She had shaken her head. ‘If that were true you would have no desire to leave me and go wandering in search of war. Look around you at the other farmers. Do they rush off to battle?’
Druss rose and strode to the window, pushing the shutters wide and staring out at the distant stars. ‘I am not like them any more. I do not know if ever I was. I am a man fitted for war, Rowena.’
‘I know,’ she said sadly. ‘Oh, Druss, I know. . .’ Draining his tankard now, Druss caught the eye of a blonde serving-maid. ‘Another!’ he called out, waving the tankard in the air.
‘Just a moment, sir,’ she answered him. The tavern was almost full, the atmosphere bright and noisy. Druss had found a booth in the corner of the room, where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the crowd. Usually he enjoyed the gently chaotic rhythms of a tavern, the mix of laughter, conversation, the clattering of plates, the clinking of tankards, the shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs. But not tonight.
The maid brought him a second tankard of ale; she was a buxom girl, full-breasted and wide-hipped. ‘Did you enjoy your meal, sir?’ she asked, leaning forward with her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers stroked up into his short-cropped, dark hair. Rowena often did the same thing, when he was tense or angry. Always it soothed him. He smiled at the girl.
‘It was a meal fit for a king, lass. But I didn’t enjoy it as I should. Too many weighty problems that I haven’t the brain to solve.’
‘You need to relax in the company of a woman,’ she said, her fingers now stroking his dark beard.
Taking her hand, he gently moved it away from his face. ‘My woman is a long way from here, girl. But always she is close to my heart. And pretty as you are, I’ll wait to enjoy her company.’ Dipping into the pouch at his belt, Druss drew out two silver pieces. ‘The one is for the meal, the second for you.’
‘You are very kind. If you change your mind . . .’
‘I won’t.’
As she moved away, Druss felt a cold draught upon his cheek.
In that instant all sound died away. Druss blinked. The serving-maid was standing statue-still – her wide skirt, which swished as she walked, motionless. All around him the diners and revellers were frozen in their places. When Druss flicked his gaze to the fire, the tongues of flame were no longer dancing between the logs but standing steady, the smoke above them hanging solid in the chimney. And the normal smells of a tavern, roasted meats, wood-smoke, and stale sweat – had disappeared, to be replaced by the sickly-sweet odour of cinnamon and burning sandalwood.
A small Nadir dressed in a tunic of goat’s hair stepped into sight, weaving his way through the silent revellers. He was old, but not ancient, his thinning black hair greasy and lank. Swiftly he crossed the room and seated himself opposite Druss. ‘Well met, axeman,’ he said, his voice soft, almost sibilant.
Druss looked deep into the man’s dark, slanted eyes and read the hatred there. ‘Your magic will need to be very strong to stop me reaching across and snapping your scrawny neck,’ he said.
The old man grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. ‘I am not here to bring you harm, axeman. I am Nosta Khan, shaman to the Wolfshead tribe. You aided a young friend of mine, Talisman; you fought alongside him.’
‘What of it?’
‘He is important to me. And we Nadir like to repay our debts.’
‘I have no need of repayment. There is nothing you can offer me.’
Nosta Khan shook his head. ‘Never be too sure, axeman. Firstly, would it surprise you to know that even now there are a dozen men waiting outside, armed with clubs and knives? Their purpose is to prevent you fighting the Gothir Champion. They have been told to cripple you if they can, and kill you if they must.’
‘It seems everyone wants me to lose,’ said Druss. ‘Why do you warn me? And don’t insult me with talk of repayment. I can see the hatred in your eyes.’