‘The land is beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.
It was. The mountains were huge, like snow-haired giants, the sky the colour of molten copper, the setting sun a dish of gold, the hills bedecked with flowers. But Druss had not seen the beauty until the moment she observed it. He felt a sense of peace, a calm that settled over his turbulent spirit in a blanket of warmth.
‘I am Druss.’
‘I know. I asked your mother where you were.’
‘Why?’
‘You are my first friend here.’
‘How can we be friends? You do not know me.’
‘Of course I do. You are Druss, the son of Bress.’
‘That is not knowing. I . . . I am not popular here,’ he said, though he did not know why he should admit it so readily. ‘I am disliked.’
‘Why do they dislike you?’ The question was innocently asked, and he turned to look at her. Her face was so close that he blushed. Twisting, he put space between them.
‘My ways are rough, I suppose. I don’t. . . talk easily. And I . . . sometimes . . . become angry. I don’t understand their jests and their humour. I like to be . . . alone.’
‘Would you like me to go?’
‘No! I just . . . I don’t know what I am saying.’ He shrugged, and blushed a deeper crimson.
‘Shall we be friends then?’ she asked him, holding out her hand.
‘I have never had a friend,’ he admitted.
‘Then take my hand, and we will start now.’ Reaching out, he felt the warmth of her fingers against his calloused palm. ‘Friends?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Friends,’ he agreed. She made as if to withdraw her hand, but he held it for a moment longer. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, as he released his hold.
She laughed then. ‘Why would you thank me?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It is just that. . . you have given me a gift that no one else ever offered. And I do not take it lightly. I will be your friend, Rowena. Until the stars burn out and die.’
‘Be careful with such promises, Druss. You do not know where they might lead you.’
One of the roof timbers cracked and crashed into the blaze. Shadak called out to him. ‘Better choose yourself a mount, axeman. It’s time to go.’
Gathering his axe, Druss turned his gaze towards the south. Somewhere out there was Rowena.
‘I’m on my way,’ he whispered.
And she heard him.
Chapter Three
The wagons rolled on through the first afternoon, and on into the night. At first the captured women were silent, stunned, disbelieving. Then grief replaced shock, and there were tears. These were harshly dealt with by the men riding alongside the wagons, who ordered silence and, when it was not forthcoming, dismounted and leapt aboard the wagons dealing blows and brutal slaps, and issuing threats of whip and lash.
Rowena, her hands tied before her, sat beside the equally bound Mari. Her friend had swollen eyes, both from weeping and from a blow that had caught her on the bridge of the nose. ‘How are you feeling now?’ Rowena whispered.
‘All dead,’ came the response. ‘They’re all dead.’ Mari’s eyes gazed unseeing across the wagon, where other young women were sitting.
‘We are alive,’ continued Rowena, her voice low and gentle. ‘Do not give up hope, Mari. Druss is alive also. And there is a man with him – a great hunter. They are following us.’
‘All dead,’ said Mari. They’re all dead.’
‘Oh, Mari!’ Rowena reached out with her bound hands but Mari screamed and pulled away.
‘Don’t touch me!’ She swung round to face Rowena, her eyes fierce and gleaming. ‘This was a punishment. For you. You are a witch! It is all your fault!’
‘No, I did nothing!’
‘She’s a witch,’ shouted Mari. The other women stared. ‘She has powers of Second Sight. She knew the raid was coming, but she didn’t warn us.’
‘Why did you not tell us?’ shouted another woman. Rowena swung and saw the daughter of Jarin the Baker. ‘My father is dead. My brothers are dead. Why did you not warn us?’