‘Yes. Fitting. Listen, poet. I’m not good with words. But I want to tell you . . . I want you to know you’ve been like a brother to me. The best friend I ever had. The very best. Poet? Sieben?’
Sieben’s eyes stared unseeing at the tent ceiling. His face was peaceful and looked almost young again. The lines seemed to vanish before Druss’s eyes. The axeman began to shake. Delnar approached and closed Sieben’s eyes, covering his face with a sheet. Then he helped Druss back to his bed.
‘Gorben is dead, Druss. His own men slew him as they ran. Our fleet has the Ventrians bottled up in the bay. At the moment one of their generals is meeting with Abalayn to discuss surrender. We did it. We held the pass. Diagoras wants to see you. He made it through the battle. Can you believe it, even fat Orases is still with us! Now, I’d have laid ten to one odds he wouldn’t survive.’
‘Give me a drink, will you,’ whispered Druss.
Delnar came back to his side, bearing a goblet of cool water. Druss sipped it slowly. Diagoras entered the tent, carrying Snaga. The axe had been cleaned of blood and polished to shine like silver.
Druss gazed at it, but did not reach out. The dark-eyed young warrior smiled.
‘You did it,’ he said. ‘I have never seen the like. I would not have believed it possible.’
‘All things are possible,’ said Druss. ‘Never forget that, laddie.’
Tears welled in the axeman’s eyes, and he turned his head away from them. After a moment he heard them back away. Only then did he allow the tears to fall.