The second jug went the way of the first and, when it was finished, Druss pushed himself ponderously to his feet. He tried to don the helm, but it slipped from his fingers and rolled to the floor. As he bent down, he rammed his brow against the edge of the table. The serving maid appeared alongside him. ‘Let me help you, sir,’ she said, scooping up the helm and gently placing it on his head.
‘Thank you,’ he said, slowly. He fumbled in his pouch and gave her a silver piece. ‘For . . . your . . . kindness,’ he told her, enunciating the words with care.
‘I have a small room at the back, sir. Two doors down from the stable. It is unlocked; you may sleep there if you wish.’
He picked up the axe, but it too fell to the floor, the prongs of the blades embedding in a wooden plank. ‘Go back and sleep, sir. I’ll bring your . . . weapon with me later.’
‘He nodded and weaved his way towards the door.
*
Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the fading sunlight, his stomach lurching. Someone spoke from his left, asking him a question. Druss tried to turn, but stumbled into the man and they both fell against the wall. He tried to right himself, grabbing the man’s shoulder and heaving himself upright. Through the fog in his mind he heard other men running in. One of them screamed. Druss lurched back and saw a long-bladed dagger clatter to the ground. The former wielder was standing alongside him, his right arm raised unnaturally. Druss blinked. The man’s wrist was pinned to the inn door by a throwing knife.
He heard the rasp of swords being drawn. ‘Defend yourself, you fool!’ came a voice.
A swordsman ran at him and Druss stepped in to meet him, parrying the lunging blade with his forearm and slamming a right cross to the warrior’s chin. The swordsman went down as if poleaxed. Swinging to meet the second attacker, Druss lost his balance and fell heavily. But in mid-swing the swordsman also stumbled and Druss lashed out with his foot, catching his assailant on the heel and catapulting him to the ground. Rolling to his knees, Druss grabbed the fallen man by the hair and hauled him close, delivering a bone-crunching head butt to the warrior’s nose. The man slumped forward, unconscious. Druss released him.
Another man moved alongside him and Druss recognised the handsome young poet. ‘Gods, you reek of cheap wine,’ said Sieben.
‘Who. . . are you?’ mumbled Druss, trying to focus on the man with his arm pinned to the door.
‘Miscreants,’ Sieben told him, moving alongside the stricken warrior and levering his knife clear. The man screamed in pain but Sieben ignored him and returned to the street. ‘I think you’d better come with me, old horse.’
Druss remembered little of the walk through the town, only that he stopped twice to vomit, and his head began to ache abominably. He awoke at midnight and found himself lying on a porch under the stars. Beside him was a bucket. He sat up . . . and groaned as the terrible pounding began in his head. It felt as if an iron band had been riveted to his brow. Hearing sounds from within the house, he stood and moved to the door. Then he halted. The sounds were unmistakable.
‘Oh, Sieben . . . Oh . . . Oh . . . !’
Druss swore and returned to the edge of the porch. A breath of wind touched his face, bringing with it an unpleasant smell, and he gazed down at himself. His jerkin was soiled with vomit, and he stank of stale sweat and travel. To his left was a well. Forcing himself upright, he walked to it, and slowly raised the bucket. Somewhere deep within his head a demon began to strike at his skull with a red-hot hammer. Ignoring the pain, Druss stripped to the waist and washed himself with the cold water.
He heard the door open and turned to see a dark-haired young woman emerge from the house. She looked at him, smiled, then ran off through the narrow streets. Lifting the bucket, Druss tipped the last of the contents over his head.