‘Well met, Deathwalker.’
‘You will not live to collect Ulric’s reward,’ said Druss. ‘There is no way back.’
‘All men must die. And this moment for me is as close to paradise as I could wish for. All my life you have been there before me, making my deeds seem shadows.’
Druss nodded solemnly. ‘I too have thought of you.’
Nogusha attacked with stunning speed. Druss hammered the sword aside, stepped in and struck a blow of awesome power with his left fist. Nogusha staggered, but recovered swiftly, blocking the downward sweep of Druss’s axe. The battle that followed was brief and viciously fought. No matter how high the skill, a contest between an axeman and a swordsman could never last long. Nogusha feinted to the left, then swept his sword up under Druss’s guard. With no time for thought, Druss hurled himself under the arcing blade, slamming his shoulder into Nogusha’s midriff. As the tribesman was hurled backwards the sword’s blade sliced the back of Druss’s jerkin, gashing the skin and flesh of his upper back. The old man ignored the sudden pain and threw himself across the body of the fallen swordsman. His left hand clamped over the right wrist of his opponent and Nogusha did likewise.
The struggle was now titanic as each man strained to break the other’s grip. Their strength was near identical, and while Druss had the advantage of being above the fallen warrior, and thus in a position to use his weight to bear down, Nogusha was younger and Druss had been cut deep. Blood welled down his back, pooling above the thick leather belt around his jerkin.
‘You . . . cannot hold . . . against me,’ hissed Nogusha through clenched teeth.
Druss, face purple with effort, did not answer. The man was right – he could feel his strength ebbing. Nogusha’s right arm began to lift, the sword blade glinting in the morning sun. Druss’s left arm was beginning to shake with the effort and would give out at any moment. Suddenly the old man lifted his head and rammed his forehead down on to Nogusha’s helpless face. The man’s nose splintered as the edge of his adversary’s silver-rimmed helm crashed upon it. Thrice more Druss butted the tribesman and Nogusha began to panic. Already his nose and one cheekbone were smashed. He twisted, released Druss’s arm and exploded a mighty punch to his chin, but Druss rode it and hammered Snaga into the man’s neck. Blood burst from the wound, and Nogusha ceased to struggle. His eyes met the old man’s, but no word was said: Druss had no breath, Nogusha had no vocal chords. The tribesman transferred his gaze to the sky, and died. Druss slowly pulled himself upright; then taking Nogusha by the feet, he dragged him up the short steps to the battlements. Meanwhile the Nadir had fallen back ready for another charge. Druss called two men and ordered them to pass up Nogusha’s body, then he climbed on to the ramparts.
‘Hold on to my legs, but do not let yourselves be seen,’ Druss whispered to the soldiers behind him. In full view of the Nadir massed below, he pulled the body of Nogusha upright in a tight bear-hug, took hold of his neck and groin and, with a mighty effort, raised the huge body above his head. With a heave and a scream he hurled the body out over the walls. But for the men holding him, he would have fallen. They helped him down, their faces anxious.
‘Get me to the hospital before I bleed to death,’ he whispered.
27
Caessa sat beside the bed, silent but watchful, her eyes never leaving the sleeping Druss. Thirty stitches laced the wound on the axeman’s broad back, the line curving alongside the shoulder-blade and over the shoulder itself where the cut was deepest. The old man was asleep, drugged with poppy wine. The blood loss from the wound had been prodigious and he had collapsed on the way to the hospital. Caessa stood by Calvar Syn as the stitches were inserted. She said nothing. Now she merely sat.
She could not understand her fascination for the warrior. Certainly she did not desire him – men had never raised desire in her. Love? Was it love? She had no way of knowing, no terms of reference to gauge her feelings by. Her parents had died horribly when she was seven. Her father, a peaceful placid farmer, had tried to stop raiders from robbing his barn and they had cut him down without a moment’s thought. Caessa’s mother seized her by the hand and raced for the woods above the cliff. But they were seen and the chase was short. The woman could not carry the child, for she was pregnant. And she would not abandon her. She had fought like a wild-cat, but had been over-powered, abused and slain. All the while the child sat beneath an oak tree, frozen with terror, unable even to scream. A bearded man with foul breath had finally come to her, lifted her brutally by the hair, carried her to the cliff edge and hurled her out over the sea.