Legend by David Gemmell

“Form a circle around me,” shouted Druss as the exhausted men staggered from the wall. “Now sit down before you fall down.”

His blue eyes scanned the circle, then he snorted with contempt. “You dregs! Call yourselves soldiers? Finished after a few runs. How the hell do you think you’re going to feel after three days fighting, day and night, against a Nadir force that outnumbers you fifty to one? Eh?”

No one answered him. The question was all too obviously rhetorical. Indeed, most of the men were delighted to be berated thus; it meant a further respite from the interminable training.

Druss pointed at Gilad. “You! Which four groups are represented here?”

Gilad swung around checking the faces. “Karnak, Bild, and Gorbadac … er … I don’t know the other one.”

“Well!” bellowed the old man. “Will not one of you beggars own up? Which is the other damned group?”

“Falcon,” piped a voice from the back.

“Good! Group officers step forward,” said Druss. “The rest of you take a breather.” He walked a little distance from the men, beckoning the officers to follow.

“Right, before I tell you what I want, will the officer from Group Falcon make himself known?”

“I am the officer, sir. Dun Hedes,” said a young man who was short but well built.

“Then why did you not announce your group when I asked. Why was it some spotty farm boy?”

“I am partially deaf, sir, and when I am tired and the blood is pounding, I can hardly hear.”

“Then, Dun Hedes, consider yourself relieved of Group Falcon.”

“You can’t do that to me! I have always served well. You cannot disgrace me!” said the young man, his voice rising.

“Listen to me, you young fool. There is no disgrace in being deaf. And you can feel free to walk with me on the battlements, if you will, when the Nadir arrive. But how well can you serve me as a leader if you can’t hear my damned instructions?”

“I will manage,” said Dun Hedes.

“And how well will your men manage when they try to ask for advice? What happens if we sound the retreat and you don’t hear it? No! The decision’s made. Stand down.”

“I request the right to see Gan Orrin!”

“As you will. But at the end of today I will have a new dun for Falcon. Now to business. I want each of you—you included, Hedes—to pick your two strongest men. The best you have at hand-to-hand wrestling, bare-knuckle, whatever. They will have their chance to knock me from my feet. That should lighten the mood. Get to it!”

Dun Mendar called Gilad to him as he returned to his group, then squatted down among the men to outline Druss’s idea. Chuckles came from various soldiers as men volunteered swiftly. The noise grew as men clamoured for the right to down the old warrior, and Druss laughed aloud as he sat apart from the men, peeling an orange. At last the pairs were selected, and he heaved himself to his feet.

“There is an object to this little exercise, but I shall explain that later on. For now, look upon it as light entertainment,” said Druss, hands on hips. “However, I find the audience is always more alert if there is something to be won, so I will offer a free afternoon to any group whose champions down me.” A cheer greeted this, and he went on. “Mind you, those that don’t down me will run an additional two miles.” Druss grinned again as the groans erupted.

“Don’t be such faint hearts. What do you have before you? Here is one old, fat man. We will start with the Bild pair.”

The men could have been twins; both were huge, black-bearded, with massively muscled arms and shoulders. Stripped of their armour, they appeared as formidable a pair of warriors as could be seen among the groups.

“Right, my lads,” said Druss, “you can wrestle, or punch, or kick, or gouge. Begin when you’re ready.” The old man doffed his jerkin as he spoke, and the Bild pair circled slowly, relaxed and smiling. Once on either side of the old man, they lunged. Druss dropped to one knee, ducking under a roundhouse right, then slammed his hand up into the man’s groin, grabbing his shirtfront with the other hand and hurling him into his comrade. Both men collapsed to the ground, arms entwined.

Curses exploded from the Bild men seated around the circle, to be drowned by jeers from the other groups.

“Next, Gorbadac!” announced Druss. The two advanced more warily than their predecessors, then the tallest one dived toward Druss’s middle with arms outstretched. The axman’s knee came up to meet him, and he sagged to the grass. The second attacked almost immediately, only to be backhanded contemptuously across the cheek. He tripped over his fallen comrade and fell heavily. The first man was unconscious and had to be carried to the back of the circle.

“Now Falcon!” said Druss. This time he watched them advance, then bellowed at the top of his voice and charged. The first man’s mouth fell open in surprise; the second took a backward step and tripped. Druss hit the first man with a straight left; he went down and lay still.

“Karnak?” said Druss. Gilad and Bregan entered the circle. Druss had seen the dark one before and liked the look of him. A born warrior, the old man had thought. He enjoyed seeing the look of hatred the boy threw at him every time he laughed at him and liked the way he had dropped back to help Orrin. Druss flicked his gaze to the second man. Surely here was an error. The chubby one was no fighter, nor would he ever be—good-natured and tough but never a warrior.

Gilad launched himself forward and checked himself as Druss raised his fists. Druss twisted to keep him in vision; then, hearing a sound from behind, he whirled to see the fat one attack, trip, and fall sprawling at his feet. Chuckling, he swung back to Gilad, turning into a flying kick that hammered into his chest. He took a backward step to brace himself, but the fat one had rolled behind him, and Druss hit the ground with a grunt.

A massive roar rose from two hundred throats. Druss smiled and rolled to his feet smoothly, holding up a hand for silence.

“I want you to think about what you’ve seen today, my lads,” said Druss, “for it wasn’t only fun. You have seen what one man can do, and you have also seen what a simple bit of teamwork can achieve.

“Now, when the Nadir are swarming over the walls, you will all be hard pressed to defend yourselves, but you’ve got to do more than that. You’ve got to protect your comrades where you can, for no warrior has a defence against a sword in the back. I want each of you to find a sword brother. You don’t have to be friends—that will come. But you need understanding, and you need to work at it. You will protect each other’s backs when the assault comes, so make your choices well. Those of you who lose a sword brother when the fighting starts, find another. Failing that, do what you can for the men around you.

“I have been a warrior for more than forty years—twice as long as most of you have lived. Bear that in mind. What I say is of value, for I have survived.

“There is only one way to survive in war, and that is by being willing to die. You will find soon that fine swordsmen can be downed by untutored savages who would slice their fingers if asked to carve meat. And how? Because the savage is willing. Worse, he may be baresark.

“The man who takes a backward step against a Nadir warrior is stepping into eternity. Meet them head to head, savage to savage.

“You have heard it said that this is a lost cause, and you will hear it again. I have heard it a thousand times in a hundred lands.

“Mostly you hear it from faint hearts and can ignore it. Often, however, you will hear it from seasoned veterans. Ultimately such prophecies are worthless.

“There are half a million Nadir warriors. An awesome figure! One to numb the mind. But the walls are only so long and so wide. They cannot all come over at once. We will kill them as they do, and we will kill hundreds more as they climb. And day by day we will wear them down.

“You are going to lose friends, comrades, brothers. You are going to lose sleep. You are going to lose blood. Nothing about the next few months will be easy.

“I am not going to talk about patriotism, duty, liberty, and the defence of freedom because that’s all dung to a soldier.

“I want you to think about survival. And the best way you can do that is to look down on the Nadir when they arrive and think to yourselves: There are fifty men down there just for me. And one by one, by all the gods, I’ll cut them down.

“As for me … well, I’m a seasoned campaigner. I’ll take a hundred.” Druss took a deep breath, allowing time for his words to sink in.

“Now,” he said at last, “you can get back to your duties, with the exception of Group Karnak.” Turning, he saw Hogun, and as the men hauled themselves to their feet, he walked back toward the mess hall of Wall One with the young general.

“A nice speech,” said Hogun. “It sounded very similar to the one you gave this morning at Wall Three.”

“You haven’t been very attentive, laddie,” said Druss. “I have given that speech six times since yesterday. And I’ve been knocked down three times. I’m as dry as a sand lizard’s belly.”

“I will stand you a bottle of Vagrian in the mess hall,” said Hogun. “They don’t serve Lentrian at this end of the Dros—it’s too pricey.”

“It will do. I see you have regained your good humour.”

“Aye. You were right about the earl’s burial. Just too damned quick about being right, that’s all,” said Hogun.

“What does that mean?”

“Just what it says. You have a way, Druss, of turning your emotions on and off. Most men lack that. It makes you seem what Mendar called you—cold-hearted.”

“I don’t like the phrase, but it fits,” said Druss, pushing open the door to the mess hall. “I mourned Delnar as he lay dying. But once dead, he’s gone. And I’m still here. And there’s a damned long way to go yet.”

The two men sat at a window table and ordered drinks from a steward. He returned with a large bottle and two goblets; both men sat silently for a while, watching the training.

Druss was deep in thought. He had lost many friends in his life but none more dear than Sieben and Rowena—the one his sword brother, the other his wife. Thoughts of them both were as tender as open wounds. When I die, he thought, everyone will mourn for Druss the Legend.

But who will mourn for me?

13

“Tell us what you saw,” said Rek as he joined the four leaders of the Thirty in Serbitar’s cabin. He had been woken from a deep sleep by Menahem, who had swiftly explained the problems facing the Dros. Now alert, he listened as the blond warrior-priest outlined the threat.

“The Captain of the Axe is training the men. He has demolished all buildings from Wall Three and created a killing ground. He has also blocked the gate tunnels back to Wall Four—he has done well.”

“You mentioned traitors,” said Rek.

Serbitar lifted a hand. “Patience!” he said. “Go on, Arbedark.”

“There is an innkeeper called Musar, originally from the Nadir Wolfshead tribe. He has been at Dros Delnoch for eleven years. He and a Drenai officer are planning to kill Druss. I think there may be others. Ulric has been told of the tunnel blocking.”

“How?” asked Rek. “Surely there is no travel to the north?”

“He keeps pigeons,” said Arbedark.

“What can you do?” Rek asked Serbitar, who shrugged and looked to Vintar for support. The abbot spread his hands. “We tried to make contact with Druss, but he is not receptive and the distance is still very great. I do not see how we can help.”

“What news of my father?” asked Virae. The men looked at one another, ill at ease. Serbitar spoke at last.

“He is dead. I am deeply sorry.”

Virae said nothing, her face showing no emotion. Rek put an arm on her shoulder, but she pushed it away and stood. “I’m going on deck,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later, Rek.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. It’s not for sharing.”

As the door closed behind her, Vintar spoke, his voice gentle and sorrowful. “He was a fine man after his fashion. I contacted him before the end; he was at peace and in the past.”

“In the past?” said Rek. “What does that mean?”

“His mind had vanished into happier memories. He died well. I think the Source will have him—I shall pray to that effect. But what of Druss?”

“I tried to reach the general, Hogun,” said Arbedark, “but the danger was great. I almost lost my bearings. The distance …”

“Yes,” said Serbitar. “Did you manage to ascertain how the assassination is to be attempted?”

“No. I could not enter the man’s mind, but before him was a bottle of Lentrian red that he was resealing. It could be poison or an opiate of some kind.”

“There must be something you can do,” said Rek, “with all your power.”

“All power—but one—has limits,” said Vintar. “We can only pray. Druss has been a warrior for many years, a survivor. It means he is not only skilful but lucky. Menahem, you must journey to the Dros and watch for us. Perhaps the attempt will be delayed until we are closer.”

“You mentioned a Drenai officer,” said Rek to Arbedark. “Who? Why?”

“I know not. As I completed the journey, he was leaving the house of Musar. He acted furtively, and this aroused my suspicions. Musar was in the loft, and upon the table beside him lay a note written in the Nadir tongue. It said, ‘Kill Deathwalker.’ That is the name by which Druss is known to the tribes.”

“You were lucky to see the officer,” said Rek. “In a fortress city of that size the chances of seeing a single act of treachery must be amazing.”

“Yes,” said Arbedark. Rek saw the look that passed between the blond priest and the albino.

“Is there more to it than luck?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” said Serbitar. “We will talk of it soon. For now we are helpless. Menahem will watch the situation and keep us informed. If they delay the attempt for two more days, we may be in a position to help.”

Rek looked at Menahem, sitting upright at the table, eyes closed and breathing shallowly.

“Has he gone?” he asked.

Serbitar nodded.

Druss managed to look interested as the speeches wore on. Three times since the banquet had ended the old warrior had heard how grateful were the townsfolk, burghers, merchants, and lawyers that he had come among them. How it showed up the faint hearts ever ready to write off the might of the Drenai empire. How, when the battle was won—speedily—Dros Delnoch would attract sightseers from all over the continent. How new verses would be added to Sieben’s saga of the Legend. The words droned on, the praise growing more fulsome as the wine flowed.

Some two hundred of Delnoch’s richest and most influential families were present at the great hall, seated around the massive round table normally reserved for state occasions. The banquet was the brainchild of Bricklyn, the master burgher, a short self-obsessed businessman who had bent Druss’s ear throughout the meal and was now taking the liberty of bending it again in the longest speech so far.

Druss kept his smile firmly fixed, nodding here and there where he felt it appropriate. He had attended many such functions in his life, though they normally followed rather than preceded a battle.

As had been expected, Druss had opened the speeches with a short talk on his life, concluding it with a stirring promise that the Dros would hold if only the soldiers would show the same courage as those families sitting around the table. As had also been expected, he received a tumultuous ovation.

As was his wont on these occasions, Druss drank sparingly, merely sipping the fine Lentrian red placed before him by the stout innkeeper Musar, the banquet’s master of ceremonies.

With a start, Druss realized that Bricklyn had finished his speech, and he applauded vigorously. The short grey-haired man sat down at his left, beaming and bowing as the applause continued.

“A fine speech,” said Druss. “Very fine.”

“Thank you. Yours, I think, was better,” said Bricklyn, pouring himself a glass of Vagrian white from a stone jug.

“Nonsense. You are a born speaker.”

“It’s strange you should say that. I remember when I gave a speech in Drenan for the wedding of Count Maritin—you know the count, of course? Anyway, he said …” And so it went on, with Druss smiling and nodding and Bricklyn finding more and more stories to outline his qualities.

Toward midnight, as prearranged, Delnar’s elderly servant, Arshin, approached Druss and announced—loudly enough for Bricklyn to overhear—that Druss was needed on Wall Three to supervise a new detachment of archers and their placement. It was not before time. Throughout the evening Druss had drunk no more than a single goblet, yet his head swam and his legs shook as he pushed himself upright. He made his apologies to the stout burgher, bowed to the assembly, and marched from the room. In the corridor outside he stopped and leaned against a pillar.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Arshin.

“The wine was bad,” muttered Druss. “It’s hit my stomach worse than a Ventrian breakfast.”

“You’d better get to bed, sir. I will take a message to Dun Mendar to attend you in your room.”

“Mendar? Why the hell should he attend me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t mention it in the hall as you had told me what to say when I approached you, but Dun Mendar asked if you could spare him a moment. He has a serious problem, he said.”

Druss rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His belly felt weak, disconnected, and fragile. He toyed with the idea of sending Arshin to explain to the young Karnak officer but then realized word would get around that Druss was sick. Or worse, that he could not hold his wine.

“Maybe the air will do me good. Where is he?”

“He said he would meet you at the inn by Unicorn Alley. Turn right outside the keep until you reach the first market square, then turn left by the miller’s. Walk on through Baker’s Row until you reach the armory repair shop, then turn right. That’s Unicorn Alley, and the inn is at the far end.”

Druss asked the man to repeat the directions, then pushed himself from the wall and staggered out into the night. The stars were bright, the sky cloudless. He sucked in the crisp air and felt his stomach turn.

“Damn this,” he said angrily, and found a secluded spot by the keep, away from the sentries, where he made himself vomit. Cold sweat covered his brow and his head ached as he pushed himself upright, but at least his stomach seemed more settled. He headed toward the first square, located the miller’s store, and turned left. Already the smell of baking bread was coming from the ovens in Baker’s Row.

The smell made him retch again. Angry now at his condition, he hammered on the first door he came to. A short, fat baker in a white cotton apron opened the door and peered nervously at him.

“Yes?” he said.

“I am Druss. Do you have a loaf ready?”

“It’s only just past midnight. I have some bread from yesterday, but if you wait for a while I will have fresh. What’s the matter? You look green.”

“Just get me a loaf—and hurry!” Druss clamped a hand to the door frame, pulling himself upright. What the hell was wrong with that wine? Or maybe it was the food. He hated rich food. Too many years on dried beef and raw vegetables. His body could not take it, but it had never reacted like this before.

The man trotted back down the short hallway bearing a hefty chunk of black bread and a small phial.

“Drink this,” he said. “I have an ulcer, and Calvar Syn says it settles the stomach faster than anything else.” Gratefully Druss downed the contents of the phial. It tasted like charcoal. Then he tore a great bite from the bread, sliding gratefully to the floor with his back against the door. His stomach rebelled, but he gritted his teeth and finished the loaf; within a few minutes he was feeling better. His head ached like the devil and his vision was a little blurred, but his legs felt fine and he had strength enough to bluff his way through a short chat with Mendar.

“My thanks, baker. What do I owe you?”

The baker was about to ask for two copper coins but realized in time that the old man had no pockets visible and no money sack. He sighed and said what was expected.

“No money necessary from you, Druss. Naturally.”

“Decent of you,” said Druss.

“You should get back to your quarters,” said the baker. “And get a good night’s sleep.” He was about to add that Druss was no youngster any more but thought better of it.

“Not yet. Got to see one of my officers.”

“Ah, Mendar,” said the baker, smiling.

“How did you know?”

“I saw him not twenty minutes since with three or four others heading down toward the Unicorn. We don’t see many officers here at this time of night. The Unicorn’s a soldier’s drinking house.”

“Yes. Well, thanks again. I’ll be on my way.”

Druss stood in the doorway for a few moments after the baker had returned to his oven. If Mendar was with three or four others, they might expect him to join them for a drink, and he racked his brains to think of a reason for refusing. Unable to come up with a convincing excuse, he cursed and started down Baker’s Row.

All was darkness now and silence. The silence jarred him, but his head ached too hard to consider it.

Ahead he could see the anvil sign of the armoury repairer gleaming in the moonlight. He stopped again, blinking as the sign shimmered and distorted, and shook his head.

Silence … What was it about the damned silence?

He walked on, ill at ease, loosening Snaga in her sheath more as a reflex habit than as a conscious awareness of danger. He turned right …

Something swished through the air. Light exploded in his eyes as the club hit him; he went down hard and rolled in the dirt as a dark figure sprang forward. Snaga sang through the air, slicing through the man’s thigh, crunching on bone that splintered and broke, tearing a scream from the assassin. Druss lurched to his feet as more shapes came from the shadows. His vision blurred, he could still make out the gleam of steel in the moonlight. Bellowing a war cry, he lunged forward. A sword arced toward him, but he batted it aside and drove his axe through the skull of the swordsman, simultaneously kicking out at a second man. A sword blade cut through his shirt, nicking his chest. He hurled Snaga and turned to meet the third man.

It was Mendar!

Druss moved sideways with arms outstretched like a wrestler. The young officer, sword in hand, advanced confidently. Druss glanced at the second man; he was lying groaning on the ground, his weakening fingers desperately trying to pull the axe from his belly. Druss was angry with himself. He should never have hurled the axe—he blamed it on the headache and sickness. Now Mendar leapt and swung his sword, and Druss jumped backward as the silver steel swished by him, an inch from his neck.

“You can’t back away much longer, old man!” said Mendar, grinning.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Druss.

“Playing for time? Sorry? You wouldn’t understand.”

Once more he leapt and slashed, and once more Druss jumped clear. But now his back was against a building, and there was nowhere to run.

Mendar laughed. “I didn’t realize it would be so easy to kill you, Druss,” he said, and lunged. Druss twisted, slammed his hand against the flat of the sword, then leapt forward as the weapon sliced the skin over his ribs and hammered a fist into Mendar’s face. The tall officer staggered back with blood pouring from his mouth. A second blow crashed under his heart, snapping a rib. He went down, losing his grip on his sword, but huge fingers gripped his throat and hauled him upright. He blinked. The grip relaxed just enough for him to squeeze air through his windpipe.

“Easy, boy? Nothing in life is easy.”

A whisper of sound came from behind him.

Druss grabbed Mendar and swung him around. A double-headed axe cleaved the officer’s shoulder, lodging against the breastbone. Druss hurdled the body and shoulder-charged the assassin as he struggled to free his weapon. The man was hurled backward. As Druss clambered to his feet, the killer turned and sprinted out into Baker’s Row.

Druss cursed and returned to the dying officer. Blood poured from the ghastly wound, soaking into the hard-packed earth.

“Help me,” said Mendar. “Please!”

“Think yourself lucky, you whoreson. I would have killed you much more slowly. Who was he?”

But Mendar was dead. Druss retrieved Snaga from the other dead assassin, then searched for the man whose leg he had wounded. Following a trail of blood into a narrow alley, he found the man lying back against a wall, a dagger rammed to the hilt in his heart, his fingers still curled about the handle.

Druss rubbed his eyes, and his hand came away sticky. He ran his fingers over his temple. A lump the size of an egg, tender and broken, made him curse once more.

Was nothing simple in the world anymore?

In his day a battle was a battle, army against army.

Pull yourself together, he told himself. There have always been traitors and assassins.

It was just that he had never been a target before.

Suddenly he laughed as he remembered the silence. The inn was empty. As he turned into Unicorn Alley, he should have realized the danger. Why would five men be waiting for him after midnight in a deserted alley?

You old fool, he told himself. You must be getting senile.

Musar sat alone in his loft, listening to the pigeons as they ruffled their feathers to greet the new dawn. He was calm now, tranquil almost, and his large hands no longer trembled. He walked to the window, leaning far out over the sill to gaze north. His one all-consuming ambition had been to see Ulric ride into Dros Delnoch and on to the rich southlands, to see the rise, at long last, of the Nadir empire.

Now his Drenai wife and his eight-year-old son lay below, their sleep deepening toward death as he savoured his last dawn.

It had been hard watching them sip their poisoned drinks, listening to his wife’s amiable chatter about her plans for tomorrow. When his son had asked him if he could go riding with Brentar’s boy, he had said that he could.

He should have followed his first instincts and poisoned the old warrior, but Dun Mendar had convinced him otherwise. Suspicion would then have fallen instantly on the master of ceremonies. This way was surer, Mendar had promised: drug him and kill him in a dark alleyway. So simple!

How could one so old move so swiftly?

Musar had felt he could bluff it out. He knew Druss would never recognize him as the fifth assassin, for his face had been half-covered by a dark scarf. But the risks were too great, maintained his Nadir lord, Surip. The last message had congratulated him on his work over these last twelve years and had concluded “Peace on you, brother, and your family.”

Musar filled a deep bucket with warm water from a large copper kettle.

Then he took a dagger from a shelf at the rear of the loft and sharpened it on a small whetstone. The risks were too great? Indeed they were. Musar knew the Nadir had another man at Delnoch, more highly placed than he. On no account would he be compromised.

He plunged his left arm into the bucket, then, holding the dagger firmly with his right, he severed the arteries of the wrist. The water changed colour.

He had been a fool to marry, he thought, tears shining in his eyes.

But she had been so lovely …

Hogun and Elicas watched as men from the legion cleared away the bodies of the assassins. Spectators looked on from nearby windows, calling down questions, but the legion ignored them.

Elicas tugged at his small gold earring as Lebus the tracker outlined the skirmish. Elicas had never lost his fascination for the tracker’s skill. On a trail Lebus could tell one the sex of the horses, the age of the riders, and damned near the conversations around the camp fires. It was a science beyond his understanding.

“The old man entered the alley over there. The first man was hidden in the shadows. He struck him, and Druss fell. He rose fast. See the blood there? An axe cut across the thigh. Then he charged the other three, but he must have thrown his axe because he backed away to the wall there.”

“How did he manage to kill Mendar?” asked Hogun, who already knew from Druss. But he, too, appreciated Lebus’ skill.

“That had me puzzled, sir,” said the tracker. “But I think I have it. There was a fifth attacker who stayed back during the struggle. There is some indication that Druss and Mendar had ceased to fight and were standing close. The fifth man must have moved in then. See the heel mark there? That belongs to Druss. See the deep round imprint? I would say he swung Mendar around to block the fifth man.”

“Good work, Lebus,” said Hogun. “The men say you could track a bird in flight, and I believe them.”

Lebus bowed and moved away.

“I begin to believe Druss is everything they say he is,” said Elicas. “Astonishing!”

“True,” said Hogun, “but worrying. To have an army the size of Ulric’s opposing us is one thing; traitors at the Dros is quite another. And as for Mendar … it is almost beyond belief.”

“From a good family, I understand. I have put it around that Mendar aided Druss against Nadir infiltrators. It may work. Not everyone has Lebus’ talent, and anyway, the ground will be well trodden over by full daylight.”

“The Mendar story is a good one,” said Hogun. “But word will get out.”

“How is the old man?” asked Elicas.

“Ten stitches in his side and four in his head. He was asleep when I left. Calvar Syn says it’s a miracle the skull didn’t crack.”

“Will he still judge the open swords?” asked the younger man. Hogun merely raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I thought he would. That’s a shame.”

“Why?” asked Hogun.

“Well, if he hadn’t judged it, you would have done so. And then I would have missed the pleasure of beating you.”

“You conceited pup!” said Hogun, laughing. “The day has not yet come when you could breach my guard, even with a wooden sword.”

“There’s a first time for everything. And you’re not getting any younger, Hogun. Why, you must be over thirty. One foot in the grave!”

“We shall see. A side bet, perhaps?”

“A flagon of red?” said Elicas.

“Done, my lad! Nothing tastes sweeter than wine another man has paid for.”

“As I shall no doubt find out this evening,” retorted Elicas.

14

The marriage was a simple one, performed by the Abbot of Swords, Vintar, and witnessed by the captain and mate of the Wastrel. The sea was calm, the night sky cloudless. Overhead gulls wheeled and dived, a sure sign of approaching land.

Antaheim, one of the Thirty, tall and slender, his dark features showing his Vagrian descent, supplied the ring: an unadorned band of gold.

Now, as the dawn neared and the others slept, Rek stood alone at the prow, starlight glinting on his silver headband, wind streaming his hair like a dark banner.

The die was cast now. He was chained by his own hand to the Delnoch cause. Sea spray stung his eyes, and he stepped back, sitting down with his back to the rail and hugging his cloak tightly about him. All his life he had sought direction and an escape from fear, an end to trembling hands and an unsteady heart. Now his fears had vanished like candle wax before a flame.

Earl Regnak of Dros Delnoch, Warden of the North.

At first Virae had refused his offer, but ultimately, he knew, she would be forced to accept. If she had not married him, Abalayn would have sent a husband post-haste. It was inconceivable that Delnoch should lack a leader and equally inconceivable for a woman to take on the duties.

The captain had sprinkled their heads with seawater in the ritual blessing, but Vintar, a lover of truth, had omitted the blessing of fertility and replaced it with the more simple “Be happy, my children, now and until the end of your lives.”

Druss had escaped the attempt on his life, Gan Orrin had found his strength, and the Thirty were only two days from Dros Purdol and the last stage of their journey. The winds had been kind, and Wastrel was two, maybe three days ahead of schedule.

Rek studied the stars and remembered the sightless seer and his prophetic verse.

“The earl and the legend will be together at the wall, and men shall dream, and men shall die, but shall the fortress fall?”

In his mind’s eye Rek pictured Virae as she had been when he had left her almost an hour ago, her light hair tangled upon the pillow, her eyes closed, and her face peaceful in rest. He had wanted to touch her, to pull her close and feel her arms about him. Instead he had covered her gently with a blanket, dressed, and quietly climbed to the deck. Away to starboard he could hear the dolphins’ ghostly music.

Now he pulled himself upright and returned to his cabin. Once more Virae had kicked away the blanket. Rek undressed slowly and eased himself down beside her.

And this time he touched her.

Amidships, the leaders of the Thirty finished their prayers and broke bread together, which Vintar blessed. They ate in silence, breaking the bond of unity to enjoy their own thoughts. At last Serbitar leaned back and signalled the opening. Their minds blended together.

“The old man is a fearsome warrior,” said Menahem.

“But he is no strategist,” said Serbitar. “His method of holding the Dros will be to man the walls and do battle until a conclusion is reached.”

“There is little choice,” said Menahem. “We will offer no other option.”

“That is true. What I am saying is that Druss will merely pack the walls with men, which is not a serviceable idea. He has ten thousand men, and to defend efficiently he will be able to use only seven thousand at any given time. The other walls must be manned, essential services run, messengers assigned. There must also be a floating force ready to offer instant aid to any weak spot.

“Our strength must be to achieve maximum efficiency with total economy of effort. Withdrawals must be meticulously timed. Every officer must be not only aware but totally sure of his role.”

“And we must,” said Arbedark, “develop an aggressive attitude to defence. We have seen ourselves that Ulric is stripping whole forests in order to build his ballistae and siege towers. We must have inflammables, also containers for them.”

For over an hour, as the dawn breasted the eastern horizon, the leaders set about their plans: eliminating some ideas, refining and expanding others.

Finally Serbitar called on them to join hands. Arbedark, Menahem, and Vintar relaxed their control, drifting down into the darkness, as Serbitar drew their power to him.

“Druss! Druss!” he pulsed, his mind soaring across the ocean, past Dros Purdol, the port fortress, on along the Delnoch range past the Sathuli settlements, over the vast Sentran Plain—faster and faster he flew.

Druss awoke with a start, blue eyes scanning the room, nostrils flared to scent danger in the air. He shook his head. Someone was saying his name, but there was no sound. Swiftly he made the sign of the claw over his heart. Still someone called him.

Cold sweat appeared on his brow.

He reached across the bed, snatching Snaga from the chair by the wall.

“Listen to me, Druss,” pleaded the voice.

“Get out of my head, you whoreson!” bellowed the old man, rolling from the bed.

“I am of the Thirty. We are traveling to Dros Delnoch to aid you. Listen to me!”

“Get out of my head!”

Serbitar had no choice, for the pain was incredible. He released the old warrior and returned to the ship.

Druss staggered to his feet, fell, and rose again. The door opened, and Calvar Syn moved swiftly to him.

“I told you not to get up before noon,” he snapped.

“Voices,” said Druss. “Voices … inside my head!”

“Lie down. Now listen. You are the captain, and you expect men to obey you. That’s what discipline is about. I am the surgeon, and I expect to be obeyed by my patients. Now tell me about the voices.”

Druss laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. His head ached abominably, and his stomach was still queasy. “There was only one voice. It said my name. Then it said it was from the Thirty and that they were coming to aid us.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. What is happening to me, Calvar? I’ve never had this before from a blow on the head.”

“It could be the blow; concussion can cause some very strange effects, including seeing visions and hearing voices. But they rarely last. Take my advice, Druss. The worst thing you can do at the moment is get overexcited. You could black out … or worse. Blows to the head can be fatal, even after a period of several days. I want you to rest and relax, and if the voice comes again, listen to it, even reply to it. But do not become alarmed. Understand?”

“Of course I understand,” said Druss. “I don’t normally panic, Doctor, but some things I do not like.”

“I know that, Druss. Do you need something to help you sleep now?”

“No. Wake me at noon. I have to judge a contest of swordsmanship. And don’t fret,” he said, seeing the gleam of annoyance in the surgeon’s one good eye. “I shall not get excited, and I will come straight back to bed afterward.”

Outside the room Hogun and Orrin waited. Calvar Syn joined them, signalled for silence, and beckoned them to a nearby office.

“I’m not happy,” he told them. “He’s hearing voices, and believe me, that is not a good sign. But he’s strong as a bull.”

“Is he in any danger?” asked Hogun.

“It’s hard to say. This morning I didn’t think so. But he has been under a lot of strain recently, and that may not help his condition. And although it is easy to forget, he is no longer a young man.”

“What about the voices?” said Orrin. “Could he go mad?”

“I think I would bet against that,” replied Calvar. “He said it was a message from the Thirty. Earl Delnar told me he had sent Virae to them with a message, and it could be that they have a speaker among them. Or it could be someone of Ulric’s; he also has speakers among his shamans. I have told Druss to relax and listen to any future voices and report them to me.”

“That one old man is vital to us,” said Orrin softly. “Do everything you can, Calvar. It would be a hammer blow to morale if anything happened to him.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” snapped the surgeon.

The banquet to celebrate the open swords was a raucous affair. All who had reached the last hundred were invited; officers and enlisted men were seated side by side, swapping jests, tales, and tall, tall stories.

Gilad was seated between Bar Britan, who had beaten him soundly, and Dun Pinar, who had in turn vanquished Britan. The black-bearded Bar was cursing Pinar good-humouredly and complaining that the latter’s wooden sword lacked the balance of his own cavalry sabre.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask to be allowed to fight on horseback,” said Pinar.

“But I did,” protested Britan, “and they offered me the target pony.” The three men burst into laughter, which others joined as the joke spread around the table. The target pony was a saddle tied to a moving rail and pulled by ropes. It was used for archery practice and jousting.

As the wine flowed, Gilad relaxed. He had seriously considered missing the banquet, fearing that his background would leave him ill at ease with the officer class. He had agreed to come only when the men of his group had lobbied him, pointing out that he was the only member of Karnak who had reached the last hundred. Now he was glad he had been persuaded. Bar Britan was a dry, witty companion, while Pinar, despite his breeding—or perhaps because of it—made Gilad feel among friends.

At the far end of the table sat Druss, flanked by Hogun and Orrin, while beside them sat the archer leader from Skultik. Gilad knew nothing about the man, save that he had brought six hundred bowmen to the Dros.

Hogun, in full legion dress armour of silver breastplate edged with ebony and black and silver mail shirt, stared at the silver sword lying on the table before Druss.

The final had been watched by more than five thousand soldiers as Hogun and Orrin had taken their places. The first strike had been Hogun’s, a neat parry and riposte after a four-minute duel. The second had been Orrin’s, following a feint to the head. Hogun had blocked swiftly, but a subtle twist of the wrist had sent his opponent’s wooden blade down to touch Hogun’s side. After some twenty minutes Hogun led by two strikes to one, one strike from victory.

During the first break Druss strolled to where Hogun and his seconds sat drinking watered wine in the shade of Wall One.

“Nice work,” said Druss. “He’s good, though.”

“Yes,” said Hogun, wiping the sweat from his brow with a white towel. “But he is not as strong on the right.”

“True. But you are slow against the leg cut.”

“A lancer’s main fault. It comes from too much work in the saddle,” said Hogun. “He is shorter than I, which gives him an advantage in that respect.”

“True. It has done Orrin good to reach the final. His cheers outnumber yours, I think.”

“Yes, but that will not disturb me,” said Hogun.

“I hope it does not,” said Druss. “Still, nothing could be better for morale than seeing the fortress gan perform so well.” Hogun glanced up, holding Druss’s gaze, then the old warrior smiled and moved back to his judge’s seat.

“What was that about?” asked Elicas, walking behind Hogun and kneading the muscles of his neck and shoulder. “Encouraging words?”

“Yes,” said Hogun. “Do some work on the forearm, will you. The muscles are knotted there.”

The young general grunted as Elicas probed the flesh with his powerful thumbs. Was Druss asking him to lose? Surely not. And yet …

It would do no harm for Orrin to win the silver sword and would certainly increase his growing standing with the troops.

“What are you thinking?” asked Elicas.

“I’m thinking that he’s weak on the right.”

“You will take him, Hogun,” said the young officer. “Try that vicious parry-riposte you used on me.”

At two strikes even Hogun’s wooden blade snapped. Orrin stepped back, allowing a replacement, and offered his opponent a swift practice with the new weapon. Hogun was unhappy with the balance and changed the sword again. He needed time to think. Had Druss suggested that he lose?

“You’re not concentrating,” said Elicas sternly. “What’s the matter with you? The legion has a lot of wages tied up in this tourney.”

“I know.”

His mind cleared. No matter what the reason, he could not fight to lose.

He threw everything he could into the last attack, blocked a backhand sweep, and lunged. Just before his blade thudded against Orrin’s belly, however, the gan’s sword tapped his neck. Orrin had read the move and lured him in. In real combat both men would have died, but this was not real combat and Orrin had won. The two men shook hands as the cheering soldiers swarmed forward.

“That’s my money gone,” said Elicas. “Still, there is a bright side.”

“What’s that?” said Hogun, rubbing at his burning forearm.

“I cannot afford to settle our own bet. You will have to stand for the wine. It’s the least you can do, Hogun, after letting down the legion!”

The banquet lifted Hogun’s spirits, and the speeches from Bar Britan on behalf of the soldiers and Dun Pinar for the officers were witty and short; the food was good, the wine and
ale plentiful, and the camaraderie reassuring. It is hardly the same Dros, thought Hogun.

Outside at the portcullis gates Bregan stood sentry duty with a tall young cul from Group Fire. Bregan did not know his name and could not ask, since sentries were forbidden to talk on duty. A strange rule, thought Bregan, but there to be obeyed.

The night was chilly, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were back in the village with Lotis and the children. Sybad had received a letter that day, and all was well. Legan, Bregan’s five-year-old son, was mentioned. It seemed that when he had climbed a tall elm and could not get down, he had cried and called for his father. Bregan had asked Sybad to write a few words for him in his next letter home. He had wanted him to say how much he loved and missed them all, but he could not bring himself to ask Sybad to pen such endearments. Instead, he asked him to tell Legan to be a good boy and obey his mother. Sybad took notes from all the villagers and spent the early evening composing the letter, which was sealed in wax and delivered to the mail room. A rider would carry it south with other letters and army dispatches for Drenan.

Lotis would have banked the fire by now and doused the lamps, Bregan thought. She would be lying in their rush-filled bed, probably asleep. Legan would be asleep beside her, he knew, for Lotis always found it difficult to sleep alone when Bregan was away.

“You will stop the savages, Daddy, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Bregan had told him. “But they probably won’t come. The politicians will sort it out, just like they have always done before.”

“Will you be home soon?”

“I’ll be back for harvest supper.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The banquet over, Druss invited Orrin, Hogun, Elicas, and Bowman to the earl’s study above the great hall. The servant Arshin brought them wine, and Druss introduced the outlaw to the fortress leaders. Orrin shook hands coolly, his eyes showing his distaste. For two years he had sent patrols into Skultik with orders to catch and hang the outlaw leader. Hogun was less concerned with Bowman’s pedigree and more interested in the skills the outlaws could bring. Elicas had no preconceived opinion but instinctively liked the blond archer.

Once seated, Bowman cleared his throat and told them the size of the Nadir horde gathered at Gulgothir.

“How do you come by this intelligence?” asked Orrin.

“Three days ago we … met … some travellers in Skultik. They were journeying from Dros Purdol to Segril and had come across the northern desert. They were waylaid near Gulgothir and taken into the city, where they stayed for four days. Because they were Vagrian merchants, they were treated civilly but questioned by a Nadir officer called Surip. One of them is a former Vagrian officer, and he made the estimate of their strength.”

“But half a million?” said Orrin. “I thought the figure was exaggerated.”

“Underplayed if anything,” said Bowman. “Outlying tribes were still coming in when he left. I’d say you will have quite a battle on your hands.”

“I don’t wish to be pedantic,” said Hogun, “but do you not mean we have a battle on our hands?”

Bowman glanced at Druss. “Have you not told them, old horse? No? Ah, what a deliciously embarrassing moment, to be sure.”

“Told us what?” asked Orrin.

“That they are mercenaries,” said Druss uneasily. “They stay only until the fall of Wall Three. It has been agreed.”

“And for this … this pitiful aid they expect pardons!” shouted Orrin, rising to his feet. “I will see them swing first.”

“After Wall Three we will have less need of archers,” said Hogun calmly. “There is no killing ground.”

“We need archers, Orrin,” said Druss. “We need them badly. And this man has six hundred of the finest. We know walls will fall, and we will need every shaft. The postern gates will be sealed by then. I don’t like this situation, either, but needs must … Better to have cover for the first three walls than to have none at all. Do you agree?”

“And if I don’t?” said the gan, still angry.

“Then I shall send them away,” said Druss. Hogun began an angry outburst but was silenced by a wave of Druss’s hand. “You are the gan, Orrin. It is your decision.”

Orrin sat down, breathing deeply. He had made many mistakes before Druss arrived; he knew that now. This situation angered him deeply, but he had no choice but to back the axman, and Druss knew it, too. The two men exchanged glances and smiled.

“They shall stay,” said Orrin.

“A wise decision,” said Bowman. “How soon will the Nadir arrive, do you think?”

“Too damned soon,” muttered Druss. “Sometime within the next three weeks, according to our scouts. Ulric lost a son, which has given us a few more days. But it’s still not enough.”

For some time the men discussed the many problems facing the defenders. Finally Bowman spoke, this time hesitantly.

“Look here, Druss, there is something I feel I should mention, but I don’t want to be thought … strange. I’ve been toying with the idea of not mentioning it, but …”

“Speak on, laddie. You’re among friends … mostly.”

“I had a strange dream last night, and you appeared in it. I would have dismissed it, but seeing you today made me think again. I dreamed I was woken from a deep sleep by a warrior in silver armour. I could see right through him, as if he were a ghost. He told me that he had been trying to contact you, but without success. When he spoke, it was like a voice in my mind. He said that his name was Serbitar and that he was traveling with his friends and a woman called Virae.

“He said it was important for me to tell you to collect inflammables and containers, since Ulric has built great siege towers. He also suggested fire gullies across the spaces between walls. In my mind he showed me a vision of you being attacked. He told me a name: Musar.

“Does any of it make any sense?”

For a moment no one spoke, although Druss seemed hugely relieved.

“Indeed it does, laddie. Indeed it does!”

Hogun poured a fresh glass of Lentrian and passed it to Bowman.

“What did this warrior look like?” he asked.

“Tall, slender. I think his hair was white, though he was young.”

“It is Serbitar,” said Hogun. “The vision is a true one.”

“You know him?” asked Druss.

“Of him only. He is the son of Earl Drada of Dros Segril. It is said that the boy was fey and had a demon; he could read men’s thoughts. He is an albino, and as you know, the Vagrians consider this an ill omen. He was sent to the temple of the Thirty, south of Drenan, when he was about thirteen. It is also said that his father tried to smother him when he was a babe but that the child sensed him coming and hid outside his bedroom window. These, of course, are but stories.”

“Well, his talents have grown, it seems,” said Druss. “But I don’t give a damn. He’ll be useful here, especially if he can read Ulric’s mind.”

15

For ten days work progressed. Fire gullies ten yards wide were dug four feet deep across the open ground between Walls One and Two and again between Walls Three and Four. These were filled with brushwood and small timber, while vats were placed along each gully, ready to pour oil onto the dry wood.

Bowman’s archers hammered white stakes in the open ground at various points between walls and also out on the plain before the fortress. Each line of stakes represented sixty paces, and his men practiced for several hours each day, black clouds of shafts slicing the air above each row as the commands were shouted.

Target dummies were set up on the plain, only to be splintered by scores of arrows, even at 120 paces. The skills of the Skultik archers were formidable.

Hogun rehearsed withdrawals, timing the men by drumbeats as they dashed from the battlements, across the plank bridges of the fire gullies to scale the ropes to the next wall. Each day they became more swift.

Minor points began to occupy more time as the overall fitness and readiness of the troops increased.

“When do we add the oil?” Hogun asked Druss as the men took an afternoon break.

“Between Walls One and Two, it will have to be filled on the day of the first attack. Until the first day we will have no real idea of how well the men will stand up to the assault.”

“There remains the problem,” added Orrin, “of who lights the gullies and when. For example, if the wall is breached, we could have Nadir tribesmen racing side by side with our own men. No easy decision to throw in a lighted torch.”

“And if we give men the duty,” said Hogun, “what happens if they are killed on the wall?”

“We will have to have a torch duty,” said Druss. “And the decision will be relayed by a bugler from Wall Two. An officer of cool nerve will be needed to judge the issue. When the bugle sounds, the gully goes up no matter who is left behind.”

Matters such as these occupied Druss more and more, until his head swam with plans, ideas, stratagems, and ploys. Several times during such discussions the old man’s temper flared and his huge fists hammered the table, or else he strode around the room like a caged bear.

“I’m a soldier, not a damned planner,” he would announce, and the meeting would be adjourned for an hour.

Combustibles were carted in from outlying villages, a seemingly endless number of dispatches arrived from Drenan and Abalayn’s panicked government, and a multitude of small problems—concerning delayed mail, new recruits, personal worries, and squabbles between groups—threatened to overwhelm the three men.

One officer complained that the latrine area of Wall One was in danger of causing a health hazard, since it was not of regulation depth and lacked an adequate cesspit.

Druss set a working party to enlarge the area.

Abalayn himself demanded a complete strategic appraisal of all Dros Delnoch’s defences, which Druss refused since the information could be leaked to Nadir sympathizers. This in turn brought a swift rebuke from Drenan and a firm request for an apology. Orrin penned this, claiming it would keep the politicians off their backs.

Then Woundweaver sent a requisition for the legion’s mounts, claiming that since the order was to hold to the last man, the horses would be of little use at Delnoch. He allowed that twenty should be retained for dispatch purposes. This so enraged Hogun that he was unapproachable for days.

Added to this, the burghers had begun to complain about the rowdy behaviour of the troops in civilian areas. All in all Druss was beginning to feel at the end of his tether and had begun to voice openly his desire that the Nadir would arrive and the devil with the consequences!

Three days later his wish was partly answered.

A Nadir troop, under a flag of truce, galloped in from the north. Word spread like wildfire, and by the time it reached Druss in the main hall of the keep, an air of panic was abroad in the town.

The Nadir dismounted in the shadow of the great gates and waited. They did not speak. From their pack saddles they took dried meat and water sacks and sat together, eating and waiting.

By the time Druss arrived with Orrin and Hogun, they had completed their meal. Druss bellowed down from the battlements.

“What is your message?”

“Open the gates!” called back the Nadir officer, a short barrel-chested man, bowlegged and powerful.

“Are you the Deathwalker?” called the man.

“Yes.”

“You are old and fat. It pleases me.”

“Good! Remember that when next we meet, for I have marked you, loudmouth, and my ax knows the name of your spirit. Now, what is your message?”

“The Lord Ulric, Prince of the North, bids me to tell you that he will be riding to Drenan to discuss an alliance with Abalayn, Lord of the Drenai. He wishes it known that he expects the gates of Dros Delnoch to be open to him; that being so, he guarantees there will be no harm to any man, woman, or child, soldier or otherwise, within the city. It is the Lord Ulric’s wish that the Drenai and the Nadir become as one nation. He offers the gift of friendship.”

“Tell the Lord Ulric,” said Druss, “that he is welcome to ride to Drenan at any time. We will even allow an escort of a hundred warriors, as befits a prince of the north.”

“The Lord Ulric allows no conditions,” said the officer.

“These are my conditions—they shall not change,” said Druss.

“Then I have a second message. Should the walls be contested and the gates closed, the Lord Ulric wishes it known that every second defender taken alive will be slain, that all the women will be sold into slavery, and that one in three of all citizens will lose his right hand.”

“Before that can happen, laddie, the Lord Ulric has to take the Dros. Now you give him this message from Druss the Deathwalker: In the north the mountains may tremble as he breaks wind, but this is Drenai land, and as far as I am concerned he is a potbellied savage who couldn’t pick his own nose without a Drenai map.

“Do you think you can remember that, laddie. Or shall I carve it on your ass in large letters?”

“Inspiring as your words were, Druss,” said Orrin, “I must tell you that my stomach turned over as you spoke them. Ulric will be furious.”

“Would that he were,” said Druss bitterly as the Nadir troop galloped back to the north. “If that were the case, he would truly be just a potbellied savage. No! He will laugh … loud and long.”

“Why should he?” asked Hogun.

“Because he has no choice. He has been insulted and should lose face. When he laughs, the men will laugh with him.”

“It was a pretty offer he made,” said Orrin as the three men made the long walk back to the keep. “Word will spread. Talks with Abalayn … One empire of Drenai and Nadir … Clever!”

“Clever and true,” said Hogun. “We know from his record that he means it. If we surrender, he will march through and harm no one. Threats of death can be taken and resisted; offers of life are horses of a different colour. I wonder how long it will be before the burghers demand another audience.”

“Before dusk,” predicted Druss.

Back on the walls Gilad and Bregan watched the dust from the Nadir horsemen dwindle into the distance.

“What did he mean, Gil, about riding to Drenan for discussions with Abalayn?”

“He meant he wants us to let his army through.”

“Oh. They didn’t look terribly fierce, did they? I mean, they seem quite ordinary, really, save that they wear furs.”

“Yes, they are ordinary,” said Gilad, removing his helm and combing his hair with his fingers, allowing the cool breeze to get to his head. “Very ordinary. Except that they live for war. Fighting comes as naturally to them as farming does to you. Or me,” he added as an afterthought, knowing this to be untrue.

“I wonder why,” said Bregan. “It has never made much sense to me. I mean, I understand why some men become soldiers: to protect the nation and all that. But a whole race of people living to be soldiers seems … unhealthy. Does that sound right?”

Gilad laughed. “Indeed it sounds right. But the northern steppes make poor farmland. Mainly they breed goats and ponies. Any luxuries they desire, they must steal. Now to the Nadir, so Dun Pinar told me at the banquet, the word for ‘stranger’ is the same as the word for ‘enemy.’ Anyone not of the tribe is simply there to be killed and stripped of goods. It is a way of life. Smaller tribes are wiped out by larger tribes. Ulric changed the pattern; by amalgamating beaten tribes into his own, he grew more and more powerful. He controls all the northern kingdoms now and many to the east. Two years ago he took Manea, the sea kingdom.”

“I heard about that,” said Bregan. “But I thought he had withdrawn after making a treaty with the king.”

“Dun Pinar says the king agreed to be Ulric’s vassal and Ulric holds the king’s son hostage. The nation is his.”

“He must be a pretty clever man,” said Bregan. “But what would he do if he ever conquered the whole world? I mean, what good is it? I would like a bigger farm and a house with several floors. That I can understand. But what would I do with ten farms? Or a hundred?”

“You would be rich and powerful. Then you could tell your tenant farmers what to do, and they would all bow as you rode past in your fine carriage.”

“That doesn’t appeal to me, not at all,” said Bregan.

“Well, it does to me,” said Gilad. “I’ve always hated it when I had to tug the forelock for some passing nobleman on a tall horse. The way they look at you, despising you because you work a smallholding; paying more money for their handmade boots than I can earn in a year of slaving. No, I wouldn’t mind being rich, so pig-awful rich that no man could ever look down on me again.”

Gilad turned his face away to stare out over the plains, his anger fierce, almost tangible.

“Would you look down on people, then, Gil? Would you despise me because I wanted to remain a farmer?”

“Of course not. A man should be free to do what he wants to do as long as it doesn’t hurt others.”

“Maybe that’s why Ulric wants to control everything. Maybe he is sick of everyone looking down on the Nadir.”

Gilad turned back to Bregan, and his anger died within him.

“Do you know, Breg, that’s just what Pinar said when I asked him if he hated Ulric for wanting to smash the Drenai. He said, ‘Ulric isn’t trying to smash the Drenai but to raise the Nadir.’ I think Pinar admires him.”

“The man I admire is Orrin,” said Bregan. “It must have taken great courage to come out and train with the men as he has done. Especially being as unpopular as he was. I was so pleased when he won back the swords.”

“Only because you won five silver pieces on him,” Gilad pointed out.

“That’s not fair, Gil! I backed him because he was Karnak; I backed you, too.”

“You backed me for a quarter copper and him for a half silver, according to Drebus, who took your bet.”

Bregan tapped his nose, smiling. “Ah, but then you don’t pay the same price for a goat as for a horse. But the thought was there. After all, I knew you couldn’t win.”

“I damn near had that Bar Britan. It was a judge’s decision at the last.”

“True,” said Bregan. “But you would never have beaten Pinar or that fellow with the earring from the legion. But what’s even more to the point, you never could have beaten Orrin. I’ve seen you both fence.”

“Such judgment!” said Gilad. “It’s small wonder to me that you didn’t enter yourself, so great is your knowledge.”

“I don’t have to fly in order to know that the sky is blue,” said Bregan. “Anyway, who did you back?”

“Gan Hogun.”

“Who else? Drebus said you had placed two bets,” said Bregan innocently.

“You know very well. Drebus would have told you.”

“I didn’t think to ask.”

“Liar! Well, I don’t care. I backed myself to reach the last fifty.”

“And you were so close,” said Bregan. “Only one strike in it.”

“One lucky blow and I could have won a month’s wages.”

“Such is life,” said Bregan. “Maybe next year you can come back and have another try.”

“And maybe corn will grow on the backs of camels!” said Gilad.

Back at the keep Druss was struggling to keep his temper as the city elders argued back and forth about the Nadir offer. Word had spread to them with bewildering speed, and Druss had barely managed to eat a chunk of bread and cheese before a messenger from Orrin informed him that the elders had called a meeting.

It was a Drenai rule, long established, that except in time of battle the elders had a democratic right to see the city lord and debate matters of importance. Neither Orrin nor Druss could refuse. No one could argue that Ulric’s ultimatum was unimportant.

Six men constituted the city elders, an elected body that effectively ruled all trade within the city. The master burgher and chief elder was Bricklyn, who had entertained Druss so royally on the night of the assassination attempt. Malphar, Backda, Shinell, and Alphus were all merchants, while Beric was a nobleman, a distant cousin of Earl Delnar and highly placed in city life. Only lack of a real fortune kept him at Delnoch and away from Drenan, which he loved.

Shinell, a fat, oily silk merchant, was the main cause of Druss’s anger. “But surely we have a right to discuss Ulric’s terms and must be allowed a say in whether they are accepted or rejected,” he said again. “It is of vital interest to the city, after all, and by right of law our vote must carry.”

“You know full well, my dear Shinell,” said Orrin smoothly, “that the city elders have full rights to discuss all civil matters. This situation hardly falls within that category. Nevertheless, your point of view is noted.”

Malphar, a red-faced wine dealer of Lentrian stock, interrupted Shinell as he began his protest. “We are getting nowhere with this talk of rules and precedent. The fact remains that we are virtually at war. Is it a war we can win?” His green eyes scanned the faces around him, and Druss tapped his fingers on the table top, the only outward sign of his tensions. “Is it a war we can carry long enough to force an honourable peace? I don’t think it is,” continued Malphar. “It is all nonsense. Abalayn has run the army down until it is only a tenth of the size it was a few years ago. The navy has been halved. This Dros was last under siege two centuries ago, when it almost fell. Yet our records tell us that we had forty thousand warriors in the field.”

“Get on with it, man! Make your point,” said Druss.

“I shall, but spare me your harsh looks, Druss. I am no coward. What I am saying is this: If we cannot hold and cannot win, what is the point of this defence?”

Orrin glanced at Druss, and the old warrior leaned forward. “The point is,” he said, “that you don’t know whether you’ve lost—until you’ve lost. Anything can happen: Ulric could suffer a stroke; plague could hit the Nadir forces. We have to try to hold.”

“What about the women and children?” asked Backda, a skull-faced lawyer and property owner.

“What about them?” said Druss. “They can leave at any time.”

“To go where, pray? And with what monies?”

“Ye gods!” thundered Druss, surging to his feet. “What will you be wanting me to do next? Where they go—if they do—how they go—is their concern and yours. I am a soldier, and my job is to fight and kill. And believe me, I do that very well. We have been ordered to fight to the last, and that we will do.

“Now, I may not know very much about law and all the little niceties of city politics, but I do know this: Any man who speaks of surrender during the coming siege is a traitor.

“And I will see him hang.”

“Well said, Druss,” offered Beric, a tail middle-aged man with shoulder-length grey hair. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Very stirring.” He smiled as Druss sank back to his seat. “There is one point, though. You say you have been asked to fight to the end. That order can always be changed; politics being what it is, the question of expediency comes into it. At the moment it is expedient for Abalayn to ask us to prepare for war. He may feel it gives him greater bargaining power with Ulric. Ultimately, though, he must consider surrender. Facts are facts: The tribes have conquered every nation they have attacked, and Ulric is a general above comparison.

“I suggest we write to Abalayn and urge him to reconsider this war.”

Orrin shot Druss a warning glance.

“Very well put, Beric,” he said. “Obviously Druss and I, as loyal military men, must vote against it; however, feel free to write and I will see the petition is forwarded with the first available rider.”

“Thank you, Orrin. That is very civilized of you,” said Beric. “Now can we move on to the subject of the demolished homes?”

Ulric sat before the brazier, a sheepskin cloak draped over his naked torso. Before him squatted the skeletal figure of his shaman, Nosta Khan.

“What do you mean?” Ulric asked him.

“As I said, I can no longer travel over the fortress. There is a barrier to my power. Last night, as I floated above Deathwalker, I felt a force like a storm wind. It pushed me back beyond the outer wall.”

“And you saw nothing?”

“No. But I sensed … felt …”

“Speak!”

“It is difficult. In my mind I could feel the sea and a slender ship. It was a fragment only. Also there was a mystic with white hair. I have puzzled long over this. I believe Deathwalker has called upon a white temple.”

“And their power is greater than yours?” said Ulric.

“Merely different,” hedged the shaman.

“If they are coming by sea, then they will make for Dros Purdol,” said Ulric, staring into the glimmering coals. “Seek them out.”

The shaman closed his eyes, freed the chains of his spirit, and soared free of his body. Formless, he raced high above the plain, over hills and rivers, mountains and streams, skirting the Delnoch range until at last the sea lay below him, shimmering beneath the stars. Far he roved before sighting Wastrel, picking out the tiny glint of her aft lantern.

Swiftly he dropped from the sky to hover by the mast. By the port rail stood a man and a woman. Gently he probed their minds, then drifted down through the wooden deck, beyond the hold, and onto the cabins. These he could not enter, however. As lightly as the whisper of a sea breeze, he touched the edge of the invisible barrier. It hardened before him, and he recoiled. He floated to the deck, closing on the mariner at the stern, smiled, then raced back toward the waiting Nadir warlord.

Nosta Khan’s body trembled, and his eyes opened.

“Well?” asked Ulric.

“I found them.”

“Can you destroy them?”

“I believe so. I must gather my acolytes.”

On Wastrel Vintar rose from his bed, his eyes troubled, his mind uneasy. He stretched.

“You felt it, too,” pulsed Serbitar, swinging his long legs clear of the second bed.

“Yes. We must be wary.”

“He did not try to breach the shield,” said Serbitar. “Was that a sign of weakness or confidence?”

“I don’t know,” answered the abbot.

Above them at the stern the second mate rubbed his tired eyes, slipped a looped rope over the wheel, and transferred his gaze to the stars. He had always been fascinated by these flickering, far-off candles. Tonight they were brighter than usual, like gems strewn on a velvet cloak. A priest had once told him they were holes in the universe through which the bright eyes of the gods gazed down on the peoples of the earth. It was pretty nonsense, but he had enjoyed listening.

Suddenly he shivered. Turning, he lifted his cloak from the aft rail and slung it about his shoulders. He rubbed his hands.

Floating behind him, the spirit of Nosta Khan lifted its hands, focusing power upon the long fingers. Talons grew, glinting like steel, serrated and sharp. Satisfied, he closed in on the mariner, plunging his hands into the man’s head.

Searing agony blanketed the brain within as the man staggered and fell, blood pouring from his mouth and ears and seeping from his eyes. Without a sound he died. Nosta Khan loosened his grip. Drawing on the power of his acolytes, he willed the body to rise, whispering words of obscenity in a language long erased from the minds of ordinary men. Darkness swelled around the corpse, shifting like black smoke to be drawn in through the bloody mouth. The body shuddered.

And rose.

Unable to sleep, Virae dressed silently, climbed to the deck, and wandered to the port rail. The night was cool, the soft breeze soothing. She gazed out over the waves to the distant line of land silhouetted against the bright, moonlit sky.

The view always calmed her, the blending of land and sea. As a child at school in Dros Purdol she had delighted in sailing, especially at night, when the land mass appeared to float like a sleeping monster of the deep, dark and mysterious and wonderfully compelling.

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Was the land moving? To her left the mountains seemed to be receding, while on the right the shoreline seemed closer. No, not seemed. Was. She glanced at the stars. The ship had veered northwest, yet they were days from Purdol.

Puzzled, she walked aft toward the second mate as he stood with hands on the wheel.

“Where are we heading?” she asked him, mounting the four steps to the stern and leaning on the rail.

His head turned toward her. Blank, blood-red eyes locked on hers as his hands left the wheel and reached for her.

Fear entered her soul like a lance, only to be quelled by rising anger. She was not some Drenai milkmaid to be terrified thus; she was Virae, and she carried the blood of warriors in her veins.

Dropping her shoulder, she threw a right hand punch to his jaw. His head snapped back, but still he came on. Stepping inside the groping arms, she grabbed his hair and smashed a head butt into his face. He took it without a sound, his hands curling around her throat. Twisting desperately before the grip tightened, she threw him with a rolling hip lock, and he hit the deck hard on his back. Virae staggered. He rose slowly and came for her again.

Running forward, she leapt into the air and twisted, hammering both feet into his face. He fell once more.

And rose.

Panicked now, Virae searched for a weapon, but there was nothing. Smoothly she vaulted the wheel rail to land on the deck. He followed her.

“Move away from him!” screamed Serbitar, racing forward with sword drawn. Virae ran to him.

“Give me that!” she said, tearing the sword from his hand. Confidence surged in her as her hand gripped the ebony hilt. “Now, you son of a slut!” she shouted, striding toward the mariner.

He made no effort to avoid her, and the sword flashed in the moonlight, slicing into his exposed neck. Twice more she struck, and the grinning head toppled from the body. But the corpse did not fall.

Oily smoke oozed from the severed neck to create a second head, formless and vague. Coal-red eyes glittered within the smoke.

“Get back!” shouted Serbitar. “Get away from him!”

This time she obeyed, backing toward the albino.

“Give me the sword.”

Vintar and Rek had joined them.

“What on earth is it?” whispered Rek.

“Nothing on earth,” replied Vintar.

The thing stood its ground, arms folded across its chest.

“The ship is heading for the rocks,” said Virae, and Serbitar nodded.

“It is keeping us from the wheel. What do you think, Father Abbot?”

“The spell was planted in the head, which must be thrown overboard. The beast will follow it,” replied Vintar. “Attack it.”

Serbitar moved forward, supported by Rek. The corpse bent its body, right hand closing on the hair of the severed head. Holding the head to its chest, it waited for the attack.

Rek leapt forward, slashing a cut at the arm. The corpse staggered. Serbitar ran in, slicing the tendons behind the knee. As it fell, Rek hammered the blade two-handed across its arm. The arm fell clear, the fingers releasing the head, which rolled across the deck. Dropping his sword, Rek dived at it. Swallowing his revulsion, he lifted it by the hair and hurled it over the side. As it hit the waves, the corpse on the deck shuddered. As if torn by a great wind, the smoke flowed from the neck to vanish beneath the rail and into the darkness of the deep.

The captain came forward from the shadows by the mast.

“What was it?” he asked.

Vintar joined him, placing a hand gently on the man’s shoulder.

“We have many enemies,” he said. “They have great powers. But fear not. We are not powerless, and no harm will befall the ship again. I promise you.”

“And what of his soul?” asked the captain, wandering to the rail. “Have they taken it?”

“It is free,” said Vintar. “Believe me.”

“We will all be free,” said Rek, “if someone doesn’t turn the ship away from those rocks.”

In the darkened tent of Nosta Khan the acolytes silently backed out, leaving him sitting in the centre of the circle chalked on the dirt floor. Lost in thought, Nosta Khan ignored them. He was drained and angry.

For they had bested him, and he was a man unused to defeat. It tasted bitter in his mouth.

He smiled.

There would be another time …

16

Blessed by a following wind, Wastrel sped north until at last the silver grey towers of Dros Purdol broke the line of the horizon. The ship entered the harbour a little before noon, piloting past the Drenai war triremes and the merchant vessels anchored in the bay.

On the milling docks street traders sold charms, ornaments, weapons, and blankets to mariners, while burly dockers carried provisions up swaying gangplanks, stacking cargo and checking loads. All was noise and apparent confusion.

The harborside was rich in colour and the hectic pace of city life, and Rek felt a pang of regret to be leaving the ship. As Serbitar led the Thirty ashore, Rek and Virae said their good-byes to the captain.

“With one exception, it has been a more than pleasant voyage,” Virae told him. “I thank you for your courtesy.”

“I was glad to be of service, my lady. I will forward the marriage papers to Drenan on my return. It was a first for me. I have never taken part in the wedding of an earl’s daughter, much less conducted one. I wish you well.” Bending forward, he kissed her hand.

He wanted to add “Long life and happiness,” but he knew their destination.

Virae strode down the gangplank as Rek gripped the captain’s hand. He was surprised when the man embraced him.

“May your sword arm be strong, your spirit lucky, and your horse swift when the time comes,” he said.

Rek grinned. “The first two I will need. As to the horse, do you believe that lady will consider flight?”

“No, she’s a wonderful lass. Be lucky.”

“I will try hard,” said Rek.

At the quayside a young red-caped officer eased his way through the crowd to confront Serbitar.

“Your business in Dros Purdol?” he asked.

“We are traveling to Delnoch as soon as we can obtain horses,” answered the albino.

“The fortress will soon be under siege, sir. Are you aware of the coming war?”

“We are. We travel with the Lady Virae, daughter of Earl Delnar, and her husband, Regnak.”

Seeing Virae, the officer bowed. “A pleasure, my lady. We met at your eighteenth birthday celebration last year. You probably won’t remember me.”

“On the contrary, Dun Degas! We danced, and I trod on your foot. You were most kind and took the blame.”

Degas smiled and bowed again. How she has changed! he thought. Where was the clumsy girl who had contrived to trip on the hem of her skirt? Who had blushed as red as the wine when, during a heated conversation, she had crushed a crystal goblet, drenching the woman to her right. What had changed? She was the same woman-girl he remembered—her hair mousy blond, her mouth too wide, her brows thunder-dark over deep-set eyes. He saw her smile as Rek stepped forward, and his question was answered. She had become desirable.

“What are you thinking, Degas?” she asked. “You look far away.”

“My apologies, my lady. I was thinking Earl Pindak will be delighted to receive you.”

“You will have to convey my regrets,” said Virae, “for we must leave as soon as possible. Where can we purchase mounts?”

“I am sure we can find you good horses,” said Degas. “It is a shame you did not arrive sooner, since four days ago we sent three hundred men to Delnoch to aid the defence. You could have travelled with them; it would have been safer. The Sathuli have grown bold since the Nadir threat.”

“We shall get there,” said the tall man with Virae. Degas’s eyes measured him. A soldier, he thought, or has been at some time. Carries himself well. Degas directed the party to a large inn, promising to supply the horses within two hours.

True to his word, he returned with a troop of Drenai cavalrymen riding thirty-two horses. They were not of the pedigree of the mounts left behind in Lentria, being mustangs bred for mountain work, but they were sturdy animals. When the horses had been allocated and the provisions packed, Degas approached Rek.

“There is no charge for these mounts, but I would be obliged if you could deliver these dispatches to the earl. They came by sea from Drenan yesterday and missed our force. The one with the red seal is from Abalayn.”

“The earl will receive them,” said Rek. “Thank you for your help.”

“It is nothing. Good luck!” The officer moved on to make his farewells to Virae.

Pushing the letters into the saddlebag of his roan mare, Rek mounted and led the party west from Purdol along the line of the Delnoch mountains. Serbitar cantered alongside him as they entered the first of the deep woods beyond the town.

“You look troubled,” said Rek.

“Yes. There will be outlaws, renegades, perhaps deserters, and certainly Sathuli tribesmen along our route.”

“But that is not what troubles you.”

“You are perceptive,” said Serbitar.

“How true. But then, I saw the corpse walk.”

“Indeed you did,” said Serbitar.

“You have hedged about that night for long enough,” said Rek. “Now give me the truth of it. Do you know what it was?”

“Vintar believes it to be a demon summoned by Nosta Khan. He is the head shaman to Ulric’s Wolfshead tribe and therefore lord of all Nadir shamans. He is old, and it is said he first served Ulric’s great-grandfather. He is a man steeped in evil.”

“And his powers are greater than yours?”

“Individually, yes. Collectively? I don’t think so. We are currently stopping him from entering Delnoch, but he in turn has cast a veil over the fortress and we cannot enter.”

“Will he attack us again?” asked Rek.

“Assuredly. The question is what method he will choose.”

“I think I will leave you to worry about that,” said Rek. “I can take in only so much gloom in one day.”

Serbitar did not answer him. Rek reined his mount and waited for Virae.

That night they camped by a mountain stream but lit no fires. In the early evening Vintar recited poetry, his voice soft and melodious, his words evocative.

“They are his own work,” Serbitar whispered to Virae, “though he will not own to them. I know not why. He is a fine poet.”

“But they are so sad,” she said.

“All beauty is sad,” replied the albino. “For it fades.”

He left her and retreated to a nearby willow, sitting with his back to the tree, a silver ghost in the moonlight.

Arbedark joined Rek and Virae, handing them honey cakes he had purchased at the port. Rek glanced over at the lonely figure of the albino.

“He travels,” said Arbedark. “Alone.”

As the dawn bird song began, Rek groaned and eased his aching body away from the probing tree roots that were denting his side. His eyes opened. Most of the Thirty were still asleep, though tall Antaheim stood sentry by the stream. At the willow Serbitar remained where he had been during the recital.

Rek sat up and stretched, his mouth dry. Pushing back his blanket, he walked to the horses, removed his pack, rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, and went to the stream. Taking out a bar of soap, he stripped the shirt from his chest and knelt by the swiftly rushing water.

“Please don’t do that,” said Antaheim.

“What?”

The tall warrior walked across to him, squatting by his side. “The soap bubbles will carry downstream. It is not wise thus to announce our movements.”

Rek cursed himself for a fool and apologized swiftly.

“That is not necessary. I am sorry to have intruded. Do you see that plant there, by the lichen rock?” Rek twisted, then nodded. “It is a lemon mint. Wash in the water, then crush some of the leaves and clean your body. It will refresh you and create … a more pleasant aroma.”

“Thank you. Is Serbitar still traveling?”

“He should not be. I will seek him.” Antaheim closed his eyes for several seconds. When they opened again, Rek recognized panic, and the warrior ran from the stream. In that moment all the members of the Thirty surged from their blankets and raced to Serbitar by the willow.

Rek dropped his shirt and soap on the bank and moved to join them. Vintar was bending over the albino’s still form; he closed his eyes and placed his hands on the young leader’s slender face. For long moments he remained thus. Sweat broke out upon his forehead, and he began to sway. When he lifted a hand, Menahem joined him instantly, raising Serbitar’s head. The swarthy warrior lifted the albino’s right eyelid: the iris was red as blood.

Virae dropped to her knees beside Rek. “His eyes are green normally,” she said. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know,” said Rek.

Antaheim rose from the group and sprinted for the undergrowth, returning minutes later with what appeared to be an armful of vine leaves, which he tipped to the ground. Gathering dried twigs, he fashioned a small fire; then, setting up a tripod of branches, he hung a pot above the flames, filled it with water, and crushed the leaves between his palms, dropping them into the pot. Soon the water began to bubble, and a sweet aroma filled the air. Antaheim lifted the pan from the flames, adding cold water from his canteen, then transferred the green liquid to a leather-covered pottery mug, which he passed to Menahem. Slowly they opened Serbitar’s mouth, and while Vintar held the albino’s nostrils, they poured in the liquid. Serbitar gagged and swallowed, and Vintar released his nose. Menahem laid his head back on the grass, and Antaheim swiftly killed the fire. There had been little smoke.

“What’s going on?” asked Rek as Vintar approached him.

“We will talk later,” said Vintar. “Now I must rest.” He stumbled to his blankets and lay down, slipping instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“I feel like a one-legged man in a footrace,” said Rek.

Menahem joined them, his dark face grey with exhaustion as he sipped water from a leather canteen. He stretched his long legs out on the grass and lay on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. He turned toward Rek.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, “but I did overhear you. You must forgive Vintar. He is older than the rest of us, and the strain of the hunt proved too much for him.”

“The hunt? What hunt?” asked Virae.

“We sought Serbitar. He had journeyed far, and the path was sundered. He could not return, and we had to find him. Vintar guessed rightly that he had retreated into the mists and taken his chances. He had to seek him.”

“I’m sorry, Menahem. You look worn out,” said Rek, “but try to remember that we do not know what you are talking about. Into the mists? What the devil does that mean?”

Menahem sighed. “How can one explain colours to a blind man?”

“One says,” snapped Rek, “that red is like silk, blue is like cool water, and yellow is like sunshine on the face.”

“Forgive me, Rek. I am tired, I did not mean to be rude,” said Menahem. “I cannot explain the mists to you as I understand them. But I will try to give you some idea.

“There are many futures but only one past. When we travel beyond ourselves, we walk a straight path, journeying much as we are doing now. We direct ourselves over vast distances. But the path back remains solid, for it is locked in our memories. Do you understand?”

“So far,” said Rek. “Virae?”

“I’m not an idiot, Rek.”

“Sorry. Go on, Menahem.”

“Now try to imagine that there are other paths. Not just from, say, Drenan to Delnoch but from today into tomorrow. Tomorrow has not yet happened, and the possibilities for it are endless. Each one of us makes a decision that will affect tomorrow. But let us say we do travel into tomorrow. Then we are faced with a multitude of paths, gossamer-thin and shifting. In one tomorrow Dros Delnoch has already fallen; in another it has been saved or is about to fall or about to be saved. Already we have four paths. Which is true? And when we tread the path, how do we return to today, which from where we are standing is a multitude of yesterdays? To which do we return? Serbitar journeyed far beyond tomorrow. And Vintar found him as we held the path in sight.”

“You used the wrong analogy,” said Rek. “It is nothing like explaining colors to a blind man. Rather, it is more like teaching archery to a rock. I haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. Will Serbitar be all right?”

“We don’t know yet. If he lives, he will have information of great value.”

“What happened to his eyes? How did they change colour?” asked Virae.

“Serbitar is an albino—a true albino. He needs certain herbs in order to maintain his strength. Last night he journeyed too far and lost his way. It was foolhardy. But his heartbeat is strong, and he is now resting.”

“Then he won’t die?” said Rek.

“That we cannot say. He travelled a path which stretched his mind. It could be he will suffer the pull; this happens sometimes to travellers. They move so far from themselves that they just drift, like smoke. If his spirit is broken, it will pass from him and return to the mist.”

“Can’t you do anything?”

“We have done all we can. We cannot hold him forever.”

“When will we know?” asked Rek.

“When he awakes. If he awakes.”

The long morning wore on, and Serbitar still lay unmoving. The Thirty volunteered no conversation, and Virae had walked upstream to bathe. Bored and tired, Rek took the dispatches from his pouch. The bulky scroll sealed in red wax was addressed to Earl Delnar. Rek broke the seal and spread the letter wide. In flowing script the message read:

My dear friend,
Even as you read this, our intelligence is that the Nadir will be upon you. We have tried repeatedly to secure peace, having offered all that we have save the right to govern ourselves as a free people. Ulric will have none of this—he wishes to secure for himself a kingdom stretching between the northern and southern seas.

I know the Dros cannot hold, and I therefore rescind my order that you fight to the last. It will be a battle without profit and without hope.

Woundweaver is—needless to say—against this policy and has made it clear that he will take his army into the hills as a raiding force should the Nadir be allowed to pass to the Sentran Plain.

You are an old soldier, and the decision must be yours.

Pin the blame for surrender upon me. It is mine by right, since I have brought the Drenai people to this parlous state.

Do not think of me unkindly. I have always tried to do that which was best for my people.

But perhaps the years have told more heavily upon me than I realized, for my wisdom has been lacking in my dealings with Ulric.

It was signed simply “Abalayn,” and below the signature was the red seal of the Drenai dragon.

Rek refolded the scroll and returned it to his saddlebag.

Surrender … A helping hand at the brink of the abyss.

Virae returned from the stream, her hair dripping and her features flushed.

“Ye gods, that was good!” she said, sitting beside him. “Why the long face? Serbitar not awake yet?”

“No. Tell me, what would your father have done if Abalayn had told him to surrender the Dros?”

“He would never have given that order to my father.”

“But if he had?” insisted Rek.

“The point does not arise. Why do you always ask questions that have no relevance?”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me. What would he have done?”

“He would have refused. Abalayn would know that my father is the lord of Dros Delnoch, the High Warden of the North. He can be relieved of command but not ordered to give up the fortress.”

“Suppose Abalayn had then left the choice to Delnar. What then?”

“He would have fought to the last; it was his way. Now will you tell me what all this is about?”

“The dispatch Degas gave me for your father. It is a letter from Abalayn withdrawing his ‘fight to the last’ order.”

“How dare you open that?” stormed Virae. “It was addressed to my father and should have been given to me. How dare you!” Her face red with fury, she suddenly struck out at him. When he parried the blow, she launched another, and without thinking he struck her flat-handed, sending her sprawling to the grass.

She lay there, eyes blazing.

“I’ll tell you how I dare,” he said, suppressing his anger with great effort. “Because I am the earl. And if Delnar is dead, then it was addressed to me. Which means that the decision to fight is mine. As is the decision to open the gates to the Nadir.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? A way out?” She rose to her feet, snatching up her leather jerkin.

“Think what you like,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me. Anyway, I should have known better than to talk to you about the letter. I’d forgotten how much this war means to you. You can’t wait to see the crows feast, can you? Can’t wait for the bodies to start swelling and rotting! You hear me?” he shouted at her back as she walked away.

“Trouble, my friend?” asked Vintar as he sat down opposite the angry Rek.

“Nothing whatsoever to do with you,” snapped the new earl.

“Of that I don’t doubt,” said Vintar calmly. “But I might be able to help. After all, I’ve known Virae for many years.”

“I’m sorry, Vintar. That was unforgivable of me.”

“I have found in my life, Rek, that there are a few actions which are unforgivable. And certainly there are no words said that carry such a penalty. It is a man’s lot, I fear, to strike out when he has suffered hurt. Now, can I help?”

Rek told him about the dispatch and Virae’s reaction.

“A thorny problem, my boy. What will you do?”

“I have not yet made up my mind.”

“That is as well. No one should make a hasty decision over such a weighty matter. Do not be too hard on Virae; she is now sitting by the stream and feeling very miserable. She is desperately sorry for what she said and is merely waiting for you to apologize so that she can tell you it was all her own fault.”

“I’ll be damned if I will apologize,” said Rek.

“It will be a frosty ride if you do not,” said the abbot.

A soft moan came from the sleeping Serbitar. Instantly Vintar, Menahem, Arbedark, and Rek moved over to him. The albino’s eyes fluttered and opened … Once more they were the green of rose leaves. He smiled at Vintar.

“Thank you, Lord Abbot,” he whispered. Vintar patted his face gently.

“Are you all right?” asked Rek.

Serbitar smiled. “I am well. Weak but well.”

“What happened?” asked Rek.

“Nosta Khan. I tried to force entry at the fortress and was flung into the outer mists. I was lost … broken. I saw futures that were terrible and chaos beyond all imagining. I fled.” He lowered his eyes. “I fled in panic, I know not where or when.”

“Speak no more, Serbitar,” said Vintar. “Rest now.”

“I cannot rest,” said the albino, struggling to rise. “Help me, Rek.”

“Maybe you should rest, as Vintar says,” Rek told him.

“No. Listen to me. I did enter Delnoch, and I saw death there. Terrible death!”

“The Nadir are there already?” asked Rek.

“No. Be silent. I could not see the man clearly, but I saw the Musif well being poisoned behind Wall Two. Anyone who drinks from that well will die.”

“But we should arrive before the fall of Wall One,” said Rek. “And surely they will not need the Musif well until then.”

“That is not the point. Eldibar, or Wall One as you call it, is indefensible. It is too wide; any capable commander will give it up. Don’t you understand? That’s why the traitor poisoned the other well. Druss is bound to fight his first battle there, and the men will be fed that day at dawn. By midday the deaths will begin, and by dusk you will have an army of ghosts.”

“We must ride,” said Rek. “Now! Get him on a horse.”

Rek ran to find Virae as the Thirty saddled their mounts. Vintar and Arbedark helped Serbitar to his feet.

“There was more, was there not?” said Vintar.

“Aye, but some tragedies are best left unspoken.”