Shadak had known the Vagrian – a tall, lean man, lightning-fast and tactically sound. The Sathuli, it was said, had treated him like a novice, first slicing off his right ear before despatching him with a heart thrust.
Shadak smiled as he remembered hoping with all his heart that he would never have to fight the man. But such hopes are akin to magic, he knew now, and all men are ultimately faced with their darkest fears.
It had been a golden morning in the Delnoch mountains. The Drenai were negotiating treaties with a Sathuli Lord and Shadak was present merely as one of the envoy’s guards. Jonacin had been mildly insulting at the dinner the night before, speaking sneeringly of Drenai sword skills. Shadak had been ordered to ignore the man. But on the following morning the white-robed Sathuli stepped in front of him as he walked along the path to the Long Hall.
‘It is said you are a fighter,’ said Jonacin, the sneer in his voice showing disbelief.
Shadak had remained cool under the other’s baleful stare. ‘Stand aside, if you please. I am expected at the meeting.’
‘I shall stand aside – as soon as you have kissed my feet.’
Shadak had been twenty-two then, in his prime. He looked into Jonacin’s eyes and knew there was no avoiding confrontation. Other Sathuli warriors had gathered close by and Shadak forced a smile. ‘Kiss your feet? I don’t think so. Kiss this instead!’ His right fist lashed into the Sathuli’s chin, spinning him to the ground. Then Shadak walked on and took his place at the table.
As he sat he glanced at the Sathuli Lord, a tall man with dark, cruel eyes. The man saw him, and Shadak thought he glimpsed a look of faint amusement, even triumph, in the Lord’s face. A messenger whispered something in the Lord’s ear and the chieftain stood. “The hospitality of my house has been abused,’ he told the envoy. ‘One of your men struck my champion, Jonacin. The attack was unwarranted. Jonacin demands satisfaction.’
The envoy was speechless. Shadak stood. ‘He shall have it, my Lord. But let us fight in the cemetery. At least then you will not have far to carry his body!’
Now the hoot of an owl brought Shadak back to the present, and he saw Druss striding towards him. The young man made as if to walk by, then stopped. ‘I had no words,’ he said. ‘I could think of nothing to say.’
‘Sit down for a moment and we will speak of them,’ said Shadak. ‘It is said that our praises follow the dead to their place of rest. Perhaps it is true.’
Druss sat alongside the swordsman. ‘There is not much to tell. He was a carpenter, and a fashioner of brooches. She was a bought wife.’
‘They raised you, helped you to be strong.’
‘I needed no help in that.’
‘You are wrong, Druss. If your father had been a weak, or a vengeful man, he would have beaten you as a child, robbed you of your spirit. In my experience it takes a strong man to raise strong men. Was the axe his?’
‘No. It belonged to my grandfather.’
‘Bardan the Axeman,’ said Shadak softly.
‘How could you know?’
‘It is an infamous weapon. Snaga. That was the name. Your father had a hard life, trying to live down such a beast as Bardan. What happened to your real mother?’
Druss shrugged. ‘She died in an accident when I was a babe.’
‘Ah yes, I remember the story,’ said Shadak. Three men attacked your father; he killed two of them with his bare hands and near crippled the third. Your mother was struck down by a charging horse.’
‘He killed two men?’ Druss was astonished. ‘Are you sure?’
‘So the story goes.’
‘I cannot believe it. He always backed away from any argument. He never stood up for himself at all. He was weak . . . spineless.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You didn’t know him.’
‘I saw where his body lay, and I saw the dead men around it. And I know many stories concerning the son of Bardan. None of them speaks of his cowardice. After his own father was killed he tried to settle in many towns, under many names. Always he was discovered and forced to flee. But on at least three occasions he was followed and attacked. Just outside Drenan he was cornered by five soldiers. One of them shot an arrow into your father’s shoulder. Bress was carrying an infant at the time and according to the soldiers he laid the babe behind a boulder, and then charged at them. He had no weapon, and they were all armed with swords. But he tore a limb from a tree and laid into them. Two went down swiftly, the others turned and fled. I know that story is true, Druss, because my brother was one of the soldiers. It was the year before he was killed in the Sathuli campaign. He said that Bardan’s son was a black-bearded giant with the strength of six men.’