‘He’s certainly got style,’ said Rek, admiring the man instantly.
‘I ought to go down before he finishes the food,’ said Druss. ‘We lose face as we wait.’
‘Be careful!’ urged Rek.
‘There are only a couple of thousand of them,’ answered Druss with a broad wink.
Hand over hand, he lowered himself to the Eldibar ground below and strolled towards the diner.
‘I am a stranger in your camp,’ he said.
The man looked up. His face was broad and clean-cut, the jaw firm. The eyes were violet and slanted beneath dark brows; they were eyes of power.
‘Welcome, stranger, and eat,’ said the man. Druss sat cross-legged opposite him. Slowly the man unbuckled his lacquered black breastplate and removed it, laying it carefully at his side. Then he removed his black greaves and forearm straps. Druss noted the powerful muscles of the man’s arms and the smooth, catlike movements. A warrior born, thought the old man.
‘I am Ulric of the Wolfshead.’
‘I am Druss of the Axe.’
‘Well met! Eat.’
Druss took a handful of dates from the silver platter before him and ate slowly. He followed this with goat’s milk cheese and washed it down with a mouthful of red wine. His eyebrows rose.
‘Lentrian Red,’ said Ulric, ‘Without poison.’
Druss grinned. ‘I’m a hard man to kill. It’s a talent.’
‘You did well. I am glad for you.’
‘I was grieved to hear of your son. I have no sons, but I know how hard it is for a man to lose a loved one.’
‘It was a cruel blow,’ said Ulric. ‘He was a good boy. But then all life is cruel, is it not? A man must rise above grief.’
Druss was silent, helping himself to more dates.
‘You are a great man, Druss. I am sorry you are to die here.’
‘Yes. It would be nice to live for ever. On the other hand, I am beginning to slow down. Some of your men have been getting damn close to marking me – it’s an embarrassment.’
‘There is a prize for the man who kills you. One hundred horses, picked from my own stable.’
‘How does the man prove to you that he slew me?’
‘He brings me your head and two witnesses to the blow.’
‘Don’t allow that information to reach my men. They will do it for fifty horses.’
‘I think not! You have done well. How is the new Earl settling in?’
‘He would have preferred a less noisy welcome, but I think he is enjoying himself. He fights well.’
‘As do you all. It will not be enough, however.’
‘We shall see,’ said Druss. ‘These dates are very good.’
‘Do you believe you can stop me? Tell me truly, Deathwalker.’
‘I would like to have served under you,’ said Druss. ‘I have admired you for years. I have served many kings. Some were weak, others wilful. Many were fine men, but you . . . you have the mark of greatness. I think you will get what you want eventually. But not while I live.’
‘You will not live long, Druss,’ said Ulric gently. ‘We have a shaman who knows these things. He told me that he saw you standing at the gates of Wall Four – Sumitos, I believe it is called – and the grinning skull of Death floated above your shoulders.’
Druss laughed aloud. ‘Death always floats where I stand, Ulric! I am he who walks with death. Does your shaman not know your own legends? I may choose to die at Sumitos. I may choose to die at Musif. But wherever I choose to die, know this: as I walk into the Valley of Shadows I will take with me more than a few Nadir for company on the road.’
‘They will be proud to walk with you. Go in peace.’
23
Bloody day followed bloody day, an endless succession of hacking, slaying and dying; skirmishes carrying groups of Nadir warriors out on to the killing ground before Musif, and threatening to trap the Drenai army on the walls. But always they were beaten back and the line held. Slowly, as Serbitar had predicted, the strong were separated from the weak. It was easy to tell the difference. By the sixth week only the strong survived. Three thousand Drenai warriors were either dead or had been removed from the battle with horrifying injuries.