‘All quiet?’ asked Druss. The boy nodded, obviously ill at ease.
Druss strolled on towards the towers of black rock, and sat down on a boulder some fifty feet from the boy. By day the steppes were hot and inhospitable, but the cold magic of the night gave the land a sense of brooding malevolence that spoke of nameless horrors stalking the shadow-haunted rocks. The eyes played tricks upon the brain. Gnarled boulders became crouching demons that seemed to shimmer and move, and the wind hissing over the steppes became a sibilant voice, promising pain and death. Druss was not oblivious to this lunar sorcery. Pushing such thoughts from his mind he gazed up at the moon and thought of Rowena, back on the farm. He had tried so hard, during the years since the rescue, to make her feel loved, needed. But deep down there was a gnawing pain in him that he could not ignore. She had loved the warrior Michanek, and he had loved her. It was not jealousy that hurt Druss, it was a deep sense of shame. When the raiders had stolen her so many years before, Druss had set out to find her with a single-minded determination that would brook no opposition. He had journeyed to Mashrapur and there, to gain enough money for passage to Ventria, had become a fist-fighter. After that he had crossed the ocean, engaged in battles with corsairs and pirates and had joined the demoralized army of Prince Gorben, becoming his champion. All this so that he could find Rowena, and rescue her from what he perceived as a life of abject slavery.
At the last, though, he had learned the truth. Her memory lost to her, she had fallen in love with Michanek, and was a respected and loved wife, living in luxury, happy and content. Yet knowing this, Druss had still fought alongside the soldiers who destroyed the city in which she lived, and butchered the man she loved.
Druss had watched Michanek stand against the best of the Immortals, and had seen them fall back in awe as he stood bleeding from a score of wounds, a dozen assailants dead around him.
‘You were a man, Michanek,’ whispered Druss, with a sigh. Rowena had never once shown bitterness for his part in Michanek’s death. Indeed, they had never spoken of the man. Out here in this lonely wilderness Druss realized that this was wrong. Michanek deserved better. As did Rowena – sweet, gentle Rowena. All she had wanted was to marry the farmer Druss would have become, build a house and raise children. Druss had been a farmer once, but never could be again. He had tasted the joys of battle, the exhilarating narcotic of violence, and not even his love for Rowena could keep him chained to the mountains of home. And as for children? They had not been blessed. Druss would have liked a son. Regret touched him, but he swiftly blocked it from his mind. His thoughts drifted to Sieben, and he smiled. We are not so different, he thought. We are both skilled in a dark sterile art. I live for battle without need of a cause, you live for sex without thought of love. What do we offer this tormented world, he wondered? The breeze picked up and Druss’s restlessness increased. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the steppes. All was silent. Standing, he walked back to the boy. ‘What do the riders report?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied Meng. ‘No sign of gajin or Chop-backs.’
‘When is the next change of watch?’
‘When the moon touches the tallest peak.’
Druss glanced up. That would be soon. Leaving the boy, he strolled out once more, his unease growing. They should have camped within the rocks, and to Hell with fears of demons! A rider came into sight; he waved at Meng and then cantered into the camp. Minutes later his replacement rode out. Another rider came in, then another. Druss waited for some time, then returned to the boy. ‘Were not four sent out?’
‘Yes. I expect Jodai is sleeping somewhere. My uncle will not be pleased.’
The breeze shifted. Druss’s head came up and he sniffed the air. Grabbing the boy by his shoulder, he hauled him to his feet. ‘Wake your uncle, now! Tell him to get everyone back into the rocks.’