‘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?’
‘No. Grandfather is a tinker. We go from town to town; he sharpens knives and mends things. He’s very clever.’
‘Where are your parents?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I never had any; only grandfather. You are very strong – but you are bleeding!’
Druss chuckled. ‘I heal fast, little one.’ Removing his jerkin, he examined the wound on his hip. The surface skin had been sliced, but the cut was not deep.
Varsava joined them. ‘That should also be stitched, great hero,’ he said, irritation in his voice.
Blood was still flowing freely from the wound. Druss stretched out and lay still while Varsava, with little gentleness, drew the flaps of skin together and pierced them with a curved needle. When he had finished the bladesman stood. ‘I suggest we leave this place and head back for Lania. I think our friends will return before too long.’