‘I am a stranger in your camp,’ said the old man.
‘Welcome, stranger, and eat,’ said Ulric, and Druss sat cross-legged opposite him. Slowly Ulric unbuckled his lacquered black breastplate and removed it, laying it carefully at his side. Then he removed his black greaves and forearm straps. ‘I am Ulric of the Wolfshead.’
‘I am Druss of the Axe.’ The axeman’s pale blue eyes narrowed as he stared at the Great Khan. Was recognition flickering, Ulric wondered? Tell him! Speak to him now. Voice your gratitude.
‘Well met! Eat,’ bade Ulric.
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, and he grinned.
‘Lentrian Red,’ said Ulric. ‘Without poison.’
Druss grinned. ‘I’m a hard man to kill. It’s a talent.’
‘You did well and I am glad for you.’
‘I was grieved to hear of the death 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 his 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.’
A movement came at the tent flap, jerking Ulric’s mind back to the present. His lieutenant, Ogasi, son of the long-dead Gorkai, stepped inside. Fist to chest, he saluted his khan. ‘The cairn is ready, Lord,’ said the warrior.
Ulric took a deep breath and then walked out into the night.
The body of Druss the Legend lay upon the cairn, his arms folded across his chest, his great axe held in his dead hands. Ulric felt the jolt of inner pain as he gazed upon the cairn, and the sick empty suffering of bereavement followed. Druss had killed the Nadir champion Nogusha in single combat. Nogusha, however, had smeared poison upon his sword-blade. When the next attack came the old warrior had already been dying in agony, yet still he had fought, his great axe dealing death, until at last, ringed by Nadir warriors, he was cut down.