‘You’ll not die easily, you bastard!’ shouted the first, a tall, wide-shouldered warrior. Then his eyes narrowed as he recognised the swordsman facing him. Fear replaced battle lust – but he was too close to Shadak to withdraw and made a clumsy lunge with his sabre. Shadak parried the blade with ease, his second sword lancing forward into the man’s mouth and through the bones of his neck. As the swordsman died, the second warrior backed away.
‘We didn’t know it was you, I swear!’ he said, hands trembling.
‘Now you do,’ said Shadak softly.
Without a word the man turned and ran back towards the trees as Shadak sheathed his swords and moved to his bow. Notching an arrow, he drew back on the string. The shaft flashed through the air to punch home into the running man’s thigh. He screamed and fell. As Shadak loped to where he lay, the man rolled to his back, dropping his sword.
‘For pity’s sake don’t kill me!’ he pleaded.
‘You had no pity back in Corialis,’ said Shadak. ‘But tell me where Collan is heading and I’ll let you live.’ A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely sound. It was answered by another, then another.
‘There’s a village . . . twenty miles south-east,’ said the man, his eyes fixed on the short sword in Shadak’s hand. ‘We scouted it. Plenty of young women. Collan and Harib Ka plan to raid it for slaves, then take them to Mashrapur.’
Shadak nodded. ‘I believe you,’ he said, at last.
‘You’re going to let me live, yes? You promised,’ the wounded man whimpered.
‘I always keep my promises,’ said Shadak, disgusted at the man’s weakness. Reaching down, he wrenched his shaft clear of the man’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound, and the injured warrior groaned. Shadak wiped the arrow clean on the man’s cloak, then stood and walked to the body of the first man he had killed. Kneeling beside the corpse, he recovered his arrow and then strode to where the raiders had tethered their horses. Mounting the first, he led the others back down the trail to where his gelding waited. Gathering the reins, he led the four mounts back out on to the trail.
‘What about me?’ shouted the wounded man.
Shadak turned in the saddle. ‘Do your best to keep the wolves away,’ he advised. ‘By dark they will have picked up the scent of blood.’
‘Leave me a horse! In the name of Mercy!’
‘I am not a merciful man,’ said Shadak.
And he rode on towards the south-east, and the distant mountains.
Chapter One
The axe was four feet long, with a ten-pound head, the blade flared, and sharp as any sword. The haft was of elm, beautifully curved, and more than forty years old. For most men it was a heavy tool, unwieldy and imprecise. But in the hands of the dark-haired young man who stood before the towering beech it sang through the air, seemingly as light as a sabre. Every long swing saw the head bite exactly where the woodsman intended, deeper and deeper into the meat of the trunk.
Druss stepped back, then glanced up. There were several heavy branches jutting towards the north. He moved around the tree, gauging the line where it would fall, then returned to his work. This was the third tree he had tackled today and his muscles ached, sweat gleaming on his naked back. His short-cropped black hair was soaked with perspiration that trickled over his brow, stinging his ice-blue eyes. His mouth was dry, but he was determined to finish the task before allowing himself the reward of a cooling drink.
Some way to his left the brothers Pilan and Yorath were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing and talking, their hatchets beside them. Theirs was the task of stripping the trunks, hacking away smaller branches and limbs that could be used for winter firewood. But they stopped often and Druss could hear them discussing the merits and alleged vices of the village girls. They were handsome youths, blond and tall, sons of the blacksmith, Tetrin. Both were witty and intelligent, and popular among the girls.