‘It’s not his wealth!’ snapped the second warrior. Sieben stepped back as the man’s body odour reached him. ‘He’s a madman. He attacked our camp two days ago, stampeded our horses. Never did find my grey. And he killed Harib. Asia’s tits! He must have downed a dozen men with that cursed axe.’
‘If he killed a dozen, what makes you think that three of you can deal with him?’
The noxious warrior tapped his nose. ‘Surprise. When he steps out, Rafin will ask him a question. As he turns, Zhak and I will move in and gut him. But you could help. A knife through the eye would slow him up some, eh?’
‘Probably,’ agreed Sieben, and he moved away several paces to seat himself on a hitching rail. He drew a knife from its sheath and began to clean his nails.
‘You with us?’ hissed the first man.
‘We’ll see,’ said Sieben.
*
Druss sat at the table and gazed down at the shining blades of the axe. He could see his reflection there, cold-eyed and grim. The features were flat and sullen, the mouth a tight, angry line. He removed the black helm and laid it on the blades, covering the face in the axe.
‘Whenever you speak someone gets angry.’ The words of his father drifted up from the halls of memory. And it was true. Some men had a knack for friendship, for easy chatter and simple jests. Druss envied them. Until Rowena had walked into his life he had believed such qualities were entirely lacking in him. But with her he felt at ease, he could laugh and joke – and see himself for a moment as others saw him, huge and bear-like, short-tempered and frightening. ‘It was your childhood, Druss,’ Rowena told him one morning, as they sat on the hillside overlooking the village. ‘Your father moved from place to place, always frightened he would be recognised, never allowing himself to become close to people. It was easier for him, for he was a man. But it must have been hard for a boy who never learned how to make friends.’
‘I don’t need friends,’ he said.
‘I need you.’
The memory of those three softly spoken words made his heart lurch. A tavern maid passed the table and Druss reached out and caught her arm. ‘Do you have Lentrian Red?’ he asked.
‘I’ll bring you a goblet, sir.’
‘Make it a jug.’
He drank until his senses swam and his thoughts became jumbled and confused. He remembered Alarm, and the punch which broke the man’s jaw, and then, after the raid, hauling Alarm’s body into the meeting hall. He had been stabbed through the back by a lance which had snapped in half in his body. The dead man’s eyes had been open. So many of the dead had open eyes . . . all accusing.
‘Why are you alive and we dead?’ they asked him. ‘We had families, lives, dreams, hopes. Why should you outlive us?’
‘More wine!’ he bellowed and a young girl with honey-blonde hair leaned over the table.
‘I think you’ve had enough, sir. You’ve drunk a quart already.’
‘All the eyes were open,’ he said. ‘Old women, children. The children were the worst. What kind of a man kills a child?’
‘I think you should go home, sir. Have a little sleep.’
‘Home?’ He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. ‘Home to the dead? And what would I tell them? The forge is cold. There is no smell of fresh-baked bread; no laughter among the children. Just eyes. No, not even eyes. Just ashes.’
‘We heard there was a raid to the north,’ she said. ‘Was that your home?’
‘Bring me more wine, girl. It helps me.’
‘It is a false friend, sir,’ she whispered.
‘It is the only one I have.’
A burly, bearded man in a leather apron moved in close. ‘What does he want?’ he asked the girl.
‘More wine, sir.’
‘Then fetch it for him – if he can pay.’
Druss reached into the pouch at his side, drawing out one of the six silver pieces Shadak had given him. He flipped it to the innkeeper. ‘Well, serve him!’ the man ordered the maid.