Kicking off his soft leather shoes, Druss pulled on the boots and donned the jerkin. At the bottom of the chest was a helm of black metal, edged with silver; upon the brow was a small silver axe flanked by silver skulls. Druss settled the helm into place, then lifted the axe once more. Gazing down at his reflection in the shining blades, he saw a pair of cold, cold blue eyes, empty, devoid of feeling.
Snaga, forged in the Elder days, crafted by a master. The blade had never been sharpened, for it had never dulled despite the many battles and skirmishes that filled the life of Bardan. And even before that the blade had been in use. Bardan had acquired the battle-axe during the Second Vagrian War, looting it from an old barrow in which lay the bones of an ancient battle king, a monster of Legend, Caras the Axeman.
‘It was an evil weapon,’ Bress had once told his son. ‘All the men who ever bore it were killers with no souls.’
‘Why do you keep it then?’ asked his thirteen-year-old son.
‘It cannot kill where I keep it,’ was all Bress had answered.
Druss stared at the blade. ‘Now you can kill,’ he whispered.
Then he heard the sound of a walking horse. Slowly he rose.
Chapter Two
Shadak’s horses were skittish, the smell of death unnerving the beasts. He had bought his own three-year-old from a farmer south of Corialis and the gelding had not been trained for war. The four mounts he had taken from the raiders were less nervous, but still their ears were back and their nostrils flaring. He spoke soothingly to them and rode on.
Shadak had been a soldier for most of his adult life. He had seen death – and he thanked the gods that it still had the power to stir his emotions. Sorrow and anger vied in his heart as he gazed upon the still corpses, the children and the old women.
None of the houses had been put to the torch – the smoke would be seen for miles, and could have brought a troop of lancers. He gently tugged on the reins. A golden-haired child lay against the wall of a building, a doll beside it. Slavers had no time for children, for they had no market in Mashrapur. Young Drenai women between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five were still popular in the eastern kingdoms of Ventria, Sherak, Dospilis and Naashan. Shadak touched heels to the gelding. There was no point in remaining in this place; the trail led south.
A young warrior stepped from one of the buildings, startling his horse which reared and whinnied. Shadak calmed it and gazed upon the man. Although of average height he was powerfully built, his huge shoulders and mighty arms giving the impression of a giant. He wore a black leather jerkin and helm and carried a fearful axe. Shadak glanced swiftly around the corpse-strewn settlement. But there was no sign of a horse.
Lifting his leg, Shadak slid from the saddle. ‘Your friends leave you behind, laddie?’ he asked the axeman. The young man did not speak but stepped out into the open. Shadak looked into the man’s pale eyes and felt the unaccustomed thrill of fear.
The face beneath the helm was flat and expressionless, but power emanated from the young warrior. Shadak moved warily to his right, hands resting on the hilts of his short swords. ‘Proud of your handiwork, are you?’ he asked, trying to force the man into conversation. ‘Killed many babes today, did you?’
The young man’s brow furrowed. ‘This was my . . . my home,’ he said, his voice deep. ‘You are not one of the raiders?’
‘I am hunting them,’ said Shadak, surprised at the relief he felt.
‘They attacked Corialis looking for slaves, but the young women escaped them. The villagers fought hard. Seventeen of them died, but the attack was beaten off. My name is Shadak. Who are you?’
‘I am Druss. They took my wife. I’ll find them.’ Shadak glanced at the sky. ‘It’s getting dark. Best to start in the morning, we could lose their trail in the night.’