it lay a woman and a sickly child; their names flashed into her mind.
“What of Katina?” she said suddenly. The man groaned and fell back, releasing his hold, his eyes wide and stricken with guilt. “Your baby son is dying,” she said softly. “Dying while you drink and attack women. Go to the kitchen, both of you. Ask for Pudri, and tell him that…” she hesitated… “that Pahtai said you could have food. There are some eggs and unleavened bread. Go now, both of you.”
The men backed away from her, then turned and ran for the house. Pahtai, trembling from the shock, sat down on a marble seat.
Pahtai? Rowena… The name rose up from the deepest levels of her memory, and she greeted it like a song of morning after a night of storms.
Rowena. I am Rowena.
A man came walking along the garden path, bowing as he saw her. His hair was silver, and braided, yet his face was young and almost unlined. He bowed again. “Greetings, Pahtai, are you well?”
“I am well, Darishan. But you look tired.”
“Tired of sieges, that’s for sure. May I sit beside you?”
“Of course. Michanek is not here, but you are welcome to wait for him.”
He leaned back and sniffed the air. “I do love roses. Exquisite smell; they remind me of my childhood. You know I used to play with Gorben? We were friends. We used to hide in bushes such as these, and pretend we were being hunted by assassins. Now I am hiding again, but there is not a rose bush large enough to conceal me.”
Rowena said nothing, but she gazed into his handsome face and saw the fear lurking below the surface.
“I saddled the wrong horse, my dear,” he said, with a show of brightness. “I thought the Naashanites would be preferable to watching Gorben’s father destroy the Empire. But all I have done is to train a younger lion in the ways of war and conquest. Do you think I could convince Gorben that I have, in fact, done him a service?” He looked into her face. “No, I suppose I couldn’t. I shall just have to face my death like a Ventrian.”
“Don’t talk of death,” she scolded. “The walls still hold and now we have food.”
Darishan smiled. “Yes. It was a fine duel, but I don’t mind admitting that my heart was in my mouth throughout. Michanek might have slipped, and then where would I have been, with the gates open to Gorben?”
“There is no man alive who could defeat Michanek,” she said.
“So far. But Gorben had another champion once… Druss, I think his name was. Axeman. He was rather deadly, as I recall.”
Rowena shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly solicitous. “You’re not getting a fever, are you?” Lifting his hand, he laid his palm on her brow. As he touched her she saw him die, fighting upon the battlements, black- cloaked warriors all around him, swords and knives piercing his flesh.
Closing her eyes, she forced the images back. “You are unwell,” she heard him say, as if from a great distance.
Rowena took a deep breath. “I am a little weak,” she admitted.
“Well, you must be strong for your celebration. Michanek has found three singers and a lyre player - it should be quite an entertainment. And I have a full barrel of the finest Lentrian Red, which I shall have sent over.”
At the thought of the anniversary Rowena brightened. It was almost a year since she had recovered from the plague… A year since Michanek had made her happiness complete. She smiled at Darishan. “You will join us tomorrow? That is good. I know Michanek values your friendship.”
“And I his.” Darishan rose. “He’s a good man, you know, far better than the rest of us. I’m proud to have known him.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed.
“I have to admit, old horse, that life without you was dull,” said Sieben. Druss said nothing, but sat staring into the flames of the small fire, watching them dance and flicker. Snaga was laid beside him, the blades upwards resting against the trunk of a young oak, the haft wedged against a jutting root. On the other side of the fire Eskodas was preparing two rabbits for the spit. “When we have dined,” continued Sieben, “I shall regale you with the further adventures of Druss the Legend.”
“No, you damned well won’t,” grunted Druss.
Eskodas laughed. “You really should hear it, Druss. He has you descending into Hell to rescue the soul of a princess.”
Druss shook his head, but a brief smile showed through the black beard and Sieben was heartened. In the month since Druss had killed Cajivak the axeman had said little. For the first two weeks they had rested at Lania, then they had journeyed across the mountains, heading east. Now, two days from Resha, they were camped on a wooded hillside above a small village. Druss had regained much of his lost weight, and his shoulders almost filled the silver-embossed jerkin he had removed from Cajivak’s body.
Eskodas placed the spitted rabbits across the fire and sat back, wiping grease and blood from his fingers. “A man can starve to death eating rabbit,” he observed. “Not a lot of goodness there. We should have gone down to the village.”
“I like being outside,” said Druss.
“Had I known, I would have come sooner,” said Sieben softly and Druss nodded.
“I know that, poet. But it is in the past now. All that matters is that I find Rowena. She came to me in a dream while I was in that dungeon; she gave me strength. I’ll find her.” He sighed. “Some day.”
“The war is almost over,” said Eskodas. “Once it is won, I think you’ll find her. Gorben will be able to send riders to every city, village and town. Whoever owns her will know that the Emperor wants her returned.”
