The shaman was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was rich with both malice and a sense of regret. ‘My people need you, axeman.’
Druss gave a cold smile. ‘It cost you to say that, did it not?’
‘Indeed it did,’ admitted the little man. ‘But I would swallow burning coals for my people, and telling a small truth to a Round-eye is a pain I can live with.’ He grinned again. ‘An ancestor of yours aided us in the past. He hated the Nadir; yet he helped my grandfather in a great battle against the Gothir. His heroism brought us closer to the days of the Uniter. He was known as Angel, but his Nadir name was Hard-to-kill.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘You Round-eyes disgust me! You call us barbarians, yet you know not the deeds of your own ancestors. Pah! Let us move on. My powers are not limitless, and soon this stinking tavern will return with all its foul noise and stench. Angel was linked to the Nadir, Druss. Linked by blood, held by destiny. So are you. I have risked my life in many Fever-dreams, and always your face floats before me. I do not know, as yet, what role you have to play in the coming drama. It may be small, though I doubt it. But whatever it is, I know where you must be in the coming days. It is necessary that you travel to the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears. It is five days’ ride to the east. There is a Shrine there, dedicated to the memory of Oshikai Demon-bane, the greatest of Nadir warriors.’
‘Why would I wish to go there?’ asked Druss. ‘You say it is necessary, but I do not think so.’
The shaman shook his head. ‘Let me tell you of the Healing Stones, axeman. There is said to be no wound they cannot mend. Some even claim they can raise the dead. They are hidden at the Shrine.’
‘As you can see,’ said Druss, ‘I have no wound.’
The little man averted his eyes from Druss’s gaze, and a secretive smile touched his weatherbeaten features. ‘No, you have not. But much can happen in Gulgothir. Have you forgotten the men who wait? Remember, Druss, five days’ ride due east, in the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears.’
Druss’s vision swam and the noise of the tavern covered him once more. He blinked. The tavern maid’s skirt swished as she walked. Of the shaman there was no sign.
Draining the last of his ale, Druss pushed himself to his feet. According to the shaman a dozen men waited outside; rogues hired to prevent him fighting Klay. He gave a deep sigh and moved to the long trestle bar. The tavern-keeper, fat of belly and red of face, approached him. ‘Another ale, sir?’
‘No,’ said Druss, placing a silver coin on the bar. ‘Loan me your club.’
‘My club? I don’t know what you mean.’
Druss smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’ve never met a tavern-keeper yet, friend, who did not keep a weighted club at hand. Now, I am the Drenai fighter, Druss, and I am told there is a gang outside -waiting for me. They seek to stop my fight with Klay.’
‘I’ve got money on that,’ muttered the innkeeper. ‘Now look, lad, why don’t you just come with me and I’ll take you downstairs to the ale cellar? There’s a secret door that will allow you to sneak past them all.’
‘I don’t need a secret door,’ said Druss patiently. ‘I need to borrow your club.’
‘One day, lad, you might realize that it is more sensible to avoid trouble. No-one is invincible.’ Reaching down, he produced an eighteen-inch truncheon of black metal which he laid on the bar. ‘The outer casing is iron,’ he said, ‘but the inner is lead. Return it when you are done.’ Druss hefted the weapon; it was twice as heavy as most short swords. Sliding it up the right sleeve of his shirt he eased himself through the crowd. As he opened the door, he saw several big men standing outside. Dressed in shabby tunics and leggings, they looked like beggars. Switching his gaze to the right he saw a second group gathered close by. They stiffened as he appeared and for a moment no-one moved. ‘Well, lads,’ said Druss, with a broad grin. ‘Who wants to be first?’