But he watched her always, never allowing her to become too tired, fussing over her meals, waking in the night to feel her pulse, then being unable to sleep.
‘Without her I am nothing,’ he confided to his friend Sieben the Poet, whose house had been built less than a mile from the stone house. ‘If she dies, part of me will die with her.’
‘I know, old horse,’ said Sieben. ‘But I am sure the princess will be fine.’
Druss smiled. ‘Why did you make her a princess? Are you poets incapable of the truth?’
Sieben spread his hands and chuckled. ‘One must cater to one’s audience. The saga of Druss the Legend had need of a princess. Who would want to listen to the tale of a man who fought his way across continents to rescue a farm girl?’
‘Druss the Legend? Pah! There are no real heroes any more. The likes of Egel, Karnak and Waylander are long gone. Now they were heroes, mighty men with eyes of fire.’
Sieben laughed aloud. ‘You say that only because you have heard the songs. In years to come men will talk of you in the same way. You and that cursed axe.’
The cursed axe.
Druss glanced up to where the weapon hung on the wall, its twin silver steel blades glinting in the firelight. Snaga the Sender, the blades of no return. He stood and moved silently across the room, lifting the axe from the brackets supporting it. The black haft was warm to the touch, and he felt, as always, the thrill of battle ripple through him as he hefted the weapon. Reluctantly he returned the axe to its resting place.
‘They are calling you,’ said Rowena. He swung and saw that she was awake and watching him.
‘Who is calling me?’
‘The hounds of war. I can hear them baying.’ Druss shivered and forced a smile.
‘No one is calling me,’ he told her, but there was no conviction in his voice. Rowena had always been a mystic.
‘Gorben is coming, Druss. His ships are already at sea.’
‘It is not my war. My loyalties would be divided.’
For a moment she said nothing. Then: ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’
‘He is a good Emperor – or he was. Young, proud, and terribly brave.’
‘You set too much store by bravery. There was a madness in him you could never see. I hope you never do.’
‘I told you, it is not my war. I’m forty-five years old, my beard is going grey and my joints are stiff. The young men of the Drenai will have to tackle him without me.’
‘But the Immortals will be with him,’ she persisted. ‘You said once there were no finer warriors in the world.’
‘Do you remember all my words?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, simply.
The sound of hoofbeats came from the yard beyond, and Druss strode to the door, stepping out on to the porch.
The rider wore the armour of a Drenai officer, white plumed helm and silver breastplate, with a long scarlet cloak. He dismounted, tied the reins of his horse to a hitching rail and walked towards the house.
‘Good evening. I am looking for Druss the Axeman,’ said the man, removing his helm and running his fingers through his sweat-drenched fair hair.
‘You found him.’
‘I thought so. I am Dun Certak. I have a message from Lord Abalayn. He wonders if you would agree to ride east to our camp at Skeln.’
‘Why?’
‘Morale, sir. You are a legend. The Legend. It would boost the men during the interminable waiting.’
‘No,’ said Druss. ‘I am retired.’
‘Where are your manners, Druss?’ called Rowena. ‘Ask the young man to come in.’
Druss stepped aside and the officer entered, bowing deeply to Rowena.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have heard so much about you.’
‘How disappointing for you,’ she replied, her smile friendly. ‘You hear of a princess and meet a plump matron.’
‘He wants me to travel to Skeln,’ said Druss.
‘I heard. I think you should go.’
‘I am no speechmaker,’ growled Druss.
‘Then take Sieben with you. It will do you good. You have no idea how irritating it is to have you fussing around me all day. Be honest, you will enjoy yourself enormously.’