “I had a wonderful dream,” she said brightly. “There was a great knight on a white horse. And he rode up to where grandfather and I were waiting, and he leaned from his saddle and lifted me to sit beside him. Then he took off his golden helmet and he said, “I am your father.” And he took me to live in a castle. I never had a dream like it. Do you think it will come true?”
Druss did not answer. He was staring down at the woods at the armed men making their way towards the cave.
The world had shrunk now to a place of agony and darkness. All Druss could feel was pain as he lay in the windowless dungeon, listening to the skittering of unseen rats which clambered over him. There was no light, save when at the end of the day the jailer strode down the dungeon corridor and a tiny, flickering beam momentarily lit the narrow grille of the door-stone. Only in those seconds could Druss see his surroundings. The ceiling was a mere four feet from the floor, the airless room six feet square. Water dripped from the walls, and it was cold.
Druss brushed a rat from his leg, the movement causing him a fresh wave of pain from his wounds. He could hardly move his neck, and his right shoulder was swollen and hot to the touch. Wondering if the bones were broken, he began to shiver.
How many days? He had counted to sixty-three, but then lost track for a while. Guessing at seventy, he had begun to count again. But his mind wandered. Sometimes he dreamt of the mountains of home, under a blue sky, with a fresh northerly wind cooling his brow. At other times he tried to remember events in his life.
“I will break you, and then I will watch you beg for death,” said Cajivak on the day they had hauled Druss into the castle Hall.
“In your dreams, you ugly whoreson.”
Cajivak had beaten him then, pounding his face and body with brutal blows. His hands tied behind him, a tight rope around his neck, Druss could do nothing but accept the hammering.
For the first two weeks he was kept in a larger cell. Every time he slept men would appear alongside his narrow bed to beat him with clubs and sticks. At first he had fought them, grabbing one man by the throat and cracking his skull against the cell wall. But deprived of food and water for days on end, his strength had given out and he could only curl himself into a tight ball against the merciless beatings.
Then they had thrown him into this tiny dungeon, and he had watched with horror as they slid the door-stone into place. Once every two days a guard would push stale bread and a cup of water through the narrow grille. Twice he caught rats and ate them raw, cutting his lips on the tiny bones.
Now he lived for those few seconds of light as the guard walked back to the outside world.
“We caught the others,” the jailer said one day, as he pushed the bread through the grille. But Druss did not believe him. Such was Cajivak’s cruelty that he would have dragged Druss out to see them slain.
He pictured Varsava pushing the child up into the chimney crack in the cave, urging her to climb, and remembered lifting Ruwaq up to where Varsava could haul the old man out of sight. Druss himself was about to climb when he heard the warriors approaching the cave. He had turned.
And charged them….
But there were too many, and most bore clubs which finally smashed him from his feet. Boots and fists thundered into him and he awoke to find a rope around his neck, his hands bound. Forced to walk behind a horseman, he was many times dragged from his feet, the rope tearing the flesh of his neck.
Varsava had described Cajivak as a monster, which could not be more true. The man was close to seven feet tall, with an enormous breadth of shoulder and biceps as thick as most men’s thighs. His eyes were dark, almost black, and no hair grew on the right side of his head where the skin was white and scaly, covered in scar tissue that only a severe burn could create. Madness shone in his eyes, and Druss had glanced to the man’s left and the weapon that was placed there, resting against the high-backed throne.
Snaga!
Druss shook himself free of the memory now and stretched. His joints creaked and his hands trembled in the cold that seeped from the wet walls. Don’t think of it, he urged himself. Concentrate on something else. He tried to picture Rowena, but instead found himself remembering the day when the priest of Pashtar Sen had found him in a small village, four days east of Lania. Druss had been sitting in the garden of an inn, enjoying a meal of roast meat and onions and a jug of ale. The priest bowed and sat opposite the axeman. His bald head was pink and peeling, burned by the sun.
“I am glad to find you in good health, Druss. I have searched for you for the last six months.”
“You found me,” said Druss.
“It is about the axe.”
“Do not concern yourself, Father. It is gone. You were right, it was an evil weapon. I am glad to be rid of it.”
The priest shook his head. “It is back,” he said. “It is now in the possession of a robber named Cajivak. Always
