‘Come this way,’ said Varsava. ‘There is something I want you to see.’
The bladesman left the path and climbed a short slope to where a rusted iron cage had been set into the earth. Within the domed cage was a pile of mouldering bones, and a skull that still had vestiges of skin and hair clinging to it.
Varsava knelt down by the cage. ‘This was Vashad – the peacemaker,’ he said. ‘He was blinded and his tongue cut out. Then he was chained here to starve to death.’
‘What was his crime?’ asked Druss.
‘I have already told you: he was a peacemaker. This world of war and savagery has no place for men like Vashad.’ Varsava sat down and removed his wide-brimmed leather hat.
Druss eased his pack from his shoulders and sat beside the bladesman. ‘But why would they kill him in such a fashion?’ he asked.
Varsava smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes. ‘Do you see so much and know so little, Druss? The warrior lives for glory and battle, testing himself against his fellows, dealing death. He likes to see himself as noble, and we allow him such vanities because we admire him. We make songs about him; we tell stories of his greatness. Think of all the Drenai legends. How many concern peacemakers or poets? They are stories of heroes – men of blood and carnage. Vashad was a philosopher, a believer in something he called the nobility of man. He was a mirror, and when warmakers looked into his eyes they saw themselves – their true selves – reflected there. They saw the darkness, the savagery, the lust and the enormous stupidity of their lives. They could not resist killing him, they had to smash the mirror: so, they put out his eyes and they ripped out his tongue. Then they left him here . . . and here he lies.’
‘You want to bury him? I’ll help with the grave.’
‘No,’ said Varsava sadly, ‘I don’t want to bury him. Let others see him, and know the folly of trying to change the world.’
‘Did the Naashanites kill him?’ asked Druss.
‘No, he was killed long before the war.’
‘Was he your father?’
Varsava shook his head, his expression hardening. ‘I only knew him long enough to put out his eyes.’ He stared hard at Druss’s face, trying to read his reaction, then he spoke again. ‘I was a soldier then. Such eyes, Druss – large and shining, blue as a summer sky. And the last sight they had was of my face, and the burning iron that melted them.’
‘And now he haunts you?’
Varsava stood. ‘Aye, he haunts me. It was an evil deed, Druss. But those were my orders and I carried them out as a Ventrian should. Immediately afterwards, I resigned my commission and left the army.’ He glanced at Druss. ‘What would you have done in my place?’
‘I would not be in your place,’ said Druss, hoisting his pack to his shoulder.
‘Imagine that you were. Tell me!’
‘I would have refused.’
‘I wish I had,’ Varsava admitted, and the two men returned to the trail. They walked on in silence for a mile, then Varsava sat down beside the path. The mountains loomed around them, huge and towering, and a shrill wind was whistling through the peaks. High overhead two eagles were circling. ‘Do you despise me, Druss?’ asked Varsava.
‘Yes,’ admitted Druss, ‘but I also like you.’
Varsava shrugged. ‘I do so admire a plain speaker. I despise myself sometimes. Have you ever done anything which shamed you?’
‘Not yet, but I came close in Ectanis.’
‘What happened?’ asked Varsava.
‘The city had fallen several weeks beforehand when the army arrived the walls were already breached. I went in with the first assault and I killed many. And then, with the bloodlust on me, I forced my way into the main barracks. A child ran at me. He was carrying a spear and before I could think about what I was doing I cut at him with my axe. He slipped, and only the flat of the blade caught him; he was knocked out. But I had tried to kill him. Had I succeeded it would not have sat well with me.’