Legend by David Gemmell

“Help me,” pulsed Menahem to Serbitar, “or I may have to kill him.???

He parried a blow, catching it only inches from his throat. “If I can,” he added.

“How can we stop it?” Serbitar asked Vintar. “The man is a baresark. I cannot get through to him. He will kill Menahem before much longer.”

“The girl!” said Vintar. “Join with me.”

Virae shivered as she watched Rek growing in strength. Baresark! Her father had told her of such men, but never would she have placed Rek in their company. They were mad killers who lost all sense of reason and fear in combat, becoming the most deadly of opponents. All swordsmen gravitated between defence and attack, for despite a desire to win there was an equal desire not to lose. But the baresark lost all fear; his was an all-out attack, and invariably he took his opponent with him even if he fell. A thought struck her powerfully, and suddenly she knew that the warrior was not trying to kill Rek—the contest was but a test.

“Put up your swords,” she screamed. “Stop it!”

The two men battled on.

“Rek, listen to me!” she shouted. “It’s only a test. He’s not trying to kill you.”

Her voice came to Rek as from a great distance, piercing the red mist before his eyes. Stepping back, he felt rather than saw the relief in the other man; then he took a deep breath and relaxed, his legs shaky, his hands trembling.

“You entered my mind,” he accused the warrior, fixing the man’s dark eyes in a cold gaze. “I don’t know how. But if you ever do it again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” Menahem told him softly, his voice muffled within his helm. Rek sheathed his blade at the second attempt and turned to Virae, who was looking at him strangely.

“It wasn’t really me,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that, Virae.”

“Oh, Rek, I’m sorry,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I’m truly sorry.”

A new kind of fear hit him as she turned her face away. “Don’t leave me,” he said. “It rarely happens, and I would never turn on you. Never! Believe me.” She turned to face him, throwing her arms about his neck.

“Leave you? What are you talking about? It doesn’t matter to me, you fool. I was just sorry for you. Oh, Rek, you’re such an idiot. I’m not some tavern girl who squeals at the sight of a rat. I’m a woman who has grown up alongside men. Soldiers. Fighting men. Warriors. You think I would leave you because you are baresark?”

“I can control it,” he said, holding her tightly to him.

“Where we are going, Rek, you will not have to,” she said.

Serbitar left the monastery balcony and poured a goblet of spring water from a stone jug.

“How did he do it?”

Vintar sat back on a leather chair. “There is a well of courage within him, fuelled by many things of which we can only guess. But when Menahem fed him fear, he responded with violence. Because what Menahem could not have understood is that the man fears fear itself. Did you glimpse that memory of his childhood during Menahem’s probe?”

“The tunnels, you mean?”

“Yes. What do you make of a child who fears the dark and yet seeks out dark tunnels to travel through?”

“He tried to end his fears by facing them,” said Serbitar.

“He still does. And that’s why Menahem almost died.”

“He will be useful at Dros Delnoch,” said Serbitar, smiling.

“More than you know,” said Vintar. “More than you know.”

“Yes,” Serbitar told Rek as they sat within the oak-panelled study overlooking the courtyard. “Yes, we can read minds. But I assure you we will not again attempt to read yours or that of your companion.”

“Why did he do that to me?” asked Rek.

“Menahem is the eyes of the Thirty. He had to see that you were worthy to ask of us … the service. You expect us to fight with your forces, to analyse enemy tactics, and to use our skills in defence of a fortress about which we care nothing. The messenger has to be worthy.”

“But I am not the messenger; I am merely a companion.”

“We shall see … How long have you known of your … affliction?”

Rek turned his gaze to the window and the balcony beyond. A wren landed on the railing, sharpened his beak on the stone, and then flew off. Light clouds were forming, fleece islands in the clear blue of the sky.

“It has happened only twice. Both times in the Sathuli wars. Once when we were surrounded after a dawn raid on a village and the second time when I was part of a guard unit for a spice caravan.”

“It is common among warriors,” said Serbitar. “It is a gift of fear.”

“It saved my life both times, but it scares me,” said Rek. “It is as if someone else takes over my mind and body.”

“But that is not so, I assure you. It is you alone. Do not fear what you are, Rek—may I call you Rek?”

“Of course.”

“I did not wish to be overly familiar. It is a nickname, is it not?”

“A shortened form of Regnak. My foster father, Horeb, shortened it when I was a child. It was a kind of joke. I disliked robust games and never wanted to explore or climb high trees. I wasn’t reckless, he said; so he dropped the ‘less’ and called me Rek. As I said, it’s not much of a joke, but the name stuck.”

“Do you think,” asked Serbitar, “that you will be comfortable at Dros Delnoch?”

Rek smiled. “Are you asking me if I have the nerve?”

“Speaking bluntly? Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I don’t know. Have you?”

The ghost of a smile hovered on the pale, fleshless face as the albino considered the question. His slender fingers tapped gently at the desk top.

“The question is a good one. Yes, I have the nerve. My fears are unconnected with death.”

“You have read my mind,” said Rek. “You tell me if I have the nerve. I mean it. I don’t know if I can stand a drawn-out siege; it is said that men fail under such pressure.”

“I cannot tell you,” Serbitar answered, “if you will hold or fail. You are capable of both. I cannot analyse all the permutations of a siege. Ask yourself this: What if Virae fell? Would you stay on?”

“No,” said Rek instantly. “I would saddle a fast horse and be gone. I don’t care about Dros Delnoch. Or the Drenai empire.”

“The Drenai are finished,” said Serbitar. “Their star has fallen.”

“Then you think the Dros will fall?”

“Ultimately it must. But I cannot see that far into the future as yet. The Way of the Mist is strange. Often it will show events still to come, but more often it will show events never to be. It is a perilous path which only the true mystic walks with certainty.”

“The Way of the Mist?” asked Rek.

“I’m sorry, why should you know? It is a road on another plane … a fourth dimension? A journey of the spirit like a dream. Only you direct the dream and see what you desire to see. It is a concept hard to verbalize to a non-speaker.”

“Are you saying your soul can travel outside the body?” asked Rek.

“Oh, yes, that is the easy part. We saw you in Graven Forest outside the cabin. We helped you then by influencing the axman, Grussin.”

“You made him kill Reinard?”

“No. Our powers are not that great. We merely pushed him in a direction he was considering already.”

“I’m not sure I am entirely comfortable knowing you have that sort of power,” said Rek, avoiding the albino’s green eyes.

Serbitar laughed, his eyes sparkling, his pale face mirroring his joy.

“Friend Rek, I am a man of my word. I promised never to use my gift to read your mind, and I shall not. Nor will any of the Thirty. Do you think we would be priests, forsaking the world, if we wished harm to others? I am the son of an earl, but if I wished, I could be a king, an emperor mightier than Ulric. Do not feel threatened. We must be at ease one with the other. More, we must be friends.”

“Why?” asked Rek.

“Because we are about to share a moment which comes only once in a lifetime,” said Serbitar. “We are going to die.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Rek. “I do not see that going to Dros Delnoch is just another way of committing suicide. It’s a battle, that’s all. No more, no less than that. A wall can be defended. A smaller force can hold a larger. History is full of examples: Skeln Pass, for example.”

“True,” said Serbitar. “But they are remembered because they are exceptions. Let us deal in facts. The Dros is defended by a force less than a third of the full complement. Morale is low; fear is rife. Ulric has a force in excess of half a million warriors, all willing—lusting even—to die for him in battle. I am a weapon master and a student of war. Dros Delnoch will fall. Clear your mind of any other conclusion.”

“Then why come with us? What will you gain from it?”

“We die,” said Serbitar, “and then live. But I shall say no more of that at this time. I do not wish to depress you, Rek. If it would serve a purpose, I would fill you with hope. But my whole battle strategy will be built around delaying the inevitable. Only then can I function—and serve your cause.”

“I hope you will keep that opinion to yourself,” said Rek. “Virae believes we can hold. I know enough of warfare and morale to tell you plainly that if your theory were to spread among the men, there would be wholesale desertions; we would lose on the first day.”

“I am not a fool, Rek. I say this to you because it needs to be said. I shall be your adviser at Delnoch, and you will need me to speak the truth. I shall have no real dealings with the soldiers, neither will the Thirty. Men will avoid us, anyway, once they know what we are.”

“Perhaps. Why do you say you will be my adviser? Earl Delnar commands; I shall not even be an officer there.”

“Let us say,” said Serbitar, “that I will be the adviser to your cause. Time will explain all far better than I. Have I depressed you?”

“Not at all. You have told me everything is hopeless, we are all dead men, and the Drenai are finished. Depressed? Not at all!”

Serbitar laughed and clapped his hands. “I like you, Rek,” he said. “I think you will hold firm.”

“I will hold firm, all right,” said Rek, smiling. “Because I will know that at the last wall I will have two horses waiting ready saddled. By the way, do you not have anything stronger than water to drink?”

“Sadly, no,” answered Serbitar. “Alcohol inhibits our strength. If you need spirits, however, there is a village nearby, and I can have someone ride out for you to purchase some.”

“You don’t drink. There are no women. You eat no meat. What do you do for recreation?”

“We study,” said Serbitar. “And we train, and we plant flowers and raise horses. Our time is well occupied, I can assure you.”

“No wonder you want to go away and die somewhere,” said Rek with feeling.

Virae sat with Vintar in a small sparsely furnished study awash with manuscripts and leather-bound tomes. There was a small desk littered with broken quills and scrawled parchment. She held back a smile as the older man fumbled with his breastplate strap. He could not have looked less like a warrior.

“Can I help you?” she asked, standing up and leaning over the desk.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “It weighs heavily.” He balanced the armour against the desk and poured himself some water, offering the jug to Virae, who shook her head. “I’m sorry the room is such a mess, but I have been hurrying to finish my diary. So much to say, so little time.”

“Bring it with you,” she said.

“I think not. Too many other problems to wrestle with once we are under way. You have changed since I saw you last, Virae.”

“Two years is a long time, Abbot,” she said carefully.

“I think it is the young man with you,” he said, smiling. “He has a great influence.”

“Nonsense. I am the same.”

“Your walk is more assured. You are less clumsy than I remember. He has given you something, I think.”

“Never mind that. What about the Dros?” she snapped, blushing.

“I am sorry, my dear. I did not wish to embarrass you.”

“You have not embarrassed me,” she lied. “Now, about Dros Delnoch. How can you help us?”

“As I told your father two years ago, our help will be in organization and planning. We will know the enemy’s plans. We can aid you in thwarting them. Tactically we can organize the defences, and militarily we can fight like a hundred. But our price is high.”

“My father has deposited ten thousand gold Raq in Ventria,” she said. “With the merchant Asbidare.”

“Good. Then that is settled. We ride in the morning.”

“May I ask you something?” said Virae. He opened his hands and waited. “Why do you need money?”

“For the next temple of the Thirty. Each temple is financed by the death of the last.”

“Oh. What happens if you don’t die? I mean, supposing we win?” His eyes searched her face for a matter of moments.

“Then we return the money,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“You are unconvinced?”

“It doesn’t matter. What do you think of Rek?”

“In what way?” asked Vintar.

“Let’s not play games, Father Abbot. I know you can read minds. I want to know what you think of Rek.”

“The question is not precise enough—no, let me finish,” he said, watching her anger rise. “Do you mean as a man, as a warrior, or as a prospective husband for the daughter of an earl?”

“All three, if you like. I don’t know. Just tell me.”

“Very well. Do you believe in destiny?”

“Yes,” she said, remembering that she had asked the same question of Rek. “Yes, I do.”

“Then believe this. You were destined to meet. You are the perfect match. You boost his strengths and counter his weaknesses. What he does for you, you know already. As a man he is not unique or even very special. He has no great talents, is not a poet, a writer, or a philosopher. As a warrior—well, he has a sporadic courage that hides great fears. But he is a man in love. And that will increase his strength and his power to combat his fears. As a husband? In days of peace and plenty, I feel he would be wayward. But for now … he loves you and is prepared to die for you. You can ask no more of a man than that.”

“Why did I meet him now, of all times?” she asked, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t want him to die. I would kill myself, I think.”

“No, my dear. I don’t think you would, though I agree that you would feel like doing so. Why now? Why not? Live or die, a man and a woman need love. There is a need in the race. We need to share. To belong. Perhaps you will die before the year is out. But remember this: To have may be taken from you; to have had, never. Far better to have tasted love before dying than to die alone.”

“I suppose so. But I would have liked children and a settled home. I would like to have taken Rek to Drenan and shown him off a little. I would like some of those bitches at court to see that a man could love me.” She bit her lip, straining to hold back the tears.

“They are inconsequential. Whether they see you or not will not alter the fact that they were wrong. And it is a little early for despair. It is spring, and it will be many weeks before we reach the Dros. All things can happen in that time. Ulric may have a heart attack or fall from his horse and crush his skull. Abalayn may make another treaty. The attack may come at another fortress. Who knows?”

“I know. You are right. I don’t know why I’m suddenly so full of self-pity. Meeting Rek was marvellous for me. You should have seen him standing up to Reinard’s outlaws. You know of Reinard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s dead. Anyway, Rek stood up to twenty of them because they were going to take me. Twenty! He would have fought them all. Damn, I’m going to cry!”

“Why should you not cry? You are in love with a man who adores you, and the future looks bleak and empty of hope.” He walked to her, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “Virae, it is always harder for the young.”

She rested her head on his chest as the tears ran. He put his arms around her and patted her back. “Can Dros Delnoch hold?” she asked him.

“All things can happen. Did you know Druss is on his way there?”

“He agreed? That is good news.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. Then Rek’s words came back to her. “He’s not senile, is he?”

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 spit, 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 toward 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 recognize 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 demoralized 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 onto 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.

Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.

The script was writ large, and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.

My Dearest Comrade,

Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar—you remember the Abbot of Swords?—to request the Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.

I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.

Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn’s nephew and a martinet. He is despised, and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.

I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.

It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favour.

Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.

Your comrade in arms.

Earl Delnar

Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.

“An old man with a swollen knee and an arthritic back. If you’ve pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere.”

A silvered mirror stood next to a washbasin on an oak chest, and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of grey hair. His thoughts were sombre as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.

At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.

“They say Ulric has a million men,” said one tall youngster. “And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!”

“Do you know why he did it?” Druss asked, breaking into the conversation. The men looked at one another, then back at Druss.

“Of course I know. He’s a bloodthirsty savage, that’s why.”

“Not at all,” said Druss. “Join me in a drink?” He called the innkeeper and ordered more ale. “He did it so that men like you could spread the word to other cities. Wait! Mistake me not,” said Druss as the man’s anger flushed his face. “I do not criticize you for telling the story. It is natural for these tales to be passed on. But Ulric is a canny soldier. Assume he took the city and treated the defenders heroically. Other cities would defend just as hard. But this way he sends fear ahead of him. And fear is a great ally.”

“You talk like an admirer,” said another man, shorter, with a curling blond moustache.

“But I am,” said Druss, smiling. “Ulric is one of the greatest generals of the age. Who else in a thousand years has united the Nadir? And with such simplicity. It is the Nadir way to fight anyone not of their tribe. With a thousand tribes thinking this way, they could never become a nation. Ulric took his own tribe, the Wolfshead, and changed the style of Nadir war. To each tribe he conquered, he offered a choice: join him or die. Many chose to die, but many more chose to live. And his army grew. Each tribe keeps its own customs, and they are honoured. You cannot take such a man lightly.”

“The man is a treacherous cur,” offered a man from another group of speakers. “He signed a treaty with us. Now he is to break it.”

“I am not defending his morals,” said Druss equably. “Merely pointing out that he’s a good general. His troops worship him.”

“Well, I don’t like the way you speak, old man,” said the tallest of the listeners.

“No?” said Druss. “Are you a soldier, then?”

The man hesitated, glanced at his companions, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Are you a deserter, then?”

“I said to forget it, old man,” stormed the youngster.

“Are you all deserters?” asked Druss, leaning back against the bar and scanning the thirty or so men gathered there.

“No, not all,” said one young man emerging from the throng. He was tall and slim, dark hair braided beneath a helm of bronze. “But you cannot blame those who are.”

“Don’t bother with it, Pinar,” said one. “We have talked it over.”

“I know. Interminably,” said Pinar. “But it doesn’t change the situation. The gan is a pig. Worse, he is incompetent. But in leaving, you are just making sure your comrades have no chance at all.”

“They haven’t any chance, anyway,” said the short one with the blond moustache. “If they had any sense, they would leave with us.”

“Dorian, you are being selfish,” said Pinar gently. “When the fighting starts, Gan Orrin will have to forget his idiot rules. We will all be too busy to worry about them.”

“Well, I’ve had enough of it already,” said Dorian. “Shining armour. Dawn parades. Forced marches. Midnight inspections. Penalties for sloppy salutes, uncombed crests, talking after lights-out. The man’s mad.”

“If you’re caught, you will be hung,” said Pinar.

“He doesn’t dare to send anyone after us. They would desert, too. I came to Dros Delnoch to fight the Nadir. I left a farm, a wife, and two daughters. I didn’t come here for all that shining armor garbage.”

“Then go, my friend,” said Pinar. “I hope you do not live to regret it.”

“I do regret it already. But my mind is set,” said Dorian. “I am heading south to join Woundweaver. Now, there’s a soldier!”

“Is Earl Delnar still alive?” asked Druss. The young warrior nodded absently. “How many men still hold their positions?”

“What?” said Pinar, realizing that Druss was speaking to him.

“How many men have you at Delnoch?”

“What concern is it of yours?”

“It’s where I am heading.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been asked, young laddie,” said Druss. “And in more years than I care to remember, I have never turned down a request from a friend.”

“This friend asked you to join us at Dros Delnoch? Is he mad? We need soldiers, archers, pikemen, warriors. I haven’t time to be respectful, old man. But you should go home; we have no need of greybeards.”

Druss smiled grimly. “You are a blunt speaker, boy. But your brains are in your breeches. I have handled an axe for twice your lifetime. My enemies are all dead, or wished they were.” His eyes blazed, and he stepped closer toward the younger man. “When your life has been spent in one war after another for forty-five years, you have to be pretty handy to survive. Now you, laddie—your lips scarcely dry from your mother’s milk—are just a beardless boy to me. Your sword looks pretty there at your side. But if I chose, I could kill you without breaking a sweat.”

A silence had fallen on the room, and the watchers noted the bright sheen on Pinar’s brow.

“Who invited you to Dros Delnoch?” he said at last.

“Earl Delnar.”

“I see. Well, the earl has been ill, sir. Now you may or may not be a mighty warrior still. And I most certainly am a beardless boy to you. But let me tell you this: Gan Orrin commands at Dros Delnoch, and he will not allow you to stay, Earl Delnar or no. I am sure your heart is in the right place, and I am sorry if I sounded disrespectful. But you are too old for a war.”

“The judgment of youth!” said Druss. “It is seldom of value. All right, much as it goes against the grain, I can see I still have to prove myself. Set me a task, boy!”

“I don’t understand you,” said Pinar.

“Set me a task. Something no man here can do. And we will see how ‘the old man’ fares.”

“I have no time for these games. I must return to the Dros.” He turned to go, but Druss’s words hit him like a blow, chilling his blood.

“You don’t understand, boy. If you do not set me that task, I will have to kill you. For I will not be shamed.”

The young man turned again. “As you say. Very well, shall we adjourn to the marketplace?”

The inn emptied, the crowd forming a circle about the two men in the deserted village square. The sun beat down, and Druss sucked in a deep breath, glorying in the warmth of spring.

“It will be pointless giving you a test of strength,” said Pinar, “for you are built like a bull. But war, as you know, is a test of stamina. Do you wrestle?”

“I have been known to,” said Druss, doffing his jerkin.

“Good! Then you may test your skill, one at a time, against three men of my choice. Do you agree?”

“All too simple against these soft, fat runners,” said Druss. An angry murmur arose from the crowd, but Pinar silenced them with a raised hand.

“Dorian. Hagir. Somin. Will you give old father here a trial?”

The men were the first three Druss had met at the bar. Dorian removed his cloak and tied his shoulder-length hair behind his neck with a leather thong. Druss, unnoticed, tested his knee: it was not strong.

“Are you ready?” asked Pinar.

Both men nodded, and immediately Dorian rushed the older man. Druss lashed out, grabbing the other’s throat, then stooped to push his right hand between the man’s legs and lifted. With a grunt and a heave, he hurled him ten feet through the air to land like a sack on the hard-packed earth. Dorian half rose, then sat back, shaking his head. The crowd hooted with laughter.

“Who’s next?” asked Druss.

Pinar nodded to another youngster; then, observing the fear on the lad’s face, he stepped forward. “You have made your point, greybeard. You are strong, and I am at fault. But Gan Orrin will not allow you to fight.”

“Laddie, he will not stop me. If he tries, I will tie him to a fast horse and send him back to his uncle.” All eyes turned as a hoarse cry split the air.

“You old bastard!” Dorian had gathered up his longsword and was advancing toward Druss, who stood with arms folded, waiting.

“No,” said Pinar. “Put up your blade, Dorian.”

“Back off or draw your sword,” Dorian told him. “I have had enough of these games. You think you are a warrior, old man? Then let us see you use that axe. Because if you don’t, I will put some air in your belly.”

“Boy,” said Druss, his eyes cold, “think well about this venture. For make no mistake, you cannot stand before me and live. No man ever has.” The words were spoken softly, yet no one disbelieved the old man.

Except Dorian.

“Well, we shall see. Draw your blade!”

Druss slipped Snaga from its sheath, his broad hand curling around its black haft. Dorian attacked!

And died.

He lay on the ground, head half-severed from his neck. Druss hammered Snaga deep into the earth, cleansing the blade of blood, while Pinar stood in stunned silence. Dorian had not been a great swordsman, but he certainly had been skilled. Yet the old man had batted aside the slashing sword and in one flowing motion had returned the attack—all without moving his feet. Pinar looked down at the body of his former companion. You should have stayed at the Dros, he thought.

“I did not want that to happen,” said Druss, “but I gave him fair warning. The choice was his.”

“Yes,” said Pinar. “My apologies for speaking the way I did. You will be a great help to us, I think. Excuse me. I must help them to remove the body. Will you join me for a drink?”

“I will see you in the long bar,” said Druss.

The tall dark-haired youngster whom Druss had been scheduled to wrestle approached him as he walked through the crowd.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I am sorry about Dorian. He’s hot-tempered. Always has been.”

“Not anymore,” said Druss.

“There will be no blood feud,” said the man.

“Good. A man with a wife and daughters has no place losing his temper. The man was a fool. Are you a friend of the family?”

“Yes. My name is Hagir. Our farms are close. We are … were … neighbours.”

“Then, Hagir, when you get home, I hope you will see that his wife is cared for.”

“I am not going home. I’m going back to the Dros.”

“What changed your mind?”

“With respect, you did, sir. I think I know who you are.”

“Make your own decisions; don’t place them on my shoulders. I want good soldiers at Dros Delnoch, but also I want men who will stand.”

“I didn’t leave because I was frightened. I was just fed up with the crazy rules. But if men like you are prepared to be there, I will stick it out.”

“Good. Join me for a drink later. Now I am going to have a hot bath.”

Druss pushed his way past the men in the doorway and went inside.

“Are you really going back, Hagir?” asked one of the men.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“But why?” urged another. “Nothing has changed. Except that we shall all be on report and probably flogged.”

“It’s him—he’s going there. The Captain of the Axe.”

“Druss! That was Druss?”

“Yes, I am sure of it.”

“How sickening!” said the other.

“What do you mean, Somin?” asked Hagir.

“Dorian—Druss was Dorian’s hero. Don’t you remember him talking about him? Druss this and Druss that. It is one reason he joined up—to be like Druss and maybe even to meet him.”

“Well, he met him,” said Hagir sombrely.

Druss, dark-haired Pinar, tall Hagir, and blunt-featured Somin sat at a corner table in the long room of the inn. Around them a crowd gathered, drawn by the legend of the grizzled old man.

“Just over nine thousand, you say. How many archers?”

Dun Pinar waved a hand. “No more than six hundred, Druss. The rest are remnants of cavalry lancers, infantrymen, pikemen, and engineers. The bulk of the complement is made up of volunteer farmers from the Sentran Plain. They’re plucky enough.”

“If I remember aright,” said Druss, “the first wall is four hundred paces long and twenty wide. You will need a thousand archers on it. And I don’t just mean a thousand bows. We need men who can pick a target from a hundred paces.”

“We just haven’t got them,” said Pinar. “On the credit side, we do have almost a thousand legion riders.”

“Some good news at least. Who leads them?”

“Gan Hogun.”

“The same Hogun who routed the Sathuli at Corteswain?”

“Yes,” said Pinar, pride in his voice. “A skilled soldier, strong on discipline and yet worshiped by his men. He’s not very popular with Gan Orrin.”

“He wouldn’t be,” said Druss. “But that’s a matter we shall settle at Delnoch. What of supplies?”

“There we have a few problems. There is enough food for a year, and we discovered three more wells, one as far back as the keep. We have close to six hundred thousand arrows, a multitude of javelins, and several hundred spare mail shirts.

“But the biggest problem is the town itself. It has spread from Wall Three down to Wall Six, hundreds of buildings from wall to wall. There is no killing ground, Druss. Once over Wall Six, the enemy has cover all the way to the keep.”

“We will tackle that, too, when I arrive. Are there still outlaws in Skultik?”

“Of course. When have there not been?” answered Pinar.

“How many?”

“Impossible to say. Five or six hundred, perhaps.”

“Do they have a known leader?”

“Again, hard to say,” said Pinar. “According to rumour, there is a young nobleman who heads the largest band. But you know how these rumours grow. Every outlaw leader is an ex-nobleman or a prince. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking they are archers,” said Druss.

“But you cannot enter Skultik now, Druss. Anything could happen. They could kill you.”

“True. All things could happen. My heart could give out, my liver fail. Disease could strike me. A man cannot spend his life worrying about the unexpected. I need archers. In Skultik there are archers. It’s that simple, boy.”

“But it’s not that simple. Send someone else. You are too valuable to lose like this,” Pinar told him, gripping the old man’s arm.

“I’m too long in the tooth to change my ways now. Direct action pays off, Pinar. Believe me. And there’s more to it, which I will tell you about some other time.

“Now,” he said, leaning back and addressing the crowd, “you know who I am and where I am heading. I will speak plainly to you; many of you are runners, some are frightened, others are demoralized. Understand this: When Ulric takes Dros Delnoch, the Drenai lands will become Nadir lands. The farms you are running to will be Nadir farms. Your wives will become Nadir women. There are some things no man can run from. I know.

“At Dros Delnoch you risk death. But all men die.

“Even Druss. Even Karnak the One-Eyed. Even the Earl of Bronze.

“A man needs many things in his life to make it bearable. A good woman. Sons and daughters. Comradeship. Warmth. Food and shelter. But above all these things he needs to be able to know that he is a man.

“And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop—and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.

“That man may never win. But when he sees himself reflected, he can be proud of what he sees. For low he may be in the scheme of things: peasant, serf, or dispossessed. But he is unconquerable.

“And what is death? An end to trouble. An end to strife and fear.

“I have fought in many battles. I have seen many men die. And women, too. In the main, they died proud.

“Bear this in mind as you decide your future.”

The old man’s fierce blue eyes scanned the faces in the crowd, gauging the reaction. He knew he had them. It was time to leave.

He bade his farewells to Pinar and the rest, settled his bill despite the protestations of the innkeeper, and set off for Skultik.

He was angry as he walked, feeling the stares on his back as the inn emptied to watch him go. He was angry because he knew his speech had been a falsehood, and he was a man who liked the truth. Life, he knew, broke many men. Some as strong as oak withered as their wives died, or left them, as their children suffered or starved. Other strong men broke if they lost a limb or, worse, the use of their legs or their eyesight. Each man had a breaking point, no matter how strong his spirit. Somewhere, deep inside him, there was a flaw that only the fickle cruelty of fate could find. A man’s strength was ultimately born of his knowledge of his own weakness, Druss knew.

His own fear was of dotage and senility. The thought of it set him to trembling. Did he really hear a voice at Skoda, or was it merely his own terror booming inside him?

Druss the Legend. Mightiest man of his era. A killing machine, a warrior. And why?

Because I never had the courage to be a farmer, Druss told himself.

Then he laughed, dismissing all sombre thoughts and self-doubt. It was a talent he had.

Today had a good feel about it. He felt lucky. If he kept to known trails, he would certainly meet outlaws. One old man alone was a package not to be missed. They would be a sorely inefficient lot if he were to pass through the forest unnoticed and unattended.

The woods were becoming thicker now as he reached the outskirts of Skultik. Huge, gnarled oaks, graceful willows, and slender elm interlinked their branches for as far as the eye could see—and greatly beyond, Druss knew.

The noon sun made shafts of shimmering light through the branches, and the breeze carried the sounds of miniature waterfalls from hidden streams. It was a place of enchantment and beauty.

To his left a squirrel ceased its hunt for food and gazed warily at the old man as he marched past. A fox crouched in the undergrowth, and a snake slithered beneath a fallen trunk as he approached. Overhead birds sang, a chorus full of the sounds of life.

Throughout the long afternoon Druss marched on, occasionally bursting into song, full-bodied and lusty versions of battle hymns from a score of nations.

Toward dusk he became aware that he was being watched.

How he was aware he could never explain. A tightening of the skin on his neck, a growing awareness that his back made a broad target. Whatever it was, he had learned to trust his senses in the matter. He loosened Snaga in its sheath.

Some moments later he entered a small clearing in a grove of beech trees, which were slender and wandlike against a background of oak.

At the centre of the clearing, on a fallen trunk, sat a young man, dressed in homespun garments of green tunic and brown leather leggings. Upon his legs lay a longsword, and by his side was a longbow and a quiver of goose-feathered arrows.

“Good day, old man,” he said as Druss appeared. Lithe and strong, thought Druss, noting with a warrior’s eye the catlike grace of the man as he stood, sword in hand.

“Good day, laddie,” said Druss, spotting a movement to his left in the undergrowth. Another whisper of branch on cloth came from his right.

“And what brings you to our charming forest?” asked the young man. Druss casually walked to a nearby beech and sat, leaning his back against the bark.

“A desire for solitude,” he said.

“Ah, yes. Solitude! And now you have company. Perhaps this is not a lucky time for you.”

“One time is as lucky as another,” said Druss, returning the other’s smile. “Why don’t you ask your friends to join us? It must be damp skulking in the bushes.”

“How rude of me, to be sure. Eldred, Ring, come forward and meet our guest.” Sheepishly two other young men pushed their way through the greenery to stand beside the first. Both were dressed in identical clothing of green tunic and leather leggings. “Now we are all here,” said the first.

“All except the bearded one with the longbow,” said Druss.

The young man laughed. “Come out, Jorak. Old father here misses nothing, it seems.” The fourth man came into the open. He was large—a head taller than Druss and built like an ox, his massive hands dwarfing the longbow.

“Now, dear sir, we are all here. Be so kind as to divest yourself of all your valuables, for we are in a hurry. There is a stag roasting at camp, and sweet new potatoes garnished with mint. I don’t want to be late.” He smiled almost apologetically.

Druss bunched his powerful legs beneath him, rising to his feet, his blue eyes glinting with battle joy.

“If you want my purse, you will have to earn it,” he said.

“Oh, damn!” said the young man, smiling and reseating himself. “I told you, Jorak, that this old fellow had a warrior look about him.”

“And I told you that we should have merely shot him down and then taken his purse,” said Jorak.

“Unsporting,” said the first. He turned to Druss. “Listen, old man, it would be churlish of us to shoot you down from a distance, and that sets us a pretty problem. We must have your purse, don’t you see? No point in being a robber else.” He paused, deep in thought, then spoke once more. “You’re obviously not a rich man, so whatever we get will not be worth a great deal of effort. How about spinning a coin? You win, you keep your money; we win, we take it. And I’ll throw in a free meal. Roast stag! How does that sound?”

“How about if I win, I get your purses and a meal?” asked Druss.

“Now, now, old horse! No point in taking liberties when we’re trying to be friendly. All right! How about this? Honour needs to be satisfied. How about a little skirmish with Jorak here? You look quite strong, and he’s a dab hand at bare-knuckle squabbles.”

“Done!” said Druss. “What are the rules?”

“Rules? Whoever is left standing wins. Win or lose, we’ll stand you a supper. I rather like you; you remind me of my grandfather.”

Druss grinned broadly, reached into his pack, and pulled on his black gauntlets. “You don’t mind, do you, Jorak?” he asked. “It’s the old skin on my knuckles—it tends to split.”

“Let’s get it over with,” said Jorak, advancing.

Druss stepped in to meet him, taking in the awesome breadth of the man’s shoulders. Jorak lunged, hurling a right cross. Druss ducked and crashed his own right fist into the other’s belly. A whoosh of air exploded from the giant’s mouth. Stepping back, Druss thundered a right hook to the jaw, and Jorak hit the ground face first. He twitched once, then lay still.

“The youth of today,” said Druss sadly, “have no stamina!”

The young leader chuckled. “You win, Father Time. But look. For the sake of my fast-diminishing prestige, give me the opportunity of besting you at something. We will have a wager: I wager my purse against yours that I am a better archer.”

“Hardly a fair bet, laddie. I will concede that point. But I will make a wager with you: strike the trunk of the tree behind me with one arrow and I’ll pay up.”

“Come now, dear sir, where is the art in that? Less than fifteen paces, and the bole is three hands wide.”

“Try it and see,” offered Druss.

The young outlaw shrugged, hefted his bow, and drew a long arrow from his doeskin quiver. With a fluid motion his strong fingers drew back the string and released the shaft. As the outlaw’s bow bent, Druss drew Snaga and the axe sang through the air in a glittering arc of white light as he sliced the blade to his right. The outlaw’s shaft splintered as the axe struck. The young man blinked and swallowed. “I would have paid to have seen that,” he said.

“You did!” said Druss. “Where is your purse?”

“Sadly,” said the young man, pulling his pouch from his belt, “it is empty. But the purse is yours, as we agreed. Where did you learn that trick?”

“In Ventria, years ago.”

“I’ve seen some axe work in the past. But that bordered on the incredible. My name is Bowman.”

“I am Druss.”

“I know that, old horse. Actions speak louder than words.”

8

Hogun swallowed back despair, his mind working furiously. He and two hundred of his legion riders faced more than a thousand Nadir dog soldiers, the cavalry wing of Ulric’s forces.

Sent out to gauge the strength and disposition of the Nadir horde, Hogun was over 150 miles from Delnoch. He had all but pleaded with Orrin to forsake this plan, but the first gan was not to be dissuaded.

“A refusal to obey a direct order is punishable by instant dismissal for any of gan rank. Is that what you wish, Hogun?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying. What I am telling you is that this mission is futile. We know from our spies and countless refugees the strength of Ulric’s forces. Sending two hundred men into that wasteland is insane.”

Orrin’s brown eyes had blazed with anger, his fat chin trembling in a bid to suppress his fury. “Insane, is it? I wonder. Is it just that you don’t like the plan, or is the famed Corteswain warrior afraid to meet the Nadir?”

“The black riders are the only seasoned troop of proven worth you have here, Orrin,” he said as persuasively as he could. “You could lose all two hundred men with such a scheme and learn from it no more than we already know. Ulric has five hundred thousand men and more than twice that in camp followers, cooks, engineers, and whores. He will be here within six weeks.”

“Hearsay,” muttered Orrin. “You leave at first light.”

Hogun had come close to killing him then, close enough for Orrin to sense danger.

“I am your senior officer,” he said, his voice close to a whine. “You will obey me.”

And Hogun had. With two hundred of his finest men, mounted on black horses—bred for generations as the finest war mounts on the continent—he had thundered his troop northward as the dawn sun breasted the Delnoch mountains.

Out of sight of the Dros he had slowed the column and signalled the men to ride at ease, free to talk to their riding companions. Dun Elicas cantered alongside him, reining his horse to a walk.

“A bad business, sir.”

Hogun smiled but did not answer. He liked young Elicas. The man was a warrior born and a fine lieutenant. He sat a horse as if he had been born on one, a true centaur. And a hellion in battle, with his custom-made silver steel sabre, two inches shorter than the standard version.

“What are we supposed to be finding out?” he asked.

“The size and disposition of the Nadir army,” answered Hogun.

“We know that already,” said Elicas. “What is the fat fool playing at?”

“Enough of that, Elicas,” he said sternly. “He wants to be sure the spies were not … exaggerating.”

“He’s jealous of you, Hogun; he wants you dead. Face it, man. No one can hear us. You know what he is—a courtier. And he has no guts. The Dros won’t last a day; he’ll open the gates for sure.”

“He’s a man under terrible pressure. The whole of the Drenai cause rests on his shoulders,” said Hogun. “Give him time.”

“We don’t have time. Look, Hogun, send me to Woundweaver. Let me explain our situation. He could be replaced.”

“No. Believe me, Elicas, it would achieve nothing. He’s Abalayn’s nephew.”

“That old man has a lot to answer for,” snarled Elicas. “If we do somehow get out of this business alive, he will fall for sure.”

“He has ruled for thirty years. It’s too long. But as you say, if we do get out alive, it will be because of Woundweaver. And it’s certain he will take control.”

“Then let me ride to him now,” urged Elicas.

“The time isn’t right. Woundweaver cannot act. Now, leave it alone. We will do our job and, with luck, get away without being spotted.”

But luck had not been with them. Five days out from Delnoch they had come across three Nadir outriders. They had killed only two, the third ducking down over the neck of his steppe pony and riding like the wind into a nearby wood. Hogun had ordered an immediate withdrawal and might have pulled it off had he enjoyed an ounce of luck. Elicas has been the first to spot the mirror messages flashing from peak to peak.

“What do you think, sir?” he asked as Hogun reined in.

“I think we will need good fortune. It depends on how many dog soldiers they have in the vicinity.”

The answer was not long in coming. Toward late afternoon they saw the dust cloud south of them. Hogun glanced over his back trail.

“Lebus!” he called, and a young warrior cantered alongside.

“You have eyes like a hawk. Look back there. What do you see?”

The young soldier shielded his eyes from the sun, then squinted at their back trail.

“Dust, sir. From maybe two thousand horses.”

“And ahead?”

“Perhaps a thousand.”

“Thank you. Re-join the troop. Elicas!”

“Sir?”

“Cloaks furled. We will take them with lances and sabres.”

“Yes, sir.” He cantered back down the column. The black cloaks were unpinned and folded to be strapped to saddles. The black and silver armour glinted in the sunlight as man after man began to prepare for the charge. From saddlebags each rider removed a black and silver forearm guard and slipped it in place. Then small round bucklers were lifted from saddle horns to be fitted to the left arm. Straps were adjusted, and armour tightened. The approaching Nadir could now be seen as individuals, but the sound of their battle cries was muffled by the pounding of horses’ hooves.

“Helms down!” yelled Hogun. “Wedge formation!”

Hogun and Elicas formed the point of the wedge, the other riders slipping expertly into position a hundred on either side.

“Advance!” yelled Elicas. The troop broke into a canter; then, at full gallop, the lances tilted. As the distance narrowed, Hogun felt his blood racing and could hear his pounding heart in time with the rolling thunder of the black horses’ iron-shod hooves.

Now he could pick out individual Nadir faces and hear their screams.

The wedge smashed into the Nadir ranks, the larger black war-horses cleaving a path through the mass of smaller hill ponies. Hogun’s lance speared a Nadir chest and snapped as the man catapulted from his pony. Then his sabre slashed into the air; he cut one man from his mount, parried a thrust from the left, and backhanded his blade across the throat of the horseman. Elicas screamed a Drenai war cry from his right, his horse rearing, the front hooves caving in the chest of a piebald pony that ditched his rider beneath the milling mass of black riders.

And then they were through, racing for the distant, fragile safety of Dros Delnoch.

Glancing back, Hogun saw the Nadir re-form and canter to the north. There was no pursuit.

“How many men did we lose?” he asked Elicas as the troop slowed to a walk.

“Eleven.”

“It could have been worse. Who were they?”

Elicas recounted the names. All good men, survivors of many battles.

“That bastard Orrin will pay for this,” said Elicas bitterly.

“Forget it! He was right. More by luck than any judgment, but he was right.”

“What do you mean ‘right’? We’ve learned nothing, and we’ve lost eleven men,” said Elicas.

“We have learned that the Nadir are closer than we believed. Those dog soldiers were Wolfshead tribe. That’s Ulric’s own; they’re his personal guard. He’d never send them that far ahead of his main force. I’d say we now have a month—if we’re lucky.”

“Damn! I was going to gut the pig and take the consequences.”

“Tell the men no fires tonight,” said Hogun.

Well, fat man, he thought, this is your first good decision.

May it not be the last.

9

The forest had an ageless beauty that touched Druss’s warrior soul. Enchantment hung in the air. Gnarled oaks became silent sentinels in the silver moonlight, majestic, immortal, unyielding. What cared they for man’s wars? A gentle breeze whispered through the interwoven branches above the old man’s head. A shaft of moonlight bathed a fallen log, granting it momentarily an ethereal splendor. A lone badger, caught in the light, shuffled into the undergrowth.

A raucous song began among the men crowded around the blazing camp fire, and Druss cursed softly. Once again the forest was merely forest, the oaks outsize plants. Bowman wandered across to him, carrying two leather goblets and a wine sack.

“Finest Ventrian,” he said. “It’ll turn your hair black.”

“I’m all for that,” said Druss. The young man filled Druss’s goblet, then his own.

“You look melancholy, Druss. I thought the prospect of another glorious battle would lighten your heart.”

“Your men are the worst singers I have heard in twenty years. They’re butchering that song.” Druss replied, leaning his back against the oak, feeling the wine ease his tension.

“Why are you going to Delnoch?” asked Bowman.

“The worst were a bunch of captured Sathuli. They just kept chanting the same bloody verse over and over again. We let them go in the end—we thought that if they sang like that when they got home, they’d break the fighting spirit of their tribe in a week.”

“Now look here, old horse,” said Bowman. “I am a man not easily thrown. Give me an answer—any answer! Lie if you like. But tell me why you travel to Delnoch.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It fascinates me. A man with half an eye could see that Delnoch will fall, and you’re a man with enough experience to know the truth when you see it. So why go?”

“Have you any idea, laddie, how many such lost causes I have been involved in during the past forty or so years?”

“Precious few,” said Bowman. “Or you would not be here to tell of them.”

“Not so. How do you decide a battle is lost? Numbers, strategic advantage, positioning? It’s all worth a sparrow’s fart. It comes down to men who are willing. The largest army will founder if its men are less willing to die than to win.”

“Rhetoric,” snorted Bowman. “Use it at the Dros. The fools there will lap it up.”

“One man against five, and the one disabled,” said Druss, holding his temper. “Where would your money go?”

“I’m ahead of you, old man. What if the one was Karnak the One-Eyed. Yes? Well, then my money would be on him. But how many Karnaks are there at Dros Delnoch?”

“Who knows? Even Karnak was unknown once. He made his name on a bloody battlefield. There will be many heroes come the last at Dros Delnoch.”

“Then you admit it? The Dros is doomed,” said Bowman, grinning in triumph. “At the last, you said.”

“Damn you, boy! Don’t put words in my mouth,” snarled Druss, cursing himself. Where are you now, Sieben? he thought. Now that I need you with your glib words and ready wit.

“Then don’t try to treat me like a fool. Admit that the Dros is doomed.”

“As you say,” admitted Druss, “anyone with half an eye could see it. But I don’t give a damn, laddie. Until the actual moment when they cut me down, I shall still be looking to win. And the gods of war are fickle at best. Where do you stand on the matter?”

Bowman smiled and refilled both goblets. For a while he was silent, enjoying the wine and the old man’s discomfort.

“Well?” said Druss.

“Now we come to it,” answered Bowman.

“Come to what?” said Druss, ill at ease under the young archer’s cynical gaze.

“The reason for this visit to my woods,” said Bowman, spreading his hands, his smile now open and friendly. “Come now, Druss. I’ve too much respect for you to fence any longer. You want my men for your insane battle. And the answer is no. But enjoy the wine, anyway.”

“Am I so transparent?” asked the old warrior.

“When Druss the Legend takes a stroll through Skultik on the eve of the end, he’s looking for more than acorns.”

“Is this all you want from life?” asked Druss. “You sleep in a wattle hut and eat when you can find game. When you cannot, you starve. In winter you’re cold. In summer, the ants crawl into your clothes and the lice prosper. You were not made for a life like this.”

“We are not made for life at all, old horse. It is made for us. We live it. We leave it. I’ll not throw my life away in your bloody madness. I leave such heroics to men like you. All your years have been spent in one squalid war after another. And what has changed? Have you thought that if you had not defeated the Ventrians fifteen years ago at Skeln, we would now be part of a mighty empire and they would have had to worry about the Nadir?”

“Freedom’s worth fighting for,” said Druss.

“Why? No one can take away the freedom of a man’s soul.”

“Liberty, then?” offered Druss.

“Liberty is valued only when it is threatened; therefore, it is the threat that highlights the value. We should be grateful to the Nadir, since they heighten the value of our liberty.”

“You’ve lost me, damn you, with your pretty words. You’re like those politicians in Drenan, as full of wind as a sick cow. Don’t tell me my life has been wasted, I won’t have that! I loved a good woman, and I’ve always been true to my principles. I never did a shameful thing, nor yet a cruel one.”

“Ah, but Druss, not all men are you. I will not criticize your principles if you do not try to graft them onto me. I have no time for them. A pretty hypocrite I would be as a robber outlaw with principles.”

“Then why did you not let Jorak shoot me down?”

“As I said, it was unsporting. It lacked a sense of style. But on another day, when I was colder or more bad tempered …”

“You are a nobleman, aren’t you?” said Druss. “A rich boy playing at robbers. Why do I sit here and argue with you?”

“Because you need my archers.”

“No. I have given up on that thought,” said Druss, offering his goblet to the green-garbed outlaw. Bowman filled it, a cynical smile once more upon his mouth.

“Given up? Nonsense. I will tell you what you’re thinking. You will argue some more, offer me wages and a pardon for my crimes. If I refuse, you will kill me and take your chances with the same offer to my men.”

Druss was shaken, but his face showed nothing.

“Do you also read palms?” he asked, sipping his wine.

“You’re too honest, Druss. And I like you. That’s why I would like to point out that Jorak is behind the bushes there with an arrow notched.”

“Then I have lost,” said Druss. “You keep your archers.”

“Tut, tut, dear man, I didn’t expect such defeatism from Druss the Legend. Put your offer.”

“I’ve no time for your games. I had a friend like you, Sieben the saga master. He could talk all day and convince you the sea was sand. I never won an argument with him. He talked about having no principles—and like you, he lied.”

“He was the poet who wrote the legend. He made you immortal,” said Bowman softly.

“Yes,” said Druss, his mind drifting back over the long years.

“Did you really hunt your woman across the world?”

“That part at least was true. We were wed when we were very young. Then my village was attacked by a slaver called Harib Ka, who sold her to an eastern merchant. I missed the attack, as I was working in the woods. But I followed them. In the end it took me seven years, and when I found her, she was with another man.”

“What happened to him?” asked Bowman softly.

“He died.”

“And she came back with you to Skoda.”

“Aye. She loved me. She really did.”

“An interesting addendum to your saga,” said Bowman. Druss chuckled. “I must be getting melancholy in my old age. I don’t usually prattle on about the past.”

“What happened to Sieben?” asked the outlaw.

“He died at Skeln.”

“You were close?”

“We were like brothers.”

“I can’t think why I remind you of him,” said Bowman.

“Maybe it is because you both hide a dark secret,” said Druss.

“Perhaps,” admitted the outlaw. “However, make your offer.”

“A pardon for every man and five gold Raq a head.”

“Not enough.”

“It’s my best offer, I’ll go no further.”

“Your offer must be this: A pardon, five gold Raq a head for all 620 men, and an agreement that when Wall Three falls, we leave with our money and our pardons stamped with the earl’s seal.”

“Why Wall Three?”

“Because that will be the beginning of the end.”

“Something of a strategist, are you, boy?”

“You could say that. By the way, how do you feel about women warriors?”

“I have known a few. Why do you ask?”

“I shall be bringing one.”

“So? What difference does it make as long as she can aim a bow?”

“I didn’t say it made a difference. I just thought I ought to mention it.”

“Is there something about this woman that I should know?” asked Druss.

“Only that she’s a killer,” said Bowman.

“Then she’s perfect, and I will welcome her with open arms.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Bowman softly.

“Be at Delnoch in fourteen days and I’ll welcome you all with open arms.”

Rek awoke to see the new sun breasting the distant mountains. His body adjusted swiftly from dreamless sleep, and he stretched and slid from the covers, then walked to the tower window of the bedroom. In the courtyard below the Thirty were assembling their mounts, great beasts with short-cropped manes and braided tails. Apart from the sound of steel hooves on cobbles, an eerie silence hung over the scene. None of the men spoke. Rek shivered.

Virae moaned in her sleep, her arm stretching across the wide bed.

Rek watched the men below check their armour and tighten saddle girths. Strange, he thought. Where are the jokes, the laughter, all the sounds soldiers usually make as they prepare for war? Jests to ease the fear, curses to ease the tension?

Serbitar appeared, a white cloak over his silver armour, his braided white hair covered by a silver helm. The Thirty saluted him. Rek shook his head. It was uncanny. Identical timing: like the same salute in thirty mirrors.

Virae opened her eyes and yawned. She rolled over and saw Rek’s back silhouetted against the morning sun. She smiled.

“Your belly is receding into memory,” she said.

“Mock not,” he said, smiling. “Unless you are going to appear in front of thirty warriors in your skin, you need to hurry. They are already in the courtyard.”

“It’s one way to find out if they’re human,” she said, sitting up. Rek tore his eyes from her body.

“You have the strangest effect on me,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “You always make me think of lovemaking at the wrong times. Now get dressed.”

In the courtyard Serbitar led the men in prayer, a silent joining of minds. Vintar watched the young albino fondly, pleased with his swift adjustment to the responsibility of leadership.

Serbitar ended the prayer and returned to the tower. He was uneasy, out of harmony. He mounted the circular stone steps to the tower bedroom, smiling as he remembered his promise to the tall Drenai and his woman. It would have been so much easier to speak than to mount these stairs to check if they were ready.

He knocked on the iron-studded door. Rek opened it, beckoning him in.

“I see you are ready,” he said. “We won’t be long.”

Serbitar nodded. “The Drenai have met the Nadir,” he said.

“They are already at Delnoch?” asked Rek, alarmed.

“No, no,” answered Serbitar. “The legion met them in the outlands. They did well. Their leader is called Hogun. He, at least, is quality.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Your powers again?”

“Yes. Does it distress you?”

“It makes me uncomfortable. But only because I do not share the talent.”

“A wise observation, Rek. It will come to be more acceptable, believe me.” Serbitar bowed as Virae entered from the rear washroom.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. Dressed in her armour, silver mail shirt, and bronze shoulder pads, she now also sported a silver helm, raven-winged, and a white cloak—gifts from Vintar. Her fair hair was braided on either side of her face.

“You look like a goddess,” Rek told her.

They joined the Thirty in the courtyard, checked their mounts, and rode alongside Serbitar and Menahem, heading for the Drinn estuary.

“Once there,” Menahem told them, “we will book passage on a Lentrian ship to Dros Purdol. It will save two weeks of travel. From Purdol we travel by river and road and should reach Delnoch in four weeks at the outside. I fear battle will be joined before we arrive.”

As the hours passed, the ride became a personal nightmare for Rek. His back was bruised and his buttocks numb before Serbitar called for a noon break. It was a short one, and the pain had become intense by dusk.

They camped in a small grove of trees near a stream. Virae almost fell from the saddle, fatigue—deep and numbing—showing in her every movement. But she was enough of a horsewoman to tend her mount before slumping to the ground, her back against a tree. Rek took more time wiping the lather from Lancer’s back and shoulders. He did not need to sit! He covered the horse with a blanket, then walked to the stream. Lancer was bearing up as well as the priests’ mounts, Rek thought with pride.

But he was still wary around the gelding. It had a tendency to snap at him even now. Rek smiled, thinking back.

“A fine mount,” Serbitar had said that morning, stepping forward to stroke the mane. Lancer had snapped, and Serbitar had leapt backward. “May I speak with him?” Serbitar had asked.

“With a horse?”

“It is more an empathic bond. I shall tell him I mean no harm.”

“Go ahead.”

After a little while Serbitar smiled. “He is being very friendly, but he is waiting to snap at me again. That, my friend, is a cantankerous animal.”

Rek walked back to the campsite to find four fires glowing merrily and the riders eating their oatcakes. Virae was asleep beneath a tree, wrapped in a red blanket, her head resting on her white cloak. He joined Serbitar, Vintar, and Menahem at their fire. Arbedark was talking softly to a nearby group.

“We’re pushing hard,” said Rek. “The horses won’t last.”

“We can rest aboard ship,” said Serbitar. “And we will be aboard the Lentrian vessel Wastrel early tomorrow. It sails with the morning tide, hence the urgency.”

“Even my bones are tired,” said Rek. “Is there any more news from Delnoch?”

“We will see later,” said Menahem, smiling. “I am sorry, friend Rek, for my testing of you. It was a mistake.”

“Please forget it—and what I said. The words were spoken in anger.”

“That is gracious. Before you joined us, we were talking of the Dros. It is our belief that under existing leadership it cannot last a week. Morale is low, and their leader, Orrin, is overwhelmed by his position and responsibility. We need a fair wind and no delays.”

“You mean it could be over before we arrive?” said Rek, his heart leaping.

“I think not,” said Vintar. “But the end may be near. Tell me, Regnak, why do you travel to Delnoch?”

“The possibility of stupidity can never be ruled out,” Rek told him without humour. “Anyway, we might not lose. Surely there is at least a faint chance.”

“Druss will be there soon,” said Vintar. “Much will depend on his reception. If it is good and we can arrive while the first wall holds, we should be able to harness the strengths of the defenders and guarantee resistance for about a month. I cannot see a mere ten thousand men holding for longer.”

“Woundweaver may send reinforcements,” said Menahem.

“Perhaps,” said Serbitar. “But unlikely. Already his marshals are scouring the empire. Virtually the entire army is gathered at Delnoch, with three thousand men holding Dros Purdol and another thousand at Corteswain.

“Abalayn has been foolish these last years, running down the army and cultivating trade agreements with Ulric. It was folly. Had it not been the Nadir attacking now, it would have been Vagria before long.

“My father would love to humble the Drenai. He has dreamed about it long enough.”

“Your father?” queried Rek.

“Earl Drada of Dros Segril. Did you not know?” said Serbitar.

“No, I didn’t. But Segril is only eighty miles west of Delnoch. Surely he will send men when he knows you are there.”

“No. My father and I are not friends; my talent unnerves him. However, if I am killed, he will be in blood feud with Ulric. That means he will swing his forces to Woundweaver. It may help the Drenai—but not Dros Delnoch.”

Menahem tossed twigs to the fire, holding his dark-skinned hands toward the blaze. “Abalayn has at least got one thing right. This Lentrian Woundweaver is quality. A warrior of the old school, tough, determined, and practical.”

“There are times, Menahem,” Vintar said, smiling gently, age sitting heavily on him following the hard ride, “when I doubt you will achieve your aim. Warriors of the old school, indeed!”

Menahem grinned broadly. “I can admire a man for his talents while debating his principles,” he said.
<
br /> “Indeed you can, my boy. But did I not note the merest hint of empathy?” asked Vintar.

“You did, Master Abbot. But only a hint, I assure you.”

“I hope so, Menahem. I would not want to lose you before the journey. Your soul must be sure.”

Rek shivered. He had no idea what they were talking about. On reflection, he had no wish to know.

Dros Delnoch’s first line of defence was the wall Eldibar, spreading snakelike for almost a quarter of a mile across the Delnoch Pass. Forty-eight feet high when viewed from the north, a mere five feet from the south, like a giant step carved from the heart of a mountain in seamed granite.

Cul Gilad sat on the battlements, gazing sombrely past the few trees toward the northern plains. His eyes scanned the shimmering distant horizon, searching for the tell-tale dust clouds that would herald the invasion. There was nothing to see. His dark eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an eagle high in the morning sky. Gilad smiled.

“Fly, you great golden bird. Live!” he shouted. Gilad pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. His legs were long and slim, his movements fluid, graceful. The new army shoes were half a size too large and packed with paper. His helm, a wondrous thing of bronze and silver, slipped over one eye. Cursing, he hurled it to the floor. One day he would write a battle hymn about army efficiency, he thought. His belly rumbled, and he cast his eyes about for his friend Bregan, gone to fetch their midmorning food. Black bread and cheese—bound to be. Endless wagons of supplies arriving daily at Delnoch, yet the midmorning meal was always black bread and cheese. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out Bregan’s tubby form ambling from the mess hall, bearing two platters and a jug. Gilad smiled. Good-natured Bregan. A farmer, a husband, a father. All these things he did well in his own soft, kindly easy-going way. But a soldier?

“Black bread and creamed cheese,” said Bregan, smiling. “We’ve had it only three times, and I’m already tired of it.”

“Are the carts still coming in?” asked Gilad.

“By the score. Still, I expect they know best what a warrior needs,” said Bregan. “I wonder how Lotis and the boys are bearing up.”

“News should be in later. Sybad always gets letters.”

“Yes. I’ve been here only two weeks and yet I miss the family terribly,” said Bregan. “I only joined up on the spur of the moment, Gil. That officer’s speech just got to me, I suppose.”

Gilad had heard it before—almost every day for the two weeks since first they had been issued with armour. Bregan should not be at Delnoch, he knew; he was tough enough, but in a way he lacked the heart. He was a farmer, a man who loved growing things. To destroy was alien to him.

“By the way,” said Bregan suddenly, his face echoing his excitement, “you’ll never guess who’s just arrived!”

“Who?”

“Druss the Legend. Can you believe it?”

“Are you sure, Bregan? I thought he was dead.”

“No. He arrived an hour ago. The whole mess hall is buzzing with the news. They say he’s bringing five thousand archers and a legion of axmen.”

“Don’t count on it, my friend,” said Gilad. “I’ve not been here long, but I would like a copper coin for every story I’ve heard about reinforcements, peace plans, treaties, and leave.”

“Well, even if he brings no one, it’s still good news, isn’t it? I mean, he is a hero, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is. Gods, he must be about seventy, though. That’s a bit old, isn’t it?”

“But he’s a hero.” Bregan stressed the word, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve heard stories about him all my life. He was a farmer’s son. And he’s never lost, Gil. Not ever. And he will be with us. Us! The next song about Druss the Legend will have us in it. Oh, I know we won’t be named—but we’ll know, won’t we? I’ll be able to tell little Legan that I fought beside Druss the Legend. It makes a difference, doesn’t it?”

“Of course it does,” said Gilad, dipping his black bread into the cheese and scanning the horizon. Still no movement. “Does your helmet fit?” he asked.

“No, it’s too small. Why?”

“Try mine.”

“We’ve been through that, Gil. Bar Kistrid says it’s against the rules to swap.”

“A pox on Bar Kistrid and his stupid rules. Try it on.”

“They all have numbers stamped inside.”

“Who cares? Try it on, for Missael’s sake.”

Bregan carefully looked around, reached across, and tried on Gilad’s helm.

“Well?” asked Gilad.

“It’s better. Still a little tight, but much better.”

“Give me yours,” Gilad placed Bregan’s helm over his own head; it was close to perfect. “Wonderful!” he said. “This will do.”

“But the rules …”

“There is no rule that says a helm must not fit,” said Gilad. “How’s the swordplay coming along?”

“Not bad,” said Bregan. “It’s when it’s in the scabbard that I feel stupid. It keeps flapping between my legs and tripping me.” Gilad burst into laughter, a fine lilting sound that echoed high into the mountains.

“Ah, Breg, what are we doing here?”

“Fighting for our country. It’s nothing to laugh at, Gil.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he lied. “I’m laughing at the whole stupid business. We face the biggest threat in our history, and they give me a helmet too big, and you a helmet too small, and tell us we can’t exchange them. It’s too much. Really. Two farmers on a high wall tripping over their swords.” He giggled, then laughed aloud again.

“They probably won’t notice we’ve swapped,” said Bregan.

“No. All I need now is to find a man with a large chest wearing my breastplate.” Gilad leaned forward, the laughter hurting his side.

“It is good news about Druss, isn’t it?” said Bregan, mystified by Gilad’s sudden good humour.

“What? Oh, yes.” Gilad took a deep breath, then smiled at his friend. Yes, it was good news if it could so lift a man like Bregan, he thought. A hero, indeed. Not a hero, Bregan, you fool. Just a warrior. You are the hero. You have left the family and the farm you love to come here and die in order to protect them. And who will sing your song—or mine? If they remember Dros Delnoch at all in years to come, it will be because a white-maned old man died here. He could hear the psalmists and saga poets chanting their rhymes. And the teachers telling young children—Nadir children and Drenai—the tale of Druss: “And at the end of a long, glorious life Druss the Legend came at last to Dros Delnoch, where he fought mightily and fell.”

“They say in the mess hall,” said Bregan, “that after a month this bread is riddled with worms.”

“Do you believe everything they tell you?” snapped Gilad, suddenly angry. “If I was sure I’d be alive in a month, I would be glad to eat wormy bread.”

“Not me,” said Bregan. “It can poison you, so they say.” Gilad bit back his anger.

“You know,” said Bregan thoughtfully, “I don’t know why so many people seem to think we’re doomed. Look at the height of this wall. And there are six of them. And at the end of it there’s still the Dros itself. Don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong, Gil? You’re acting so strangely. Laughing one minute, angry the next. It’s not like you; you’ve always been so … cool, I suppose.”

“Don’t mind me, Breg. I’m just frightened.”

“So am I. I wonder if Sybad got a letter. It’s not the same, I know—as seeing them, I mean. But it lifts me to hear they’re well. I’ll bet Legan isn’t sleeping too well without me there.”

“Don’t think about that,” said Gilad, sensing the emotional shift in his friend and knowing his tears were not far away. Such a soft man. Not weak. Never weak. But soft, gentle, and caring. Not like himself. He had not come to Delnoch to defend the Drenai and his family; he had come because he was bored. Bored with his life as a farmer, cold to his wife, and uncaring about the land. Up at first light to tend the animals and prepare the fields, tilling and planting until late afternoon. Repairing fences or leather hinge straps or leaking buckets until long after dusk. Then slipping into a rush-mattress bed beside a fat, carping woman whose complaints would drone on long after sleep had carried him on the all too short journey to a new sunrise.

He had believed nothing could be worse, but he could not have been more wrong.

He thought of Bregan’s words about Dros Delnoch’s strength. His mind’s eye pictured hundreds of thousands of barbarian warriors swarming like ants over a thin line of defenders. It’s funny, he thought, how different people view the same event. Bregan can’t see how they can take Delnoch.

I can’t see how they can fail.

All in all, he thought, smiling, I think I would rather be Bregan.

“I’ll bet it’s cooler at Dros Purdol,” said Bregan. “The sea air blowing in and all that. This pass seems to make even the spring sun burn.”

“It blocks the east wind,” said Gilad, “and the grey marble reflects the heat down onto us. I expect it’s pleasant in winter, though.”

“Well, I shall not be here to see that,” said Bregan. “I only signed on for the summer, and I’m hoping to be back in time for the harvest supper. That’s what I told Lotis.”

Gilad laughed, the tension flowing from him. “Never mind Druss,” he said. “I’m glad you’re with me, Breg, I really am.”

Bregan’s brown eyes searched Gilad’s face for any sign of sarcasm. Satisfied, he smiled. “Thanks for saying that. We never had much to do with one another at the village, and I always felt you thought I was dull.”

“I was wrong. Here, take my hand on it. We will stick together, you and I, see off the Nadir, and journey back to the supper with tall tales.”

Bregan gripped his hand, grinning, then: “Not like that,” he said suddenly. “It has to be the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.”

Both men chuckled.

“Never mind about saga poets,” said Gilad. “We will compose our own song. Bregan of the broadsword and Gilad, the demon of Dros Delnoch. How’s that?”

“I think you ought to find another name for yourself. My Legan has always been afraid of demons.”

The sound of Gilad’s laughter reached the eagle high above the pass. It banked sharply and flew to the south.

10

Druss paced impatiently in the great hall of the keep, gazing absently at the marble statues of past heroes flanking the high walls. No one had questioned him as he had entered the Dros, and everywhere soldiers were sitting in the spring sunshine, some dicing their meagre wages, others asleep in the shade. The city folk moved about their business as usual, and a dull, apathetic air hung over the fortress. The old man’s eyes had blazed with a cold fury. Officers chatted among the enlisted men; it was almost more than the old warrior could bear. Angry beyond endurance, he had marched to the keep and hailed a young officer in a red cloak who stood in the shade of the portcullis gate.

“You! Where will I find the earl?”

“How should I know?” answered the man, walking past the black-garbed axman. A mighty hand curled around the folds of the red cloak and tugged contemptuously. The officer checked his stride, lost his footing, and crashed back into the old man, who grabbed him by the belt and hoisted him from the floor. His breastplate clanged as his back hit the gateway.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, you son of a slut!” hissed Druss. The young man swallowed hard.

“I think he’s in the great hall,” he said. “Sir!” he added hurriedly. The officer had never seen battle or any degree of violence, yet he knew instinctively the threat contained in the ice-cold eyes. He’s insane, he thought as the old man slowly lowered him to the ground.

“Lead me to him and announce me. The name is Druss. Do you think you can remember it?”

The young man nodded so vigorously that his horsehair-crested helm slipped over his eyes.

Minutes later Druss paced in the great hall, his anger barely held in check. Was this how empires fell?

“Druss, old friend, how you delight my eyes!” If Druss had been surprised by the state of the fortress, he was doubly shocked by the appearance of Earl Delnar, Lord Warden of the North. Supported by the young officer, the man would not pass for the shadow he had cast at Skeln Pass a scant fifteen years before. His skin stretched like parchment over a skull-like countenance, yellow and dry, his eyes burning brightly—feverishly—in dark sockets. The young officer brought him close to the old warrior, and the earl extended a hand like a claw. Gods of Missael, thought Druss. He is five years younger than I!

“I do not find you in good health, my lord,” said Druss.

“Still the blunt speaker, I see! No, you do not. I am dying, Druss.” He patted the young soldier’s arm. “Ease me into that chair by the sunlight, Mendar.” The young man pulled the chair into place. Once settled, the earl smiled his thanks and dismissed him to fetch wine. “You frightened the boy, Druss. He was shaking more than I—and I have good reason.” He stopped speaking and began to take deep, shuddering breaths. His arms trembled. Druss leaned forward, resting a huge hand on the frail shoulder, wishing he could pour strength into the man. “I will not last another week. But Vintar came to me in a dream yesterday. He rides with the Thirty and my Virae. They will be here within the month.”

“So will the Nadir,” said Druss, pulling up a high-backed chair to sit opposite the dying earl.

“True. In the interim I would like you to take over the Dros. Prepare the men. Desertions are high. Morale is low. You must … take over.” Once more the earl paused to breathe.

“I cannot do that—even for you. I am no general, Delnar. A man must know his limitations. I am a warrior—sometimes a champion but never a gan. I understand little of the clerk’s work involved in running this city. No, I cannot do that. But I will stay and fight—that will have to be enough.”

The earl’s fever-sick eyes focused on the ice-blue orbs of the axman. “I know your limitations, Druss, and I understand your fears. But there is no one else. When the Thirty arrive, they will plan and organize. Until then it is as a warrior that you will be needed. Not to fight, although the gods know how well you do that, but to train: to pass on your years of experience. Think of the men here as a rusty weapon which needs a warrior’s firm hand. It needs to be sharpened, honed, prepared. It’s useless else.”

“I may have to kill Gan Orrin,” said Druss.

“No! You must understand that he is not evil or even wilful. He is a man out of his depth and struggling hard. I don’t think he lacks courage. See him and then judge for yourself.”

A racking cough burst from the old man’s lips, his body shuddering violently. Blood frothed at his mouth as Druss leapt to his side. The earl’s hand fluttered toward his sleeve and the cloth held there. Druss pulled it clear and dabbed the earl’s mouth, easing him forward and gently tapping his back. At last the fit subsided.

“There is no justice when such as you must die like this,” said Druss, hating the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed him.

“None of us … can choose … the manner of our passing. No, that is not true … For you are here, old war-horse. I see that you at least have chosen wisely.”

Druss laughed loudly and heartily. The young officer, Mendar, returned with a flagon of wine and two crystal goblets. He poured for the earl, who produced a small bottle from a pocket in his purple tunic; he uncorked it and poured several drops of dark liquid into his wine. As he drank, a semblance of colour returned to his face.

“Darkseed,” he said. “It helps me.”

“It is habit-forming,” said Druss, but the earl chuckled.

“Tell me, Druss,” he said, “why did you laugh when I said you had chosen your death?”

“Because I am not ready to give in to the old bastard yet. He wants me, but I will make it damned hard for him.”

“You have always seen death as your own personal enemy. Does he exist, do you think?”

“Who knows? I like to think so. I like to think this is all a game. All life is a test between him and me.”

“But is it?”

“No. But it gives me an edge. I have six hundred archers joining us within fourteen days.”

“That is wonderful news. How in heaven did you manage it? Woundweaver sent word he could spare not a man.”

“They are outlaws, and I have promised them a pardon—and five gold Raq a head.”

“I don’t like it, Druss. They are mercenaries and not to be trusted.”

“You have asked me to take over,” said Druss. “So trust me; I won’t let you down. Order the pardons to be drawn up and prepare notes against the treasury in Drenan.” He turned to the young officer standing patiently by the window. “You, young Mendar!”

“Sir?”

“Go, and tell … ask … Gan Orrin if he will see me in an hour. My friend and I have much to talk over, but tell him that I would be grateful for a meeting. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get on with it.” The officer saluted and left. “Now, before you tire, my friend, let us get down to business. How many fighting men have you?”

“Just over nine thousand. But six thousand of those are recruits, and only a thousand—the legion—are battle-hardened warriors.”

“Surgeons?”

“Ten, led by Calvar Syn. You remember him?”

“Aye. A point on the credit side.”

For the rest of the hour Druss questioned the earl, and by the end of that time he was visibly weaker. He began to cough blood once more, eyes squeezed shut against the pain that wracked him. Druss lifted him from his chair. “Where is your room?” he asked. But the earl was unconscious.

Druss strode from the hall, bearing the limp form of the Warden of the North. He hailed a passing soldier, gained directions, and ordered Calvar Syn to be summoned.

Druss sat at the foot of the earl’s bed as the elderly surgeon ministered to the dying man. Calvar Syn had changed little; his shaven head still gleamed like polished marble, and his black eye patch looked even more tattered than Druss remembered.

“How is he?” asked Druss.

“How do you think he is, you old fool?” answered the surgeon. “He is dying. He cannot last another two days.”

“I see you have retained your good humour, Doctor,” said Druss, grinning.

“What is there to be good-humoured about?” queried the surgeon. “An old friend is dying, and thousands of young men will follow him within the next few weeks.”

“Perhaps. It is good to see you, anyway,” said Druss, rising.

“Well, it’s not good to see you,” said Calvar Syn, a gleam in his eye and a faint smile on his lips. “Where you go, the crows gather. Anyway, how is it that you seem so ridiculously healthy?”

“You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

“Because you are not human! You were carved out of stone on a winter’s night and given life by a demon. Now get out! I have work to do.”

“Where will I find Gan Orrin?”

“Main barracks. Now go!” Druss grinned and left the room.

Dun Mendar took a deep breath. “You don’t like him, sir?”

“Like him? Of course I like him!” snapped the surgeon. “He kills men clean, boy. Saves me work. Now you get out, too.”

As Druss walked across the parade ground before the main barracks building, he became aware of the stares of the soldiers and the muted whispers as he passed. He smiled inwardly. It had begun! From now on he would be unable to relax for a moment. Never could he show these men a glimpse of Druss the man. He was the Legend. The invincible Captain of the Axe. Indestructible Druss.

He ignored the salutes until he reached the main entrance, where two guards snapped to attention.

“Where will I find Gan Orrin?” he asked the first.

“Third doorway of the fifth corridor on the right,” answered the soldier, back straight, eyes staring ahead.

Druss marched inside, located the room, and knocked on the door.

“Come!” said a voice from within, and Druss entered. The desk was immaculately tidy, the office Spartanly furnished but smart. The man behind the desk was tubby, with soft doelike dark eyes. He looked out of place in the gold epaulets of a Drenai gan.

“You are Gan Orrin?” asked Druss.

“I am. You must be Druss. Come in, my dear fellow, and have a seat. You have seen the earl? Yes, of course you have. Of course you have. I expect he has told you about our problems here. Not easy. Not easy at all. Have you eaten?” The man was sweating and ill at ease, and Druss felt sorry for him. He had served under countless commanders in his lifetime. Many were fine, but as many were incompetent, foolish, vain, or cowardly. He did not know as yet into which category Orrin fell, but he sympathized with his problems.

On a shelf by the window stood a wooden platter bearing black bread and cheese. “I will have some of that, if I may,” said Druss.

“But of course.” Orrin passed it to him. “How is the earl? A bad business. Such a fine man. A friend of his, weren’t you? At Skeln together. Wonderful story. Inspiring.”

Druss ate slowly, enjoying the gritty bread. The cheese was good, too, mellow and full-flavored. He rethought his original plan to tackle Orrin by pointing out the shambles into which the Dros had fallen, the apathy, and the ramshackle organization. A man must know his limitations, he thought. If he exceeds them, nature has a way of playing cruel tricks. Orrin should never have accepted gan rank, but in peacetime he would be easily absorbed. Now he stood out like a wooden horse in a charge.

“You must be exhausted,” Druss said at last.

“What?”

“Exhausted. The work load here is enough to break a lesser man. Organization of supplies, training, patrols, strategy, planning. You must be completely worn out.”

“Yes, it is tiring,” said Orrin, wiping the sweat from his brow, his relief evident. “Not many people realize the problems of command. It’s a nightmare. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you. Would it help if I took some of the weight from your shoulders?”

“In what way? You are not asking me to stand down, are you?”

“Great Missael, no,” said Druss with feeling. “I would be lost. No, I meant nothing of that kind.

“But time is short, and no one can expect you to bear this burden alone. I would suggest you turn over to me the training and all the responsibility for preparing the defense. We need to block those tunnels behind the gates and set work parties to razing the buildings from Wall Four to Wall Six.”

“Block the tunnels? Raze the buildings? I don’t understand you, Druss,” said Orrin. “They are all privately owned. There would be an uproar.”

“Exactly!” said the old warrior gently. “And that is why you must appoint an outsider to take the responsibility. Those tunnels behind the gates were built so that a small rear-guard could hold an enemy force long enough to allow the defenders to move back to the next wall. I propose to destroy the buildings between Walls Four and Six and use the rubble to block the tunnels. Ulric will expend a lot of men in order to breach the gates. And it will avail him nothing.”

“But why destroy the buildings?” asked Orrin. “We can bring rubble in from the south of the pass.”

“There is no killing ground,” said the old warrior. “We must get back to the original plan of the Dros. When Ulric’s men breach the first wall, I want every archer in the Dros peppering them. Every yard of open ground will be littered with Nadir dead. We’re outnumbered five hundred to one, and we have to level the odds somehow.”

Orrin bit his lip and rubbed his chin, his mind working furiously. He glanced at the white-bearded warrior seated calmly before him. As soon as he had heard Druss had arrived, he had prepared for the certainty that he would be replaced, sent back to Drenan in disgrace. Now he was being offered a lifeline. He should have thought of razing the buildings and blocking the tunnels; he knew it, just as he knew he was miscast as a gan. It was a hard fact to accept.

Throughout the last five years, since his elevation, he had avoided self-examination. However, only days before he had sent Hogun and two hundred of his legion lancers into the outlands. At first he had held to the belief that it was a sensible military decision. But as the days had passed and no word came, he had agonized over his orders. It had little to do with strategy but everything to do with jealousy. Hogun, he had realized with sick horror, was the best soldier in the Dros. When he had returned and told Orrin that his decision had proved a wise one, far from bolstering Orrin, it had finally opened his eyes to his own inadequacy. He had considered resigning but could not face the disgrace. He had even contemplated suicide but could not bear the thought of the dishonor it would bring to his uncle, Abalayn. All he could do was die on the first wall. And this he was prepared for. He had feared Druss would rob him even of that.

“I have been a fool, Druss,” he said at last.

“Enough of that talk!” snapped the old man. “Listen to me. You are the gan. From this day on no man will speak ill of you. What you fear, keep to yourself, and believe in me. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fails at something. The Dros will hold, for I will be damned if I will let it fall. If I had felt you were a coward, Orrin, I would have tied you to a horse and sent you packing. You have never been in a siege or led a troop into battle. Well, now you will do both and do it well, for I will be beside you.

“Get rid of your doubts. Yesterday is dead. Past mistakes are like smoke in the breeze. What counts is tomorrow and every tomorrow until Woundweaver gets here with reinforcements. Make no mistake, Orrin. When we survive and the songs are sung, you will be worth your place in them and no one will sneer. Not a soul. Believe it!

“Now I have talked enough. Give me your seal on parchment and I will start today with my duties.”

“Will you want me with you today?”

“Best not,” said Druss. “I have a few heads to crack.”

Minutes later Druss marched toward the officers’ mess flanked by two legion guards, tall men and well disciplined. The old man’s eyes blazed with anger, and the guards exchanged a glance as they marched. They could hear the sounds of singing coming from the mess and were set to enjoy the sight of Druss the Legend in action.

He opened the door and stepped into the lavishly furnished interior. A trestle bar had been set up against the far wall, stretching out into the centre of the room. Druss pushed his way past the revellers, ignoring the complaints, then placed one hand beneath the trestle and hurled it into the air, scattering bottles, goblets, and food to shower on the officers. Stunned silence was followed by an angry surge of oaths and curses. One young officer pushed his way to the front of the crowd; dark-haired, sullen-eyed, and haughty, he confronted the white-bearded warrior.

“Who the hell do you think you are, old man?” he said.

Druss ignored him, his eyes scanning the thirty or so men in the room. A hand grabbed his jerkin.

“I said who—” Druss backhanded the man across the room to crash into the wall and slither to the floor, half-stunned.

“I am Druss. Sometimes called Captain of the Axe. In Ventria they call me Druss the Sender. In Vagria I am merely the Axman. To the Nadir I am Deathwalker. In Lentria I am the Silver Slayer.

“But who are you? You dung-eating lumps of offal! Who the hell are you?” The old man drew Snaga from its sheath at his side. “I have a mind to set an example today. I have a mind to cut the fat from this ill-fated fortress. Where is Dun Pinar?”

The young man pushed himself from the back of the crowd, a half smile on his face, a cool look in his dark eyes. “I am here, Druss.”

“Gan Orrin has appointed me to take charge of the training and preparation of the defences. I want a meeting with all officers on the training ground in an hour. Pinar, you organize it. The rest of you clear up this mess and get yourselves ready. The holiday is over. Any man who fails me will curse the day he was born.” Beckoning Pinar to follow him, he walked outside. “Find Hogun,” he said, “and bring him to me at once in the main hall of the keep.”

“Yes, sir! And sir …”

“Out with it, lad.”

“Welcome to Dros Delnoch.”

The news flashed through the town of Delnoch like a summer storm, from tavern to shop to market stall. Druss was here! Women passed the message to their men; children chanted his name in the alleys. Tales of his exploits were retold, growing by the minute. A large crowd gathered before the barracks, watching the officers milling at the parade ground. Children were lifted high, perched on men’s shoulders to catch a glimpse of the greatest Drenai hero of all time.

When he appeared, a huge roar went up from the crowd and the old man paused and waved.

They could not hear what he told the officers, but the men moved with a purpose as he dismissed them. Then, with a final wave, he returned to the keep.

Within the main hall once more, Druss removed his jerkin and relaxed in a high-backed chair. His knee was throbbing, and his back ached like the devil. And still Hogun had not appeared.

He ordered a servant to prepare him a meal and inquired after the earl. The servant told him the earl was sleeping peacefully. He returned with a huge steak, lightly done, which Druss wolfed down, following it with a bottle of finest Lentrian red. He wiped the grease from his beard and rubbed his knee. After seeing Hogun, he would have a hot bath, ready for tomorrow. He knew his first day would tax him to his limits—and he must not fail.

“Gan Hogun, sir,” announced the servant. “And Dun Elicas.”

The two men who entered lifted Druss’s heart. The first—it had to be Hogun—was broad-shouldered and tall, clear-eyed, with a square jaw.

And Elicas, though slimmer and shorter, had the look of eagles about him. Both men wore the black and silver of the legion without badges of rank. It was a long-standing custom, going back to the days when the Earl of Bronze had formed them for the Vagrian Wars.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Druss.

Hogun pulled up a chair, reversing it in order to lean on the back. Elicas perched himself on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest.

Elicas watched the two men carefully. He had not known what to expect from Druss, but he had begged Hogun to allow him to be present at the meeting. He worshiped Hogun, but the grim old man seated before him had always been his idol.

“Welcome to Delnoch, Druss,” said Hogun. “You have lifted morale already. The men speak of nothing else. I am sorry to have missed you earlier, but I was at the first wall, supervising an archery tourney.”

“I understand you have already met the Nadir,” said Druss.

“Yes. They will be here in less than a month.”

“We shall be ready. But it will need hard work. The men are badly trained—if trained at all. That must change. We have only ten surgeons, no medical orderlies, no stretcher-bearers, and only one hospital—and that is at Wall One, which is no good to us. Comments?”

“An accurate appraisal. All I can add is that, apart from my men, there are only a dozen officers of worth.”

“I have not yet decided the worth of any man here. But let us stay positive for the moment. I need a man of mathematical persuasion to take charge of the food stores and to prepare ration rotas. He will need to shift his equations to match our losses. He must also be responsible for liaison and administration with Gan Orrin.” Druss watched as the two men exchanged glances but said nothing of it.

“Dun Pinar is your man,” said Hogun. “He virtually runs the Dros now.”

Druss’s eyes were cold as he leaned toward the young general. “There will be no more comments like that, Hogun. It does not become a professional soldier. We start today with a clean slate. Yesterday is gone. I shall make my own judgments, and I do not expect my officers to make sly comments about each other.”

“I would have thought you would want the truth,” interposed Elicas before Hogun could answer.

“The truth is a strange animal, laddie. It seems to vary from man to man. Now keep silent. Understand me, Hogun, I value you. Your record is a good one. But from now on no one speaks ill of the first gan. It is not good for morale, and what is not good for our morale is good for the Nadir. We have enough problems.” Druss stretched out a length of parchment and pushed it to Elicas with a quill and ink. “Make yourself useful, boy, and take notes. Put Pinar at the top; he is our quartermaster. Now, we will need fifty medical orderlies and two hundred stretcher-bearers. The first Calvar Syn can choose from volunteers, but the bearers will need someone to train them. I want them to be able to run all day. Missael knows they will need to when the action gets warm. These men will need stout hearts. It is no easy thing to run about on a battlefield lightly armed. For they will not be able to carry swords and stretchers.

“So who do you suggest to pick and train them?”

Hogun turned to Elicas, who shrugged.

“You must be able to suggest someone,” said Druss.

“I don’t know the men of Dros Delnoch that well, sir,” said Hogun, “and no one from the legion would be appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“They are warriors. We shall need them on the wall.”

“Who is your best ranker?”

“Bar Britan. But he’s a formidable warrior, sir.”

“That is why he is the man. Listen well: The stretcher-bearers will be armed with daggers only, and they will risk their lives as much as the men battling on the walls. But it is not a glorious task, so the importance of it must be highlighted. When you name your best ranker as the man to train the bearers and work with them during the battle, this will come home to them. Bar Britan must also be given fifty men of his choice as a moving troop to protect the bearers as best he can.”

“I bow to your logic, Druss,” said Hogun.

“Bow to nothing, son. I make mistakes as well as any man. If you think me wrong, be so good as to damn well say so.”

“Put your mind at rest on that score, Axman!” snapped Hogun.

“Good! Now, as to training. I want the men trained in groups of fifty. Each group is to have a name; choose them from legends, names of heroes, battlefields, whatever, as long as the names stir the blood.

“There will be one officer to each group and five rankers, each commanding ten men. These underleaders will be chosen after the first three days training. By then we should have taken their mark. Understood?”

“Why names?” asked Hogun. “Would it not be simpler if each group had a number? Gods, man, that’s 180 names to find!”

“There is more to warfare, Hogun, than tactics and training. I want proud men on those walls. Men who know their comrades and can identify with them. Group Karnak will be representing Karnak the One-Eyed, where Group Six would be merely identified.

“Throughout the next few weeks we will set one group against another in work, play, and mock combat. We will weld them into units—proud units. We will mock and cajole them, sneer at them even. Then, slowly, when they hate us more than they do the Nadir, we will praise them. In as short a time as possible we must make them think of themselves as an elite force. That’s half the battle. These are desperate, bloody days, days of death. I want men on those walls, strong men, fit men—but most of all, proud men.

“Tomorrow you will choose the officers and allocate the groups. I want the groups running until they drop and then running again. I want sword practice and wall scaling. I want demolition work done by day and night. After ten days we will move on to unit work. I want the stretcher-bearers running with loads of rock until their arms burn and their muscles tear.

“I want every building from Wall Four to Wall Six razed to the ground and the tunnels blocked.

“I want one thousand men at a time working on the demolition in three-hour shifts. That should straighten backs and strengthen sword arms.

“Any questions?”

Hogun spoke: “No. Everything you wish for will be done. But I want to know this: Do you believe the Dros can hold until the autumn?”

“Of course I do, laddie,” lied Druss easily. “Why else would I bother? The point is, do you believe it?”

“Oh, yes,” lied Hogun smoothly. “Without a doubt.”

The two men grinned.

“Join me in a glass of Lentrian red,” said Druss. “Thirsty work, this planning business!”

11

In a wooden loft, its window in the shadow of the great keep, a man waited, drumming his fingers on the broad table. Behind him, pigeons ruffled their feathers within a wickerwork coop. The man was nervous. On edge.

Footsteps on the stairs made him reach for a slender dagger. He cursed and wiped his sweating palm on his woollen trousers.

A second man entered, pushed the door shut, and sat opposite the first.

The newcomer spoke: “Well? What orders are there?”

“We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here.”

“One man can make no difference,” said the newcomer.

“Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks.”

“Five? I thought …”

“I know,” said the first man. “But Ulric’s firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days, and it’s a bad omen for Ulric.”

“Bad omens can’t stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress.”

“What is Druss planning?”

“He means to seal the tunnels. That’s all I know so far.”

“Come back in three days,” said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then reread what he had written:

Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher.

“Perhaps we should kill Druss,” said the newcomer, rising.

“If we are told to,” said the first man. “Not before.”

“I will see you in three days, then.”

At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.

He was a Drenai dun.

Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats’ tails that dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four … An endless, mindless agony of effort.

Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat six hundred men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armour. First man! And what did he say? “A staggering old man followed by staggering old women. Well, don’t just lie there, boy. On to Wall Three!”

Then he had laughed. It was the laugh that had done it.

Gilad could have killed him then—slowly. For five miserable endless days the soldiers of Dros Delnoch had run, climbed, fought, torn down buildings in the teeth of hysterical curses from the dispossessed owners, and trundled cart upon cart of rubble into the tunnels at Walls One and Two. Working by day and night, they were bone weary. And still that fat old man urged them on.

Archery tourneys, javelin contests, swordplay, dagger work, and wrestling in between the heavy work made sure that few of the culs bothered to frequent the taverns near the keep.

Damned legion did, though. They glided through the training with grim smiles and hurled scornful jests at the farmers who sought to keep up with them. Let them try working eighteen hours in the fields, thought Gilad. Bastards!

Grunting with pain, he sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and watched others training. He had ten minutes yet before the next shift was required to fill the rubble carts. Stretcher-bearers toiled across the open ground, bearing rocks twice the weight of an injured man. Many had bandaged hands. Alongside them the black-bearded Bar Britan shouted them on.

Bregan tottered toward him and slumped to the grass. His face was cherry red. Silently he handed Gilad an orange half; it was sweet and fresh.

“Thanks, Breg.” Gilad’s eyes moved over the other eight men in his group. Most were lying silently, though Midras had begun to retch. The idiot had a girl in the town and had visited her the night before, creeping back into barracks for an hour’s sleep before daybreak.

He was paying for it now. Bregan was bearing up well: a little faster, a little fitter. And he never complained, which was a wonder.

“Almost time, Gil,” he said. Gilad glanced toward the tunnel, where the work was slowing down. Other members of Group Kamak were moving toward the partly demolished homes.

“Come on, lads,” said Gilad. “Let’s be sitting up. Let’s start taking some deep breaths.” Groans followed the order, and there was scarcely a movement from the men. “Come on, now. Group Kestrian is already moving. Bastards!” Gilad pushed himself to his feet, pulling Bregan up with him. Then he moved to each of the men. Slowly they rose and began to move toward the tunnel.

“I think I’m dying,” said Midras.

“You will if you let us down today,” muttered Gilad. “If that old swine laughs at us one more time …”

“A pox on him,” said Midras. “You don’t see him working up a sweat, do you?”

At dusk the weary men trooped away from the tunnels toward the peace and relative sanctuary of the barracks. They hurled themselves onto narrow cots and began to unbuckle breastplates and greaves.

“I don’t mind the work,” said Baile, a stocky farmer from a village neighbouring Gilad’s, “but I don’t see why we have to do it in full armour.”

No one answered him.

Gilad was almost asleep when a voice bellowed: “Group Karnak to the parade ground!”

Druss stood in the parade ground square, hands on hips, his blue eyes scanning the exhausted men who stumbled from the barracks, their eyes squinting against the torchlight. Flanked by Hogun and Orrin, he smiled grimly as the men shambled into ranks.

The fifty men of Group Karnak were joined by Group Kestrian and Group Sword.

Silently they waited for whatever foul idea Druss had now dreamed up.

“You three groups,” said Druss, “are to run the length of the wall and back. The last man’s group will run again. Go!”

As the men set off for the gruelling half mile, someone yelled from the crowd: “What about you, fat man? Coming?”

“Not this time,” Druss yelled back. “Don’t be last.”

“They’re exhausted,” said Orrin. “Is this wise, Druss?”

“Trust me. When the attacks come, men will be dragged from sleep fast enough. I want them to know their limits.”

Three more days passed. Tunnel One was almost filled, and work had begun on Tunnel Two. No one cheered now as Druss walked by, not even among the townsfolk. Many had lost their homes; others were losing business. A deputation had visited Orrin, begging for demolition to cease. Others found that the sight of the clear ground between walls only emphasized that Druss expected the Nadir to take the Dros. Resentment grew, but the old warrior swallowed his anger and pushed on with his plan.

On the ninth day something happened that gave the men a fresh topic of conversation.

As Group Karnak assembled for its run, Gan Orrin approached Dun Mendar, the officer commanding.

“I shall be running with your group today,” he said.

“You are taking over, sir?” said Mendar.

“No, no. Just running. A gan must be fit, too, Mendar.”

A sullen silence greeted Orrin as he joined the ranks, his bronze and gold armour setting him apart from the waiting soldiers.

Throughout the morning he toiled with the men, scaling ropes, sprinting between walls. Always he was last. As he ran, some of the men laughed and others jeered. Mendar was furious. The man’s making an even greater fool of himself, he thought. And he’s making us a laughingstock, too. Gilad ignored the gan, except at one point to pull him over the battlements when it looked as if he might fall.

“Let him drop,” yelled a man farther along the wall.

Orrin gritted his teeth and carried on, staying with the troop throughout the day and even working on the demolition. By the afternoon he was working at half the speed of the other soldiers. No one had yet spoken to him. He ate apart from the other men, but not by choice: Where he sat, they did not.

At dusk he made his way to his quarters, body trembling, muscles on fire, and slept in his armour.

At daybreak he stripped, bathed, put on his armour again, and re-joined Group Karnak. Only at sword practice did he excel, but even then he half thought the men were letting him win. And who could blame them?

An hour before dusk Druss arrived with Hogun, ordering four groups to assemble by the gate of Wall Two: Karnak, Sword, Egel, and Fire.

From atop the battlements Druss called down to the two hundred men: “A little race to stretch your muscles, lads. It’s a mile from this gate and around the perimeter and back. You will run it twice. Last man’s group runs again. Go!”

As they hurtled off, bunching and pushing, Hogun leaned forward.

“Damn!” he said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Druss.

“Orrin. He’s running with them. I thought he would have had enough yesterday. What’s the matter with the man? Is he mad?”

“You run with the men,” said Druss. “Why not him?”

“Come on, Druss, what sort of a question is that? I’m a soldier, and I train every day of my life. But him! Look at him—he’s last already. You will have to pick the last man apart from Orrin.”

“I can’t do that, lad. It would shame him. He made his choice, and I expect he has his reasons.”

At the first mile Orrin was thirty yards behind the last man and struggling hard. He fastened his gaze to the back of the man’s breastplate and ran on, ignoring the pain in his side. Sweat stung his eyes, and his white horsehair-crested helm fell from his head. It was a relief.

At a mile and a half he was forty yards adrift.

Gilad glanced back from the centre of the leading pack, eased out, and turned, jogging back to the breathless gan. Once alongside, he joined him stride for stride.

“Listen,” he said, breathing easily. “Unclench your fists; it will help with the breathing. Think of nothing else except sticking to me. No, don’t try to answer me. Count your breaths. Take a deep breath and blow out as fast as possible. That’s it. A deep breath every two strides. And keep counting. Think of nothing except the number of breaths. Now stay with me.”

He moved in front of the general, keeping to the same slow pace, then increased it gently.

Druss sat back on the battlements as the race drew near its end. Orrin was being drawn along by the slim under-leader. Most of the men had finished the race and were spread out watching the last few runners. Orrin was still last but only ten yards adrift of the tiring cul from Group Fire. Men started yelling for the cul to sprint. Every group except Karnak was willing him on.

Thirty yards to go. Gilad dropped back alongside Orrin. “Give it everything,” he said. “Run, you fat son of a bitch!”

Gilad increased his pace and sped by the cul. Orrin gritted his teeth and took after him. Anger gave him strength. Fresh adrenaline flowed to tired muscles.

Ten yards to go and now he was at the man’s shoulder. He could hear the encouragement screamed from the crowd. The man beside him pulled ahead with a last effort, his face twisted in agony.

Orrin drew level in the shadow of the gate and lurched ahead. He hurled himself forward, crashing to the earth and rolling into the crowd. He could not get up, but hands grabbed him, hauling him to his feet and pounding his back. He fought for breath. A voice said: “Keep walking. It will help. Come on, move your legs.” Supported on both sides, he began to walk. Druss’s voice came down from the battlements.

“That man’s group, one more circuit.”

Group Fire set off, this time at a slow jog.

Gilad and Bregan helped Orrin to a jutting foundation block and sat him upon it. His legs were shaking, but his breathing was less ragged.

“I am sorry I insulted you,” said Gilad. “I wanted to make you angry. My father always said anger helps the strength.”

“You don’t have to make excuses,” said Orrin. “I shall take no action.”

“It’s not an excuse. I could do that run ten times over; so could most of my men. I just thought it would help.”

“It did. Thank you for dropping back.”

“I think you did wonderfully well,” said Bregan. “I know how you felt. But we’ve been doing this for nearly two weeks. Today is only your second day.”

“Will you join us again tomorrow?” asked Gilad.

“No. I should like to, but I do have other work to do.” He smiled suddenly. “On the other hand,” he said, “Pinar is very good at paperwork, and I am damned tired of having complaining deputations knocking at my door every five minutes. Yes, I’ll be here.”

“May I make a suggestion?” said Gilad.

“Of course.”

“Get yourself some ordinary armour. You will stand out less.”

“I’m supposed to stand out,” said Orrin, smiling. “I am the gan.”

High above them Druss and Hogun shared a bottle of Lentrian red.

“It took nerve for him to come out today after the jeering yesterday,” said Druss.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hogun. “No, dammit, I’ll agree with you and praise the man. But it goes against the grain. You gave him the backbone.”

“You can’t give a man something that isn’t there,” said Druss. “He just never looked for it.” Druss grinned and took a long swig from the bottle, passing it to Hogun half-drained.

“I like the little man,” said Druss. “He’s game!”

Orrin lay back on his narrow bunk, his back cushioned by soft pillows, his hand curled around a clay cup. He tried to tell himself there was no glory in coming second from last. Happily he failed. He had never been athletic, even as a child. But he came from a family of warriors and Drenai leaders, and his father had insisted that he take part in all soldierly pursuits. He had always handled a sword well, which, in his father’s eyes, made up for the other, mightier, shortcomings. Like not being able to stand physical pain. Or not being able to understand, even after patient explanation, the great mistake made by Nazredas at the Battle of Plettii. He wondered if his father would have been pleased at his hurling himself to the floor in order to beat a Cul in a footrace. He smiled: he would think him mad.

The sound of knuckles rapping at his door brought him back to the present.

“Come!”

It was Druss, minus his black and silver jerkin. Strange how he looked like an old man, thought Orrin, without his legendary garb. The warrior’s beard was combed, and he wore a flowing white shirt-tunic with billowing sleeves gathered in at the wrists. About his middle was a thick black belt with a silver buckle. He was carrying a large bottle of Lentrian red.

“I thought, if you were awake, I might join you for a drink,” said Druss, pulling up a chair and reversing it, as Orrin had seen Hogun do on many occasions.

“Why do you do that?” asked Orrin.

“What?” said Druss.

“Turn the chair around.”

“Old habits die hard, even among friends. It’s a warrior’s habit. With your legs astride the chair, it is easier to rise. Also it puts a thick layer of wood between your belly and the man you are talking to or sitting with.”

“I see,” said Orrin. “I had always meant to ask Hogun, but I never got around to it. What makes men adopt habits like that?”

“The sight of a friend with a knife in his belly!” said Druss.

“I can see that it would. Will you teach me your tricks, Druss, before the Nadir arrive?”

“No. You will have to learn them the hard way. Little things I will help you with at the right time—they may make a difference.”

“Little things? You intrigue me, Druss. Tell me something now.” Orrin accepted a cup of Lentrian and settled back. Druss drank from the bottle.

“All right,” said the axman, half the bottle drained, “answer me this: Why are the men issued with oranges every morning?”

“It keeps them fit and helps prevent dysentery. It’s refreshing and cheap. Is that it?” asked Orrin, puzzled.

“Some of it,” said Druss. “The Earl of Bronze introduced oranges to the army partly for the reasons you mention but mainly because if you rub the juice into the palm of your hand, your sword will not slip as the hand sweats. Also, if you rub it on your brow, sweat will not drop into your eyes.”

“I never knew that. I expect I should have known, but I didn’t. How simple! Give me another.”

“No,” said Druss. “Another time. Tell me, why have you joined in the training with the culs?”

Orrin sat up, his dark eyes fixed on Druss’s face. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“It depends on what you are trying to achieve. Are you seeking respect?”

“Great gods, no!” said Orrin. “I have left it too late for that, Druss. No, it was something you said the other night when the men were turfed out of bed for that night run. I asked you if it was wise, and you said, ‘They need to know their limitations.’ Well, so do I. I’ve never been in a battle. I want to know what it’s like to be woken from sleep after a full day’s training and be expected to fight again.

“I’ve let down a lot of people here. I may let them down again when the Nadir are scaling the wall, though I hope not. But I need to be fitter and faster. And I shall be.

“Is that such a bad idea?”

Druss tilted the bottle, licked his lips, and smiled.

“No. It’s a good idea. But when you are a little fitter, spread yourself around the groups more. It will pay off.”

“Pay off?”

“You’ll see.”

“Have you seen the earl?” asked Orrin suddenly. “Syn says he’s bad. Very bad indeed.”

“I don’t think I have seen worse. He’s constantly delirious now. How he hangs on I don’t know.”

The two men talked on for over an hour, Orrin questioning the old man about his life and the many battles he had taken part in, returning always to the immortal story of Skeln and the fall of King Gorben.

When the keep alarm bell sounded, both men reacted instantly. Druss cursed, threw the bottle aside, and raced for the door. Orrin heaved himself from his bunk and followed.

Across the parade ground square and up the short hill to the keep Druss ran, pounding under the portcullis gate and up the long winding stone stairs to the earl’s bedchamber. Calvar Syn was at his bedside, with Dun Mendar, Pinar, and Hogun. An old servant stood weeping by the window.

“Is he dead?” asked Druss.

“No. Soon,” answered Calvar Syn.

Druss moved to the bedside, sitting beside the frail figure. The earl’s eyes opened and blinked twice.

“Druss?” he called, his voice weak. “Are you there?”

“I am here.”

“He’s coming. I see him. He is hooded and black.”

“Spit in his eye for me,” said Druss, his huge hand stroking the earl’s fevered brow.

“I thought … after Skeln … I would live forever.”

“Be at peace, my friend. One thing I have learned about death is that his bark’s worse than his bite.”

“I can see them, Druss. The Immortals. They’re sending in the Immortals!” The dying man grabbed Druss’s arm and tried to haul himself upright. “Here they come! Gods, will you look at them, Druss!”

“They’re just men. We will see them off.”

“Sit by the fire, child, and I’ll tell you of it. But don’t tell your mother I told you—you know how she hates the bloodthirsty tales. Ah, Virae, my little love! You will never understand what it has meant to me just being your father …” Druss bowed his head as the old earl rambled on, his voice thin and wavering. Hogun gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, Calvar Syn sat slumped in an armchair, and Orrin stood by the door, remembering his own father’s death so many years before.

“We were at the pass for many days, holding out against everything they could throw at us. Tribesmen, chariots, infantry, cavalry. But always the threat of the Immortals hung over us. Never beaten! Old Druss stood at the centre of our first line, and as the Immortals marched toward us, we froze. You could feel panic in the air. I wanted to run, and I could see the same feeling reflected on the faces around me. Then old Druss lifted his axe in the air and bellowed at the advancing line. It was wonderful. Magical almost. The spell broke. The fear passed. He raised his ax for them to see, then he shouted. I can hear him now: ‘Come on, you fat-bellied whoresons! I am Druss, and this is death!’

“Virae? Virae? I waited for you … just one more time. See you. So much … So much wanted …” The frail body trembled, then lay still. Druss closed the dead man’s eyes and wiped a hand across his own.

“He should never have sent her away,” said Calvar Syn. “He loved that girl; she was all he lived for.”

“Maybe that’s why he sent her,” said Hogun.

Druss pulled the silk sheet up and over the earl’s face and walked to the window. Now he was alone, the last survivor of Skeln. He leaned on the windowsill and sucked in the night air.

Outside the moon bathed the Dros in eldritch light, grey and ghostly, and the old man gazed toward the north. Overhead a fluttering pigeon flew in and circled a loft beneath the keep. It had come out of the north.

He turned from the window.

“Bury him quietly tomorrow,” he said. “We will not interrupt training for a full funeral.”

“But Druss, this is Earl Delnar!” said Hogun, eyes blazing.

“That,” said Druss, pointing at the bed, “is a cancer-ridden corpse. It isn’t anyone. Just do as I say.”

“You cold hearted bastard,” said Dun Mendar.

Druss turned his icy gaze on the officer.

“And just you remember that, laddie, the day you—or any of you—go against me.”

12

Rek leaned on the starboard rail with one arm about Virae’s shoulders and stared at the sea. Strange, he thought, how night changed the mood of the ocean. A vast semisolid mirror reflecting the stars, while the moon’s twin floated, fragmented and ethereal, a mile or so away. Always a mile or so away. A gentle breeze billowed the triangular sail as the Wastrel cut a white path through the waves, gently dipping and rising with the swell. Aft stood the mate at the spoked wheel, his silver eye patch glinting in the moonlight. Forward a young seaman cast his lead into the waves, calling out the changes in depth as they passed over the hidden reef.

All was tranquillity, peace, and harmony. The steady lapping of the waves added to the feeling of isolation that enveloped Rek as he stared out to sea. With stars above and below them they could be floating on the tides of the galaxy, far from the all too human struggle that awaited them.

This is contentment, thought Rek.

“What are you thinking?” asked Virae, slipping an arm around his waist.

“I love you,” he said. A dolphin surfaced below them, calling out a musical welcome before again seeking the depths. Rek watched his lithe form swimming among the stars.

“I know you love me,” said Virae, “but I was asking you what you were thinking.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I am content. At peace.”

“Of course you are. We’re on a ship, and it’s a lovely night.”

“Woman, you have no soul,” he said, kissing her brow.

She looked up at him and smiled. “If you think that, you are a fool! I’m just not as practiced as you at telling pretty lies.”

“Hard words, my lady. Would I lie to you? You would cut my throat.”

“I would, too. How many women have heard you say you love them?”

“Hundreds,” said Rek, watching her eyes and seeing the smile fade from them.

“So why should I believe you?”

“Because you do.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Of course it is. You’re not some dim-witted milkmaid fooled by an easy smile. You know the truth when you hear it. Why do you suddenly doubt it?”

“I don’t doubt you, you oaf! I just wanted to know how many women you’ve loved.”

“Slept with, you mean?”

“If you want to be coarse.”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “It’s not my habit to keep count. And if your next question is, ‘How do I compare?’ you will find yourself alone, because I shall go below.”

It was. But he did not.

The mate by the tiller watched them, listened to their easy laughter, and smiled with them, although he could not hear the cause of their good humour. At home he had a wife and seven children, and it made him feel good to watch the young man and his woman. He waved as they went below deck, but they did not see him.

“Nice to be young and in love,” said the captain, moving silently from the shadows by his cabin door to stand beside the mate.

“Nice to be old and in love,” answered the mate, grinning.

“A calm night, but the breeze is picking up. I don’t like the look of the clouds to the west.”

“They will pass us by,” said the mate. “But we’ll have bad weather for sure. It will be behind us, pushing us on. We may pick up a couple of days. Did you know they are headed for Delnoch?”

“Yes,” said the captain, scratching his red beard and checking their course by the stars.

“Sad,” said the mate with real feeling. “They say Ulric has promised to raze it to the ground. You heard what he did at Gulgothir? Killed every second defender and a third of the women and children. Just lined them up and had his warriors cut them down.”

“I heard. It’s not my business. We’ve traded with the Nadir for years; they’re all right as people, much the same as anyone else.”

“I agree. I had a Nadir woman once. A real hellion—ran off with a tinker. Later I heard she cut his throat and stole his wagon.”

“Most likely she only wanted the horse,” said the captain. “She could buy herself a real Nadir man for a good horse.” Both men chuckled, then stood in silence for a while enjoying the night air.

“Why are they going to Delnoch?” asked the mate.

“She’s the earl’s daughter. I don’t know about him. If she was my daughter, I would have made sure she didn’t come back. I’d have sent her to the farthest southern point of the empire.”

“The Nadir will reach there—and beyond—before long. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Well, a lot can happen in that time. The Drenai are sure to surrender long before then. Look! That damned albino and his friend. They make my flesh creep.”

The mate glanced along the deck to where Serbitar and Vintar stood at the port rail.

“I know what you mean—they never say anything. I’ll be glad to see the back of them,” said the mate, making the sign of the claw above his heart.

“That won’t ward off their kind of demons,” said the captain.

Serbitar smiled as Vintar pulsed: “We are less than popular, my boy.”

“Yes. Always it is thus. It is hard to hold back contempt.”

“But you must.”

“I said hard, not impossible.”

“Wordplay. Even to notice that it is hard is an admission of defeat,” said Vintar.

“Always the scholar, Father Abbot.”

“As long as the world has pupils, Master Priest.”

Serbitar grinned, a rare sight. A gull wheeled and circled above the ship; the albino casually mind-touched it as it arced above the mast.

Within its mind was nothing of joy or sorrow or hope. Only hunger and need. And frustration that the ship offered no sustenance.

A feeling of fierce exultation suddenly swept over the young priest in a mind pulse of incredible power, a sense of ecstasy and fulfilment flooding his body. He gripped the rail hard and reached back along the path, shutting off his probe as it neared the door of Rek’s cabin.

“Their emotions are very strong,” pulsed Vintar.

“It is unseemly to dwell on it,” replied Serbitar primly, a blush apparent even in the moonlight.

“Not so, Serbitar, my friend. This world has few redeeming features, and one is the capacity of the people upon it to love one another with great and enduring passion. I rejoice in their lovemaking. It is a beautiful thing for them.”

“You are a voyeur, Father Abbot,” said Serbitar, smiling now. Vintar laughed aloud.

“It is true. They have such energy, the young.”

Suddenly Arbedark’s slim, serious face appeared in both men’s minds, his feature
s set hard.

“I am sorry,” he pulsed. “There is grave news from Dros Delnoch.”

“Speak,” said Serbitar.

“The earl is dead. And there are traitors within the Dros. Ulric has ordered Druss killed.”