Bodasen fell heavily and rolled, watching the burly figure of the axeman and his companions fording the stream.
The Ventrian’s vision swam. He closed his eyes. Weariness settled on him like a cloak. Memories danced in his mind. He heard a great noise like the crashing of the sea, and saw again the corsair ship bearing down upon them, gliding out of the past. Once more he raced with Druss to board her, carrying the fight to the aft deck.
Damn! He should have realised Druss would never change.
Attack. Always attack.
He opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. Druss was safely on the other side of the stream now, leading the warriors back to the Drenai line.
Bodasen tried to move, but agony lanced him. Carefully he probed the wound in his side, his sticky fingers feeling the broken ribs and the rush of arterial blood from the gaping gash.
It was over.
No more fear. No more insanity. No more bowing and scraping to the painted madman.
In a way he was relieved.
His whole life had been an anticlimax after that battle with Druss against the corsairs. In that one towering moment he had been alive, standing with Druss against . . .
They brought his body to the Emperor in the pink light of dawn.
And Gorben wept.
Around them the camp was a shambles. Gorben’s generals stood beside the throne, uneasy and silent. Gorben covered the body with his own cloak and dried his eyes on a white linen towel. Then he turned his attention to the man kneeling before him, flanked by Immortal guards.
‘Bodasen dead. My tent destroyed. My camp in flames. And you, you pathetic wretch, were the officer of the guard. A score of men invade my camp, killing my beloved general, and you still live. Explain yourself!’
‘My lord, I sat with you in Bodasen’s tent – by your order.’
‘So now it is my fault the camp was attacked!’
‘No, sire . . .’
‘No, sire,’ mimicked Gorben. ‘I should think not. Your sentries were sleeping. Now they are dead. Do you not think it fitting for you to join them?’
‘Sire?’
‘Join them, I say. Take your blade and slice your veins.’
The officer drew his ornamental dagger, reversed it, then plunged the blade into his belly. For a moment there was no movement. Then the man began to scream and writhe. Gorben drew his sword, slashing the blade through the man’s neck.
‘He couldn’t even do that right,’ said Gorben.
*
Druss entered Sieben’s tent and hurled his axe to the floor. The poet was awake, but lying silently watching the stars when Druss arrived. The axeman sat down on the floor, his great head slumped to his chest, staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The poet sensed his despair. He struggled to sit up, the ache in his chest becoming a stabbing pain. He grunted. Druss’s head came up, his back straightened.
‘How are you feeling?” asked Druss.
‘Fine. I take it the raid failed?’
‘Gorben was not in his tent.’
‘What is wrong, Druss?’
The axeman’s head slumped forward and he didn’t answer. Sieben climbed from the bed and made his way to Druss, sitting beside him.
‘Come along, old horse, tell me.’
‘I killed Bodasen. He came at me out of shadows and I cut him down.’
Sieben put his arm on Druss’s shoulder. ‘What can I say?’
‘You could tell me why – why it had to be me.’
‘I can’t tell you that. I wish I could. But you did not travel across the ocean, seeking to kill him, Druss. He came here. With an army.’
‘I only ever had a few friends in my life,’ said Druss. ‘Eskodas died in my home. I’ve killed Bodasen. And I’ve brought you here to die for a pile of rock in a forgotten pass. I’m so tired, poet. I should never have come here.’
Druss rose and left the tent. Dipping his hands in the water- barrel outside, he washed his face. His back was painful, especially under the shoulder-blade where the spear had cut him so many years before. A swollen vein in his right leg nagged at him.