Glancing to his right, Varsava saw that the inn was crowded, but the revellers had moved back to form a circle around a small group struggling to overcome a black-bearded giant. One fighter – a petty thief and pickpocket Varsava recognised – hung from the giant’s shoulders, his arms encircling the man’s throat. Another was slamming punches into the giant’s midriff, while a third pulled a dagger and ran in. Varsava sipped his wine. It was a good vintage – at least ten years old, dry and yet full-bodied.
The giant hooked one hand over his shoulder, grabbing the jerkin of the fighter hanging there. Spinning, he threw the man into the path of the oncoming knifeman, who stumbled and fell into the giant’s rising boot. There followed a sickening crack and the knifeman slumped to the floor, either his neck or his jaw broken.
The giant’s last opponent threw a despairing punch at the black-bearded chin and the fist landed – to no effect. The giant reached forward and pulled the fighter into a head butt. The sound made even Varsava wince. The fighter took two faltering steps backwards, then keeled over in perfect imitation of a felled tree.
‘Anyone else?’ asked the giant, his voice .deep and cold. The crowd melted away and the warrior strode through the inn, coming to Varsava’s table. ‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked, slumping down to sit opposite the bladesman.
‘It is now,’ said Varsava. Lifting his hand he waved to a tavern maid and, once he had her attention, pointed to his goblet. She smiled and brought a fresh flagon of wine. The bench table was split down the centre, and the flagon sat drunkenly between the two men. ‘May I offer you some wine?’ Varsava asked.
‘Why not?’ countered the giant, filling a clay goblet. A low moan came from behind the table.
‘He must have a hard head,’ said Varsava. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘If he comes near me again, he will be,’ promised the man. ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s called the All but One,’ Varsava told him.
‘An odd name for an inn?’
Varsava looked into the man’s pale eyes. ‘Not really. It comes from a Ventrian toast: may all your dreams – save one – come true.”
‘What does it mean?’
‘Quite simply that a man must always have a dream unfulfilled. What could be worse than to achieve everything one has ever dreamed of? What would one do then?’
‘Find another dream,’ said the giant.
‘Spoken like a man who understands nothing about dreams.’
The giant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that an insult?’
‘No, it is an observation. What brings you to Lania?’
‘I am passing through,’ said the man. Behind him two of the injured men had regained their feet; both drew daggers and advanced towards them, but Varsava’s hand came up from beneath the table with a huge hunting-knife glittering in his fist. He rammed the point into the table and left the weapon quivering there.
‘Enough,’ he told the would-be attackers, the words softly spoken, a smile upon his face. ‘Pick up your friend here and find another place to drink.’
‘We can’t let him get away with this!’ said one of the men, whose eye was blackened and swollen almost shut.
‘He did get away with it, my friends. And if you persist in this foolishness, I think he will kill you. Now go away, I am trying to hold a conversation.’ Grumbling, the men sheathed their blades and moved back into the crowd. ‘Passing through to where?’ he asked the giant. The fellow seemed amused.
‘You handled that well. Friends of yours?’
‘They know me,’ answered the bladesman, offering his hand across the table. ‘I am Varsava.’
‘Druss.’
‘I’ve heard that name. There was an axeman at the siege of Capalis. There’s a song about him, I believe.’
‘Song!’ snorted Druss. ‘Aye, there is, but I had no part in the making of it. Damn fool of a poet I was travelling with – he made it up. Nonsense, all of it.’
Varsava smiled. ‘They speak in hushed whispers of Druss and his axe, even demons will scatter when this man attacks.’