Vintar laughed aloud. ‘Druss! Senile? Certainly not. What a wonderful thought! That is one old man who will never be senile. It would mean giving in to something. I used to believe that if Druss wanted night to last longer, he would just reach up and drag the sun back down over the horizon.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Yes. And his wife, Rowena. A beautiful child. A Speaker of rare talent. Gifted, even beyond Serbitar.’
‘I always thought Rowena was just part of the legend,’ said Virae. ‘Did he really cross the world to find her?’
‘Yes,’ said Vintar, releasing Virae and returning to his desk. ‘She was taken prisoner soon after they wed, when the village was attacked by slavers. He hunted her for years. They were a blissfully happy couple. Like you and Rek, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died. Soon after Skeln Pass. A weak heart.’
‘Poor Druss,’ she said. ‘But he is still strong, you say?’
‘When he stares, valleys tremble,’ quoted Vintar, ‘where he walks beasts are silent, when he speaks mountains tumble, when he fights armies crumble.’
‘But can he still fight?’ she pressed.
‘I think he will manage a skirmish or two,’ said Vintar, roaring with laughter.
7
Two days and twenty-seven leagues from Skoda and Druss, with a mile-eating soldier’s stride, was nearing the lush valleys at the edge of Skultik Forest. He was three days’ march from Dros Delnoch, and evidence of the coming war met his eyes everywhere. Deserted homes, untended fields and the people he did meet were wary and mistrustful of strangers. They wore defeat like a cloak, Druss thought. Topping a small rise he found himself looking down on a village of maybe thirty homes, some crudely built, others showing signs of more careful construction. At the centre of the hamlet was a square, an inn and a stable.
Druss rubbed his thigh, trying to ease the rheumatic pain in his swollen right knee. His right shoulder ached, but this was a dull throbbing he could live with, a reminder of past battles when a Ventrian spear had cut under his shoulder blade. But the knee! This would not bear him many more leagues without rest and an ice pack.
He hawked and spat, wiping a huge hand across his bearded lips. You’re an old man, he told himself. There is no point in pretending otherwise. He limped down the hill towards the inn, wondering once more whether he should purchase a mount. His head told him yes, his heart said no. He was Druss the Legend and he never rode. Tireless he could walk all night and fight all day. It would be good for morale when
Druss walked into Dros Delnoch. Men would say: ‘Great Gods, the old boy’s walked from Skoda.’ And others would answer: ‘Of course he has. That’s Druss. He never rides.’
But his head told him to buy a horse and leave it at the forest’s edge, a mere ten miles from the Dros. And who would be the wiser?
The inn was crowded, but the innkeeper had rooms to spare. Most of the customers were passing through, heading south, or west into neutral Vagria. Druss paid his money, took a canvas sack of ice to his room and sat on the hard bed pressing it to his swollen knee. He had not been in the main room for long, but long enough to hear some of the conversations and to recognise many of the men there as soldiers. Deserters.
Always in war, he knew, there were men who would sooner ride than die. But many of the young men downstairs had seemed more demoralised than cowardly.
Were things so bad at Delnoch?
He removed the ice and massaged the fluid away from the joint, his thick fingers pressing and probing, his teeth gritted hard against the pain. Satisfied at last, he opened his small-pack and removed a length of sturdy cotton bandage which he wound tightly about the knee, tucking the end into the fold. Then he rolled down his woollen leggings and pulled his black boot on to his foot, grunting as the injured knee tensed. He stood and walked to the window, pushing it open. His knee felt better – not much, but enough. The sky was cloudless and blue, and a soothing breeze ruffled his beard. High overhead an eagle circled.