Legend by David Gemmell

For three days they rode in the shadow of the Delnoch range into deep glens and over wooded hills. They rode swiftly but with caution, Menahem scouting ahead and pulsing messages to Serbitar. Virae had said little since the argument and avoided Rek studiously. He in turn gave no ground and made no attempt to breach the silence, though it hurt him deeply.

On the morning of the fourth day, as they breasted a small hill above thick woods, Serbitar held up a hand to halt the column.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rek, drawing alongside.

“I have lost contact with Menahem.”

“Trouble?”

“I don’t know. He could have been thrown from his horse.”

“Let us go and find out,” said Rek, spurring the mare.

“No!” called Serbitar, but the horse was already on the move downhill and gathering speed. Rek tugged at the reins to bring the animal’s head up, then leaned back in the saddle as the beast slithered to the foot of the hill. Once more on firm ground, Rek glanced about him. Among the trees he could see Menahem’s gray standing with head down, and beyond the warrior himself lying facedown on the grass. Rek cantered the mare toward him, but as he passed under the first tree, a whisper of movement alerted him and he flung himself from his saddle as a man leapt from the branches. Rek landed on his side, rolled, and regained his feet, dragging his sword free of its scabbard. His attacker was joined by two others; all wore the flowing white robes of the Sathuli.

Rek backed toward the fallen Menahem and glanced down. The warrior’s head was bleeding at the temple. Slingshot, Rek realized, but had no chance to check if the priest was still alive. Other Sathuli now crept from the undergrowth, their broad tulwars and long knives in hand.

Slowly they advanced, grins splitting their dark, bearded features. Rek grinned back.

“This is a good day to die,” he said. “Why don’t you join me?”

He slid his right hand farther up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy swordplay; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt the strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.

With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through the throat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them, his blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault, they fell back, then leapt forward again, screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowth behind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.

Rek was not aware of the arrival of the Thirty. He parried a blow and backhanded his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.

Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness, and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.

The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disembowelled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of Elder legends.

Rek’s anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman’s tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.

“Enough!” he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. “Put up your swords, all of you!” The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.

All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die, or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one’s words were spoken with power, and his voice held them momentarily.

“Let your leader step forth,” ordered Rek, plunging his sword blade into the ground at his feet and folding his arms, though the Sathuli blades still ringed him.

The men before him stepped aside as a tall, broad-shouldered man in robes of blue and white moved forward. He was as tall as Rek, though hawk-nosed and swarthy. A trident beard gave him a sardonic look, and the saber scar from brow to chin completed the impression.

“I am Regnak, Earl of Dros Delnoch,” said Rek.

“I am Sathuli—Joachim Sathuli—and I shall kill you,” replied the man grimly.

“Matters like this should be settled by men such as you and I,” said Rek. “Look about you—everywhere are Sathuli corpses. How many of my men are among them?”

“They will join them soon,” said Joachim.

“Why do we not settle this like princes?” said Rek. “You and I alone.”

The man’s scarred eyebrow lifted. “That would only equal the odds against you. You have no bargaining power; wherefore should I grant you this?”

“Because it will save Sathuli lives. Oh, I know they give their lives gladly, but for what? We carry no provisions, no gold. We have only horses, and the Delnoch ranges are full of them. This is now a matter of pride, not of booty. Such matters are for you and I to decide.”

“Like all Drenai, you talk a good fight,” said the Sathuli, turning away.

“Has fear turned your bowels to water?” asked Rek softly.

The man turned back, smiling. “Ah, now you seek to anger me. Very well! We will fight. When you die, your men will lay down their swords?”

“Yes.”

“And if I die, we allow you to pass?”

“Yes.”

“So be it. I swear this on the soul of Mehmet, blessed be his name.”

Joachim drew a slender scimitar, and the Sathulis around Rek moved back to form a circle about the two men. Rek drew his blade from the earth, and the battle began.

The Sathuli was an accomplished swordsman, and Rek was forced back as soon as the fight started. Serbitar, Virae, and the others watched calmly as blade met blade time and again. Parry, riposte, thrust and parry, slash and check. Rek defended frantically at first, then slowly began to counter. The battle wore on, with both men sweating freely. It was obvious to all that they were evenly matched in skill and virtually identical in strength and reach. Rek’s blade sliced the skin above Joachim’s shoulder. The scimitar licked out to open a wound on the back of Rek’s hand. Both men circled warily, breathing deeply.

Joachim attacked; Rek parried, launching a riposte. Joachim jumped back, and they circled again. Arbedark, the finest swordsman of the Thirty, was lost in wonder at their technique.

Not that he could not match it, for he could, rather that his skill was honed by mental powers that the two combatants would never comprehend on a conscious level. Yet both were using the same skills subconsciously. It was as much a battle of minds as of blades, yet even here the men were well matched.

Serbitar pulsed a question to Arbedark. “It is too close for me to judge. Who will win?”

“I know not,” replied Arbedark. “It is fascinating.”

Both men were tiring fast. Rek had established a two-handed grip on his longsword, his right arm no longer able to bear the full weight of the blade. He launched an attack that Joachim parried desperately; then his sword caught the scimitar an inch above the hilt, and the curved blade snapped. Rek stepped forward, touching the point of his sword to Joachim’s jugular. The swarthy Sathuli did not move but merely gazed back defiantly, his brown eyes meeting Rek’s gaze.

“And what is your life worth, Joachim Sathuli?”

“A broken sword,” answered Joachim. Rek held out his hand and received the useless hilt.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the surprised Sathuli leader.

“It is simple,” answered Rek. “All of us here are as dead men. We ride for Dros Delnoch to face an army the like of which has not been seen before in this world. We shall not survive the summer. You are a warrior, Joachim, and a worthy one. Your life is worth more than a broken blade. We proved nothing by this contest, save that we are men. Before me I have nothing but enemies and war.

“Since we will meet no more in this life, I would like to believe that I have left at least a few friends behind me. Will you take my hand?” Rek sheathed his sword and held out his hand.

The tall Sathuli smiled. “There is a strangeness in this meeting,” he said, “for as my blade broke, I wondered, in that moment when death faced me, what I would have done had your sword snapped. Tell me, why do you ride to your death?”

“Because I must,” said Rek simply.

“So be it, then. You ask me for friendship, and I give it, though I have sworn mighty oaths that no Drenai would feel safe on Sathuli land. I give you this friendship because you are a warrior and because you are to die.”

“Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?”

“I would have killed you,” said the Sathuli.

17

The first of the spring storms burst over the Delnoch mountains as Gilad relieved the watch sentry on Wall One. Thunder rumbled angrily overhead while crooked spears of jagged lightning tore the night sky, momentarily lighting the fortress. Fierce winds whistled along the walls, shrieking sibilantly.

Gilad hunched himself under the overhang of the gate tower, tugging the small brazier of hot coals into the lee of the wall. His cape was wet through, and water dripped steadily from his drenched hair onto his shoulders to trickle inside his breastplate, soaking the leather of his mail shirt. But the wall reflected the heat from the brazier, and Gilad had spent worse nights on the Sentran Plain, digging out buried sheep in the winter blizzards. He regularly raised himself to peer over the wall to the north, waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the plain. Nothing moved there.

Farther down the wall an iron brazier exploded as lightning struck it, and showers of hot coals fell close to him. What a place to be wearing armour, he thought. He shuddered and hunched closer to the wall. Slowly the storm moved on, swept over the Sentran Plain by the fierce wind from the north. For a while the rain remained, sheeting against the grey stone battlements and running down the tower walls, hissing and spitting as random drops vaporized on the coals.

Gilad opened his small pack and removed a strip of dried meat. He tore off a chunk and began to chew. Three more hours, then a warm bunk for three more.

From the darkness behind the battlements came the sound of movement. Gilad spun around, scrabbling for his sword, phantom childhood fears flooding his mind. A large figure loomed into the light from the brazier.

“Stay calm, laddie! It’s only me,” said Druss, seating himself on the other side of the brazier. He held out his huge hands to the flames.

His white beard was wet through, his black leather jerkin gleaming as if polished by the storm. The rain had petered to a fine drizzle, and the wind had ceased its eerie howling. Druss hummed an old battle hymn for a few moments as the heat warmed him. Gilad, tense and expectant, waited for the sarcastic comments to follow. “Cold, are we? Need a little fire to keep away the phantoms, do we?” Why pick my watch, you old bastard? he thought. After a while, the silence seemed oppressive and Gilad could bear it no longer.

“A cold night to be out walking, sir,” he said, cursing himself for the respectful tone.

“I have seen worse. And I like the cold. It’s like pain—it tells you you’re alive.”

The firelight cast deep shadows on the old warrior’s weather-beaten face, and for the first time Gilad saw the fatigue etched there. The man is bone-tired, he thought. Beyond the legendary armour and the eyes of icy fire, he was just another old man. Tough and strong as a bull, maybe, but old. Worn out by time, the enemy that never tired.

“You may not believe it,” said Druss, “but this is the worst time for a soldier—the waiting before the battle. I’ve seen it all before. You ever been in a battle, lad?”

“No, never.”

“It’s never as bad as you fear it will be once you realize that dying is nothing special.”

“Why do you say that? It’s special to me. I have a wife and a farm which I’d like to see again. I’ve a lot of living to do yet,” said Gilad.

“Of course you have. But you could survive this battle and come down with the plague, or be killed by a lion, or develop a cancer. You could be robbed and killed or fall from a horse. Ultimately you will die anyway. Everyone dies. I’m not saying you should give up and just open your arms to welcome it. You must fight it all the way. An old soldier—a good friend of mine—told me early in my life that he who fears to lose will never win. And it’s true. You know what a baresark is, boy?”

“A strong warrior,” said Gilad.

“Yes, he is. But he’s more than that: he’s a killing machine who cannot be stopped. Do you know why?”

“Because he’s insane?”

“Yes, there is that to him. But more. He doesn’t defend, because when he’s fighting he doesn’t care. He just attacks, and lesser men—who do care—die.”

“What do you mean by lesser men? A man doesn’t have to be a killer to be great.”

“That’s not what I meant … but I suppose it could have been. If I tried to farm—as your neighbour—men would say that I was not as good as you. They would look down on me as a bad farmer. On these battlements men will be judged by how long they stay alive. Lesser men, or lesser soldiers if you will, either charge or fall.”

“Why did you come here, Druss?” asked Gilad, meaning to ask why the axman had chosen to interrupt his watch. But the warrior misunderstood.

“I came to die,” he said softly, warming his hands and staring into the coals. “To find some spot on the battlements to make a stand and then to die. I didn’t expect to have to take over the damned defence. A pox on it! I’m a soldier, not a general.”

As Druss talked on, Gilad realized the axman was not talking to him—not to Cul Gilad, the former farmer. He was chatting to just another soldier at just another fire at just another fortress. In microcosm this scene was Druss’s life, the wait before the war.

“I always promised her that I would stop and tend the farm, but always someone, somewhere, had a battle to fight. I thought for years that I was representing something—liberty, freedom, I don’t know. The truth was always much more simple. I love to fight. She knew but had the good grace never to point it out. Can you imagine what it’s like to be a legend—the damned legend? Can you, boy?”

“No, but it must make you feel proud,” said Gilad, uncertain.

“It makes you tired. It saps your strength when it should raise it. Because you can’t afford to be tired. You’re Druss the Legend, and you’re invulnerable, invincible. You laugh at pain. You can march forever. With one blow you can topple mountains. Do I look as if I can topple mountains?”

“Yes,” said Gilad.

“Well, I damned well can’t. I’m an old man with a weak knee and an arthritic back. My eyes are not so good as they were, either.

“When I was young and strong, the bruises always healed quickly. I was tireless then. I could fight all damned day. As I grew older, I learned to fake it and snatch rest where I could. To use my experience in battle where before I had just powered my way through. In my fifties I was careful, and anyway by that time the legend made men tremble. Three times since I have fought men who could have beaten me, but they beat themselves because they knew who I was and were afraid.

“Do you think I’m a good leader?”

“I don’t know. I’m a farmer, not a soldier,” said Gilad.

“Don’t hedge with me, boy. I asked for an opinion.”

“No, you’re probably not. But you are a great warrior. I suppose in years gone by you would have been a war chief. I can’t tell. You’ve done wonders with the training; there’s a new spirit at the Dros.”

“There were always leaders in my day,” said Druss. “Strong men with quick minds. I have tried to remember all their lessons. But it’s hard, boy. Do you see? It’s hard. I’ve never been afraid of enemies I can face with an ax or my hands, if need be. But the enemies at this fortress are not the same. Morale, preparation, fire gullies, supplies, liaison, organization. It saps the soul.”

“We’ll not fail you, Druss,” said Gilad, his heart reaching out to the older man. “We will stand firm beside you. You have given us that, though I hated you for most of the training.”

“Hate breeds strength, laddie. Of course you will hold. You’re men. Did you hear about Dun Mendar?”

“Yes, it was tragic. A good job that he was there to aid you,” said Gilad.

“He was there to kill me, boy. And he almost did.”

“What?” said Gilad, shocked.

“You heard me. And I don’t expect you to repeat it. He was in the pay of the Nadir, and he led the assassins.”

“But … that means you stood alone against them all,” said Gilad. “Five of them and you survived?”

“Aye, but they were a motley crew and ill trained. Do you know why I told you that … about Mendar?”

“Because you wanted to talk?”

“No. I’ve never been much of a talker, and I have little need for sharing my fears. No, I wanted you to know that I trust you. I want you to take over Mendar’s role. I’m promoting you to dun.”

“I don’t want it,” said Gilad fiercely.

“Do you think I want this responsibility? Why do you think I’ve spent this time here? I am trying to make you understand that often—more often than not—we are forced into doing what we fear. You will take over as of tomorrow.”

“Why? Why me?”

“Because I have watched you, and I think you have a talent for leadership. You’ve impressed me in leading your ten. And you helped Orrin in that race. That was pride. Also, I need you and others like you.”

“I’ve no experience,” said Gilad, knowing it sounded lame.

“That will come. Think on this: Your friend Bregan is no soldier, and some of your men will die at the first attack. Having a good officer will save some of them.”

“All right. But I can’t afford to dine in the officers’ mess or run up an armorer’s bill. You will have to supply me with the uniform.”

“Mendar’s gear should fit you, and you will put it to more noble use.”

“Thank you. You said earlier on that you came here to die. Does that mean you think we cannot win?”

“No, it doesn’t. Forget what I said.”

“Damn you, Druss, don’t patronize me! You just talked about trust. Well, I’m an officer now, and I asked you a straight question. I won’t repeat the answer. So trust me.”

Druss smiled, and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the young sentry.

“Very well. We have no chance in the long term. Every day brings us closer to a Nadir victory. But we will make them pay dearly. And you can believe that, laddie, for that’s Druss the Legend talking.”

“Never mind the legend,” said Gilad, returning the other’s smile. “That’s the man who took on five assassins in a darkened alley.”

“Don’t build me up too high because of that, Gilad. All men have talents. Some build, some paint, some write, some fight. For me it is different. I have always had a way with death.”

The girl moved along the battlements, ignoring the comments of the soldiers, her auburn hair glinting in the morning sun, her long legs, slender and bronzed, the object of many friendly though intimate comments from the troops. She smiled once when one of the men she passed murmured to a companion, “I think I’m in love.” She blew him a kiss and winked.

Bowman smiled, gently shaking his head. He knew Caessa was making a me
al of her entrance, but with a body like hers, who would blame her? She was as tall as most men, willowy and graceful, and her every movement combined to promise pleasure to any man watching. Physically, Bowman thought, she is the perfect woman. The ultimate female.

He watched her string her longbow. Jorak looked at him questioningly, but he shook his head. The rest of the archers stood back. This was Caessa’s moment, and after an entrance like that she deserved a little applause.

Straw dummies had been set up one hundred paces from the wall. The heads were painted yellow, the torsos red. It was a standard distance for a fine archer, but shooting down from a battlement added several degrees to the difficulty.

Caessa reached over her shoulder to the doeskin quiver and drew a black feathered shaft. She checked it for line, then notched it to the string.

“Head,” she said.

With one flowing movement she drew back the string, and as it touched her cheek, she loosed the shaft. It flashed through the morning air and hammered into the neck of the nearest dummy. The watching men burst into rapturous applause, and Caessa glanced at Bowman. He raised an eyebrow.

Five more arrows lanced into the straw target before Bowman raised a hand to signal the other archers forward. Then he called Caessa to him and walked from the battlements.

“You took your time getting here, lady,” he said, smiling.

She linked her arm in his and blew him a kiss. As always he felt arousal stirring. As always he suppressed it.

“Did you miss me?” Her voice was deep and throaty, a sound as full of sexual promise as her body was a vision.

“I always miss you,” he said. “You raise my spirits.”

“Only your spirits?”

“Only my spirits.”

“You lie. I can see it in your eyes,” she said.

“You see nothing that I do not want you to see—or anyone else. You are safe with me, Caessa. Have I not told you? But allow me to say that for a woman who does not seek the company of men, you make a very spectacular entrance. Where are your trousers?”

“It was hot. The tunic is decorous enough,” she said, absently tugging at the hem.

“I wonder if you really know what you want,” he said.

“I want to be left alone.”

“Then why do you seek my friendship?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” he told her, “but I’m not sure that you do.”

“You are very serious today, O Lord of the Forest. I can’t think why. We are all being paid. We have our pardons, and the quarters are a sight better than Skultik.”

“Where have they placed you?” he asked.

“The young officer—Pinar?—insisted that I have a room in the main barracks. He wouldn’t hear of me sharing with the rest of the men. It was quite touching, really. He even kissed my hand!”

“He’s all right,” said Bowman. “Let’s have a drink.” He led her into the Eldibar mess hall and on through the officers’ section at the rear, ordering a bottle of white wine. Seated by the window, he drank in silence for a while, watching the men train.

“Why did you agree to this?” she asked him suddenly. “And don’t give me any of that rubbish about pardons. You don’t give a damn about that or about the money.”

“Still trying to read me? It can’t be done,” he said, sipping his wine. Then he turned and called out for bread and cheese. She waited until the serving soldier had left.

“Come on, tell me!”

“Sometimes, my dear, as you will no doubt find when you are a little older, there are no simple reasons for a man’s actions. Impulse. An act spurred by the moment. Who knows why I agreed to come here? I certainly do not!”

“You’re lying again. You just won’t say. Is it that old man, Druss?”

“Why are you so interested? In fact, why are you here?”

“Why not? It should be exciting and not terribly dangerous. We are leaving, aren’t we, when the third wall goes?”

“Of course. That was the agreement,” he said.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” she said, smiling.

“I don’t trust anybody. You know, sometimes you do act just like every other woman I have known.”

“Is that a compliment, O Master of the Green Wood?”

“I think not.”

“Then what does it mean? After all, I am a woman. How do you expect me to act?”

“There you go again. Let’s get back to trust. What made you ask?”

“You won’t say why you came, and then you lie about leaving. Do you think I’m a complete fool? You have no intention of quitting this doomed pile of rock. You will stay to the end.”

“And where do you come by this remarkable intelligence?” he asked.

“It’s written all over your face. But don’t worry; I won’t let on to Jorak or any of the others. But don’t count on me to stay. I have no intention of dying here.”

“Caessa, my little dove, you only prove how little you know me. Anyway, for what it’s worth—”

Bowman ceased his explanation as the tall figure of Hogun entered the doorway and the gan threaded his way through the tables toward them. It was Caessa’s first sight of the legion general, and she was impressed. He moved with grace, one hand resting on his sword hilt. His eyes were clear, his jaw strong, and his features fair—handsome almost. She disliked him instantly. Her view was strengthened when he pulled up a chair, reversed it, and sat facing Bowman, ignoring her totally.

“Bowman, we must talk,” he said.

“Go ahead. First, let me introduce Caessa. Caessa, my dear, this is Gan Hogun of the legion.” He turned and nodded once in her direction.

“Do you mind if we talk alone?” he asked Bowman. Caessa’s green eyes blazed with anger, but she kept silent and stood, desperate for a parting remark that would sting the man.

“I will see you later,” said Bowman as she opened her mouth. “Get yourself some food now.” As she turned on her heel and left the room, Bowman watched her, delighting in the feline grace of her walk.

“You’ve upset her,” he said.

“Me? I didn’t even speak to her,” said Hogun, removing his black and silver helm and placing it on the table. “Anyway, that’s immaterial. I want you to speak to your men.”

“What about?”

“They spend a lot of their time loafing around and jeering at the soldiers as they train. It’s not good for morale.”

“Why shouldn’t they? They are civilian volunteers. It will all stop when the fighting starts.”

“The point is, Bowman, that the fighting may start before the Nadir arrive. I have just stopped one of my men from gutting that black-bearded giant, Jorak. Much more of this and we will have murder on our hands.”

“I’ll talk to them,” said Bowman. “Calm yourself and have a drink. What did you think of my lady archer?”

“I really didn’t look too closely. She seemed pretty.”

“I think it must be true what they say about the cavalry,” said Bowman. “You are all in love with your horses! Great gods, man, she’s more than merely pretty!”

“Talk to your men now. I will feel a lot better then. Tensions are rising pretty badly, and the Nadir are only two days away.”

“I said I would. Now, have a drink and relax. You’re getting as edgy as your men, and that can’t be good for morale.”

Hogun grinned suddenly. “You’re right. It’s always like this before a fight. Druss is like a bear with a sore head.”

“I hear you lost the open swords to the fat one,” said Bowman, grinning. “Tut, tut, old horse! This is no time to be currying favour with the hierarchy.”

“I didn’t let him win; he’s a fine swordsman. Don’t judge him too harshly, my friend; he may yet surprise you. He certainly surprised me. What did you mean when you said I upset the girl?”

Bowman smiled, then laughed loudly. He shook his head and poured another glass of wine.

“My dear Hogun, when a woman is beautiful, she comes to expect a certain—how shall I say?—a certain reverence from men. You should have had the good grace to be thunderstruck by her beauty. Stunned into silence or, better still, into a babbling fool. Then she would have merely ignored you and answered your devotion with arrogant disdain. Now you have slighted her, and she will hate you. Worse than this, she will do all in her power to win your heart.”

“I don’t think that makes a great deal of sense. Why should she try to win my heart if she hates me?”

“So that she can be in a position to treat you with disdain. Do you know nothing about women?”

“I know enough,” said Hogun. “I also know that I don’t have time for this foolishness. Should I apologize to her, do you think?”

“And let her know you know how slighted she was? My dear boy, your education has been sadly lacking!”

18

Druss welcomed the arrival of the Dros Purdol riders, not so much for their numbers, more for the fact that their arrival proved that the Dros had not been forgotten by the outside world.

Yet still, Druss knew, the defenders would be badly stretched. The first battle on Eldibar, Wall One, would either raise the men or destroy them. The Delnoch fighting edge was sharp enough, but spirit was a different thing. One could fashion the finest steel into a sword blade of passing excellence, but occasionally the move from fire to water would cause it to crack where blades of lesser metal survived. An army was like that, Druss knew. He had seen highly trained men panic and run, and farmers stand their ground, armed with picks and hoes.

Bowman and his archers practiced daily now on Kania, Wall Three, which had the longest stretch of ground between the mountains. They were superb. The six hundred archers could send three thousand arrows arching through the air every ten heartbeats. The first charge would bring the Nadir into range for nearly two minutes before the siege ladders could reach the walls. The attacking warriors would suffer terrible losses over the open ground. It would be bloody carnage. But would it be enough?

They were about to see the greatest army ever assembled, a horde that within twenty years had built an empire stretching across a dozen lands and five score cities. Ulric was on the verge of creating the largest empire in known history, a mighty achievement for a man not yet out of his forties.

Druss walked the Eldibar battlements, chatting to individual soldiers, joking with them, laughing with them. Their hatred of him had vanished like dawn mist during these last days. They saw him now for what he was: an iron old man, a warrior from the past, a living echo of ancient glories.

They remembered then that he had chosen to stand with them. And they knew why. This was the only place in all the world for the last of the old heroes: Druss the Legend, standing with the last hopes of the Drenai on the battlements of the greatest fortress ever built, waiting for the largest army in the world. Where else would he be?

Slowly the crowds gathered about him as more men made their way to Eldibar. Before long Druss was threading his way through massed ranks on the battlements, while even more soldiers gathered on the open ground behind them. He climbed to the crenelated battlement wall and turned to face them. His voice boomed out, silencing the chatter.

“Look about you!” he called, the sun glinting from the silver shoulder guards on his black leather jerkin, his white beard glistening. “Look about you now. The men you see are your comrades—your brothers. They will live with you and die for you. They will protect you and bleed for you. Never in your lives will you know such comradeship again. And if you live to be as old as I am, you will always remember this day and the days to follow. You will remember them with a clearness you would never have believed. Each day will be like crystal, shining in your minds.

“Yes, there will be blood and havoc, torture and pain, and you will remember that, too. But above all will be the sweet taste of life. And there is nothing like it, my lads.

“You can believe this old man when he says it. You may think life is sweet now, but when death is a heartbeat away, then life becomes unbearably desirable. And when you survive, everything you do will be enhanced and filled with greater joy: the sunlight, the breeze, a good wine, a woman’s lips, a child’s laughter.

“Life is nothing unless death has been faced down.

“In times to come, men will say, ‘I wish I had been there with them.’ By then the cause won’t matter.

“You are standing at a frozen moment in history. The world will be changed when this battle is over. Either the Drenai will rise again or a new empire will dawn.

“You are now men of history.” Druss was sweating now and strangely tired, but he knew he had to go on. He was desperate to remember Sieben’s saga of the Elder days and the stirring words of an Elder general. But he could not. He breathed in deeply, tasting the sweet mountain air.

“Some of you are probably thinking that you may panic and run. You won’t! Others are worried about dying. Some of you will. But all men die. No one ever gets out of this life alive.

“I fought at Skeln Pass when everyone said we were finished. They said the odds were too great, but I said be damned to them! For I am Druss, and I have never been beaten, not by Nadir, Sathuli, Ventrian, Vagrian, or Drenai.

“By all the gods and demons of this world, I will tell you now—I do not intend to be beaten here, either!” Druss was bellowing at the top of his voice as he dragged Snaga into the air. The ax blade caught the sun and the chant began.

“Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!” The men on other battlements could not hear Druss’s words, but they heard the chant and took it up. Dros Delnoch echoed to the sound, a vast cacophony of noise that crashed and reverberated through the peaks, scattering flocks of birds, which took to the skies in fluttering panic. At last Druss raised his arms for silence and gradually the chant subsided, though more men were running from Wall Two to hear his words. By then almost five thousand men were gathered about him.

“We are the knights of Dros Delnoch, the siege city. We will build a new legend here to dwarf Skeln Pass. And we will bring death to the Nadir in their thousands. Aye, in their hundreds of thousands. Who are we?”

“Knights of Dros Delnoch!” thundered the men.

“And what do we bring?”

“Death to the Nadir!”

Druss was about to continue when he saw men’s heads turn to face down into the valley. Columns of dust in the distance created clouds that rose to challenge the sky like a gathering storm. Like the father of all storms. And then, through the dust could be seen the glinting spears of the Nadir, filling the valley from all sides, sweeping forward, a vast dark blanket of fighting men with more following. Wave after wave of them came into sight. Vast siege towers pulled by hundreds of horses, giant catapults, leather-covered battering rams, thousands of carts and hundreds of thousands of horses, vast herds of cattle, and more men than the mind could total.

Not one heart among the watchers failed to miss a beat at the sight. Despair was tangible, and Druss cursed softly. He had nothing more to say. And he felt he had lost them. He turned to face the Nadir horsemen bearing the horsehair banners of their tribes. By now their faces could be seen, grim and terrible. Druss raised Snaga into the air and stood, legs spread, a picture of defiance. Angry now, he stared at the Nadir outriders.

As they saw him, they pulled up their horses and stared back. Suddenly the riders parted to allow a herald through. Galloping his steppe pony forward, he rode toward the gates, swerving as he came beneath the wall where Druss stood. He dragged on the reins, and the horse skidded to a stop, rearing and snorting.

“I bring this command from the Lord Ulric,” he shouted. “Let the gates be opened and he will spare all within save the white-bearded one who insulted him.”

“Oh, it’s you again, lardbelly,” said Druss. “Did you give him my message as I said it?”

“I gave it, Deathwalker. As you said it.”

“And he laughed, did he not?”

“He laughed. And swore to have your head. And my Lord Ulric is a man who always fulfils his desires.”

“Then we are two of a kind. And it is my desire that he should dance a jig on the end of a chain, like a performing bear. And I will have it so, even if I have to walk into your camp and chain him myself.”

“Your words are like ice on the fire, old man—noisy and without worth,” said the herald. “We know your strength. You have maybe eleven thousand men. Mostly farmers. We know all there is to know. Look at the Nadir army! How can you hold? What is the point? Surrender yourself. Throw yourself on the mercy of my lord.”

“Laddie, I have seen the size of your army, and it does not impress me. I have a mind to send half my men back to their farms. What are you? A bunch of potbellied, bowlegged northerners. I hear what you say. But don’t tell me what you can do. Show me! And that’s enough of talk. From now on this will talk for me.” He shook Snaga before him, sunlight flashing from the blade.

Along the line of defenders Gilad nudged Bregan. “Druss the Legend!” he chanted, and Bregan joined him with a dozen others. Once more the sound began to swell as the herald wheeled his mount and raced away. The noise thundered after him:

“Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!”

Druss watched silently as the massive siege engines inched toward the wall, vast wooden towers sixty feet high and twenty feet wide, ballistae by the hundred, ungainly catapults on huge wooden wheels. Countless numbers of men heaved and strained at thousands of ropes, dragging into place the machines that had conquered Gulgothir.

The old warrior studied the scene below, seeking out the legendary warmaster Khitan. It did not take long to find him. He was the still centre of the whirlpool of activity below, the calm amid the storm. Where he moved, work ceased as his instructions were given, then began again with renewed intensity.

Khitan glanced up at the towering battlements. He could not see Deathwalker but felt his presence and grinned.

“You cannot stop my work with one axe,” he whispered.

Idly he scratched the scarred stump at the end of his arm. Strange how after all these years he could still feel his fingers. The gods had been kind that day when the Gulgothir tax gatherers had sacked his village. He had been barely twelve years old, and they had slain his family. In an effort to protect his mother, he had run forward with his father’s dagger. A slashing sword had sent his hand flying through the air to land beside the body of his brother. The same sword had lanced into his chest.

To this day he could not explain why he had not died along with the other villagers, or indeed why Ulric had spent so long trying to save him. Ulric’s raiders had surprised the killers and routed them, taking two prisoners. Then a warrior checking the bodies had found Khitan, barely alive. They had taken him into the steppes, laying him in Ulric’s tent. There they had sealed the weeping stump with boiling tar and dressed the wound in his side with tree moss. For almost a month he had remained semiconscious, delirious with fever. He had one memory of that terrible time, a memory he would carry to the day he died.

His eyes had opened to see above him a face, strong and compelling. The eyes were violet, and he felt their power.

“You will not die, little one. Hear me?” The voice was gentle, but as he sank once more into the nightmares and delirium, he knew that the words were not a promise. They were a command.

And Ulric’s commands were to be obeyed.

Since that day Khitan had spent every conscious moment serving the Nadir lord. Useless in combat, he had learned to use his mind, creating the means by which his lord could build an empire.

Twenty years of warfare and plunder. Twenty years of savage joy.

With his small entourage of assistants Khitan threaded his way through the milling warriors and entered the first of the twenty siege towers. They were his special pride. In concept they had been startlingly simple. Create a wooden box, three-sided and twelve feet high. Place wooden steps inside against the walls leading to the roof. Now take a second box and place it atop the first. Secure it with iron pins. Add a third and you have a tower. It was relatively easy to assemble and dismantle, and the component parts could be stacked on wagons and carried wherever the general needed them.

But if the concept was simple, the practicalities had been plagued by complexities. Ceilings collapsed under the weight of armed men, walls gave way, wheels splintered, and worst of all, once it was over thirty feet high the structure was unstable and prone to tip.

Khitan recalled how for more than a year he had worked harder than his slaves, sleeping less than three hours a night. He had strengthened the ceilings, but this had merely made the entire structure more heavy and less stable. In despair he had reported to Ulric. The Nadir warlord had sent him to Ventria to study at the University of Tertullus. He felt that he had been disgraced, humiliated. Nevertheless he had obeyed; he would suffer anything to please Ulric.

But he had been wrong, and the year he had spent studying under Rebow, the Ventrian lecturer, had proved to be the most glorious time of his life.

He learned of mass centres, parallel vectors, and the need for equilibrium between external and internal forces. His appetite for knowledge was voracious, and Rebow found himself warming to the ugly Nadir tribesman. Before long the slender Ventrian invited Khitan to share his home, where studies could be carried on long into the night. The Nadir was tireless. Often Rebow would fall asleep in his chair, only to wake several hours later and find the small, one-armed Khitan still studying the exercises he had set him. Rebow was delighted. Rarely had a student showed such aptitude, and never had he found a man with such a capacity for work.

Every force, learned Khitan, had an equal and opposite reaction, so that, for example, a jib exerting a push at its top end also had to exert an equal and opposite push at the foot of its supporting post. This was his introduction to the world of creating stability through understanding the nature of stress.

For him the University of Tertullus was a kind of paradise.

On the day he had left for home, the little tribesman had wept as he embraced the stricken Ventrian. Rebow had begged him to reconsider, to take a post at the university, but Khitan had not the heart to tell him he was not in the least tempted. He owed his life to one man and dreamed of nothing but serving him.

At home once more, he set to work. Under construction the towers would be tiered, creating an artificial base five times the size of the structure. While a tower was being moved into position, only the first two levels would be manned, creating a mass weight low to the ground. Once it was positioned by a wall, ropes would be hurled from the centre of the tower and iron pins hammered into the ground, creating stability. The wheels would be iron-spoked and rimmed, and there would be eight to a tower to distribute the weight.

Using his new knowledge, he designed catapults and ballistae. Ulric was well pleased, and Khitan was ecstatic.

Now, bringing his mind back to the present, Khitan climbed to the top of the tower, ordering the men to lower the hinged platform at the front. He gazed at the walls three hundred paces distant and saw the black-garbed Deathwalker leaning on the battlements.

The walls were higher than at Gulgothir, and Khitan had added a section to each tower. Ordering the platform to be raised once more, he tested the tension in the support ropes and climbed down through the five levels, stopping here and there to check struts or ties.

Tonight his four hundred slaves would go to work beneath the walls, chipping away at the rocky floor of the pass and placing the giant pulleys every forty paces. The pulleys, six feet high and cast around greased bearings, had taken months to design and years to construct to his satisfaction, finally being completed at the ironworks of Lentria’s capital a thousand miles to the south. They had cost a fortune, and even Ulric had blanched when the final figure was estimated. But they had proved their worth over the years.

Thousands of men would pull a tower to within sixty feet of a wall. Thereafter the line would shrink as the gap closed; the three-inch-diameter ropes could be curled around the pulleys, passed under the towers, and hauled from behind.

The slaves who dug and toiled to create the pulley beds were protected from archers by movable screens of stretched ox hide, but many were slain by rocks hurled from the walls above. This was of no concern to Khitan. What did concern him was possible damage to the pulleys, which were not protected by iron casing.

With one last lingering look at the walls, he made his way back to his quarters in order to brief the engineers.

Druss watched Khitan until he entered the city of tents that now filled the valley for over two miles.

So many tents. So many warriors. Druss ordered the defenders to stand down and relax while they could, seeing in their faces the pinched edge of fear, the wide eyes of barely controlled panic. The sheer scale of the enemy had cut into morale. He cursed softly, stripped off his black leather jerkin, stepped back from the battlements, and lowered his huge frame to the welcoming grass beyond. Within moments he was asleep. Men nudged one another and pointed; those closest to him chuckled as the snoring began. They were not to know that was his first sleep for two days or that he lay there for fear that his legs would not carry him back to his quarters. They knew only that he was Druss: The Captain of the Axe.

And that he held the Nadir in contempt.

Bowman, Hogun, Orrin, and Caessa also left the walls for the shade of the mess hall, the green-clad archer pointing at the sleeping giant.

“Was there ever such a one?” he said.

“He just looks old and tired to me,” said Caessa. “I can’t see why you regard him with such reverence.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Bowman. “You are just being provocative as usual, my dear. But then, that’s the nature of your gender.”

“Not so,” said Caessa, smiling. “What is he, after all? He is a warrior. Nothing more, nothing less. What has he ever done to make him such a hero? Waved his ax? Killed men? I have killed men. It is no great thing. No one has written a saga about me.”

“They will, my lovely, they will,” said Bowman. “Just give them time.”

“Druss is more than just a warrior,” said Hogun softly. “I think he always has been. He is a standard, an example if you like …”

“Of how to kill people?” offered Caessa.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Druss is every man who has refused to quit, to surrender when life offered no hope, to stand aside when the alternative was to die. He is a man who has shown other men there is no such thing as guaranteed defeat. He lifts the spirit merely by being Druss and being seen to be Druss.”

“Just words!” said Caessa. “You men are all the same. Always lofty words. Would you sing the praises of a farmer who fought for years against failed crops and floods?”

“No,” admitted Hogun. “But then, it is the life of a man like Druss which inspires the farmers to battle on.”

“Garbage!” Caessa sneered. “Arrogant garbage! The farmer cares nothing for warriors or war.”

“You will never win, Hogun,” said Bowman, holding open the mess hall door. “Give up now, while you can.”

“There is a fundamental error in your thinking, Caessa,” said Orrin suddenly as the members of the group seated themselves around a trestle table. “You are ignoring the simple fact that the vast majority of our troops here are farmers. They have signed on for the duration of this war.” He smiled gently and waved his hand for the mess servant.

“Then the more fool them,” said Caessa.

“We are all fools,” agreed Orrin. “War is a ridiculous folly, and you are right: men love to prove themselves in combat. I don’t know why, for I have never desired it myself. But I have seen it too often in others. But even for me Druss is, as Hogun describes him, an example.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I cannot put it into words, I’m afraid.”

“Of course you can.”

Orrin smiled and shook his head. He filled their goblets with white wine, then broke the bread and passed it around. For a while they ate in silence, then Orrin spoke again.

“There is a green leaf called Neptis. When chewed, it will relieve toothache or head pain. No one knows why; it just does
. I suppose Druss is like that. When he is around, fear seems to fade. That’s the best I can do to explain.”

“He doesn’t have that effect on me,” said Caessa.

On the tower battlements Bregan and Gilad watched the Nadir preparations. Along the wall Dun Pinar supervised the setting of notched poles to repel siege ladders, while Bar Britan oversaw the plugging of scores of pottery jugs containing oil. Once filled and plugged, the jugs were placed in wicker baskets at various points along the walls. The mood was grim. Few words were exchanged as men checked their weapons, sharpened already-sharp swords, oiled armour, or checked each shaft in their quivers.

Hogun and Bowman left the mess hall together, leaving Orrin and Caessa deep in conversation. They sat on the grass some twenty paces from the axman, Bowman lying on his side and resting on his elbow.

“I once read some fragments from the Book of Elders,” said the archer. “One line in particular strikes me now. ‘Come the moment, come the man.’ Never did a moment call for a man more desperately than this. And Druss has arrived. Providence, do you think?”

“Great gods, Bowman! You’re not turning superstitious, are you?” asked Hogun, grinning.

“I should say not. I merely wonder whether there is such a thing as fate that such a man should be supplied at such a time.”

Hogun plucked a stem of couch grass and placed it between his teeth. “All right, let us examine the argument. Can we hold for three months until Woundweaver gathers and trains his army?”

“No. Not with these few.”

“Then it matters not whether Druss’s arrival was a coincidence or otherwise. We may hold for a few more days because of his training, but that is not enough.”

“Morale is high, old horse, so best not repeat those sentiments.”

“Do you think me a fool? I will stand and die with Druss when the time comes, as will the other men. I share my thoughts with you because you will understand them. You are a realist, and moreover, you remain only until the third wall falls. With you I can be frank, surely.”

“Druss held Skeln Pass when all others said it would fall,” said Bowman.

“For eleven days—not three months. And he was fifteen years younger then. I don’t belittle what he did; he is worthy of his legends. Knights of Dros Delnoch! Have you ever seen such knights? Farmers, peasants, and raw recruits. Only the legion has seen real action, and they are trained for hit-and-run charges from horseback. We could fold on the first attack.”

“But we won’t, will we!” said Bowman, laughing. “We are Druss’s knights and the ingredients of a new legend.” His laughter sang out, rich and full of good humour. “Knights of Dros Delnoch! You and me, Hogun. They will sing about us in days to come. Good old Bowman, he came to the aid of an ailing fortress for love of liberty, freedom, and chivalry—”

“And gold. Don’t forget the gold,” said Hogun.

“A minor point, old horse. Let us not ruin the spirit of the thing.”

“Of course not. I do apologize. However, surely you have to die heroically before you can be immortalized in song and saga.”

“A moot point,” admitted Bowman. “But I’m sure I will find a way around it.”

Above them on Musif, Wall Two, several young culs were ordered to help fetch buckets for the tower well. Grumbling, they left the battlements to join the line of soldiers waiting by the stores.

Each armed with four wooden buckets, the men filed from the building toward the shallow cave beyond where the Musif well nestled in the cold shadows. Attaching the buckets to a complicated system of pulleys, they lowered them slowly toward the dark water below.

“How long is it since this has been used?” asked one soldier as the first bucket reappeared, covered in cobwebs.

“Probably about ten years,” answered the officer, Dun Garta. “The people who had homes here used the centre well. A child died in here once, and the well was polluted for over three months. That and the rats kept most people away.”

“Did they ever get the body out?” asked the cul.

“Not as I heard. But don’t worry, lad. It’s only bones by now and won’t affect the taste. Go on, try some.”

“Funnily enough, I don’t feel very thirsty.”

Garta laughed and dipped his hands into the bucket, lifting the water to his mouth.

“Spiced with rat droppings and garnished with dead spiders!” he said. “Are you sure you won’t have some?”

The men grinned, but none stepped forward.

“All right, the fun’s over,” said Garta. “The pulleys are working, the buckets are ready, and I should say the job’s done. So let’s lock the gate and get back to work.”

Garta awoke in the night, pain ripping at him like an angry rat trapped in his belly. As he rolled from the bed and struggled to rise, his groaning woke the other three men sharing the room. One of them rushed to his side.

“What is it, Garta?” he said, turning the writhing man onto his back. Garta drew up his knees, his face purple. His hand snaked out, grabbing the other’s shirt.

“The … water! Water!” He started to choke.

“He wants water!” yelled the man supporting him.

Garta shook his head. Suddenly his back arched as pain seared him.

“Great gods! He’s dead,” said his companion as Garta slumped in his arms.

19

Rek, Serbitar, Virae, and Vintar sat around a small campfire an hour before dawn. The camp had been made late the night before in a secluded hollow on the south side of a wooded hill.

“Time is short,” said Vintar. “The horses are exhausted, and it is at least a five-hour ride to the fortress. We might get there before the water is issued and we might not. Indeed, it may already be too late. But we do have one other choice.”

“Well, what is it?” said Rek.

“It must be your decision, Rek. None other can make it.”

“Just tell me, Abbot. I am too tired to think.”

Vintar exchanged glances with the albino.

“We can—the Thirty can—join forces and seek to pierce the barrier around the fortress.”

“Then try it,” said Rek. “Where is the problem?”

“It will take all our powers and may not succeed. If it does not, we will not have the strength to ride on. Indeed, even if we do succeed, we will need to rest for most of the day.”

“Do you think you can pierce the barrier?” said Virae.

“I do not know. We can only try.”

“Think what happened when Serbitar tried,” said Rek.

“You could all be hurled into the … whatever. What then?”

“We die,” answered Serbitar softly.

“And you say it is my choice?”

“Yes,” answered Vintar, “for the rule of the Thirty is a simple one. We have pledged our service to the master of Delnoch; you are that master.”

Rek was silent for several minutes, his weary brain numbed by the weight of the decision. He found himself thinking of so many other worries in his life that at the time had seemed momentous. There had never been a choice like this. His mind clouded with fatigue, and he could not concentrate.

“Do it!” he said. “Break the barrier.” Pushing himself to his feet, he walked away from the fire, ashamed that such an order should be forced from him at a time when he could not think clearly.

Virae joined him, her arm circling his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For what I said when you told me about the letter.”

“It doesn’t matter. Why should you think well of me?”

“Because you are a man and you act like one,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“To apologise, you dolt! You struck me.”

He pulled her to him, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her.

“That wasn’t an apology,” she said. “And you scratched my face with your stubble.”

“If I apologise, will you let me do it again?”

“Strike me, you mean?”

“No, kiss you!”

Back at the hollow the Thirty formed a circle around the fire, removing their swords and plunging them into the ground at their feet.

The communion began, their minds flowing, streaming into Vintar. He welcomed each by name in the halls of his subconscious.

And merged. The combined power rocked him, and he struggled to retain the memory of himself. He soared like a ghostly giant, a new being of incredible power. The tiny thing that was Vintar clung on inside the new colossus, forcing down the combined essence of twenty-nine personalities.

Now there was only one.

It called itself Temple and was born under the Delnoch stars.

Temple reared high under the clouds, stretching ethereal arms across the Delnoch crags.

He soared exultantly, new eyes drinking in the sights of the universe. Laughter welled within him. Vintar reeled at the centre, driving himself deeper into the core.

At last Temple became aware of the abbot, more as a tiny thought niggling at the edge of his new reality.

“Dros Delnoch. West.”

Temple flew west, high over the crags. Beneath him the fortress lay silent, grey, and ghostly in the moonlight. He sank toward it and sensed the barrier.

Barrier?

To him?

He struck at it—and was hurled into the night, angry and hurt. His eyes blazed, and he knew fury: The barrier had touched him with pain.

Again and again Temple launched himself toward the Dros, striking blows of fearful power. The barrier trembled and changed.

Temple drew back, confused, watching.

The barrier drew in on itself like swirling mist, reforming. Then it darkened into a thick plume, blacker than the night. Arms emerged, legs formed, and a horned head grew with seven slanted red eyes.

Temple had learned much during his few minutes of life.

Joy, freedom, and knowledge of life had come first. Then pain and fury.

Now he knew fear and gained the knowledge of evil.

His enemy flew at him, curving black talons slashing the sky. Temple met him head on, curling his arms around its back. Sharp teeth tore at his face, talons ripping his shoulders. His own huge fists locked together at the creature’s spine, drawing it in upon itself.

Below on Musif, Wall Two, three thousand men took up their positions. Despite all arguments, Druss had refused to surrender Wall One without a fight and waited there with six thousand men. Orrin had raged at him that such action was stupidity; the width of the wall made for an impossible task. Druss was obstinate even when Hogun backed Orrin.

“Trust me,” Druss urged them. But he lacked the words to convince them. He tried to explain that the men needed a small victory on the first day in order to hone that final edge to their morale.

“But the risk, Druss!” said Orrin. “We could lose on the first day. Can’t you see that?”

“You are the gan,” snarled Druss then. “You can overrule me if you wish.”

“But I will not, Druss. I will stand beside you on Eldibar.”

“And I,” said Hogun.

“You will see that I am right,” said Druss. “I promise you.”

Both men nodded, smiling to mask their despair.

Now the duty culs were queuing by the wells, gathering the water buckets and making their way along the battlements, stepping over the legs and bodies of men still sleeping.

On Wall One Druss dipped a copper dish into a bucket and drank deeply. He was not sure that the Nadir would attack that day. His instincts told him Ulric would allow another full day of murderous tension, the sight of his army preparing for battle draining the defenders of courage and sapping them of hope. Even so Druss had little choice. The move was Ulric’s: The Drenai would have to wait.

Above them Temple suffered the fury of the beast, his shoulders and back shredded, his strength fading. The horned creature was also weakening. Death faced them both.

Temple did not want to die, not after such a short bittersweet taste of life. He wanted to see at close hand all those things he had glimpsed from afar, the coloured lights of expanding stars, the silence at the centre of distant suns.

His grip tightened. There would be no joy in the lights, no thrill amid the silence if this thing was left alive behind him. Suddenly the creature screamed, a high terrible sound, eerie and chilling. Its back snapped, and it faded like mist.

Semiconscious within Temple’s soul, Vintar cried out.

Temple looked down, watching the men, tiny frail creatures, preparing to break their fast with dark bread and water. Vintar cried out again, and Temple’s brow furrowed.

He pointed his finger at the wall.

Men began to scream, hurling water cups and buckets from the Musif battlements. In each vessel black worms wriggled and swam. Now more men surged to their feet, milling and shouting.

“What the devil’s happening up there?” said Druss as the noise flowed down to him. He glanced down at the Nadir and saw that men were streaming back from the siege engines toward the tent city. “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Druss. “But even the Nadir are leaving. I’m going back to Musif.”

In the city of tents Ulric was no less angry as he shouldered his way through to the wide tent of Nosta Khan. His mind was icy calm as he confronted the sentry outside.

The news was spreading through the army like a steppe gorse fire: As dawn had broken, the tents of Nosta Khan’s sixty acolytes had been filled with soul-searing screams. Guards had rushed in to find men writhing broken-backed on the dirt floors, their bodies bent like overstrung bows.

Ulric knew that Nosta Khan had marshalled his followers, drawing on their combined power to thwart the white templars, but he had never truly understood the appalling dangers.

“Well?” he asked the sentry.

“Nosta Khan is alive,” the man told him.

Ulric lifted the flap and stepped into the stench of Nosta Khan’s home. The old man lay on a narrow pallet bed, his face grey with exhaustion, his skin bathed in sweat. Ulric pulled up a stool and sat beside him.

“My acolytes?” whispered Nosta Khan.

“All dead.”

“They were too strong, Ulric,” said the old man. “I have failed you.”

“Men have failed me before,” said Ulric. “It matters not.”

“It matters to me!” shouted the shaman, wincing as the effort stretched his back.

“Pride,” said Ulric. “You have lost nothing; you have merely been beaten by a stronger enemy. It will avail them little, for my army will still take the Dros. They cannot hold. Rest yourself—and take no risks, shaman. I order it!”

“I will obey.”

“I know that. I do not wish you to die. Will they come for you?”

“No. The white templars are filled with notions of honour. If I rest, they will leave me be.”

“Then rest. And when you are strong, we will make them pay for your hurt.”

Nosta Khan grinned. “Aye.”

Far to the south Temple soared toward the stars. Vintar could not stop him and fought to stay calm as Temple’s panic washed over him, seeking to dislodge him. With the death of the enemy, Vintar had tried to summon the Thirty from within the new mind of the colossus. In that moment Temple looked inside himself and discovered Vintar.

Vintar had tried to explain his presence and the need for Temple to relinquish his individuality. Temple absorbed the truth and fled from it like a comet, seeking the heavens.

The abbot again tried to summon Serbitar, seeking the niche in which he had placed him in the halls of his subconscious. The spark of life that was the albino blossomed under the abbot’s probing, and Temple shuddered, feeling as if part of himself had been cut free. He slowed in his flight.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked Vintar.

“Because I must.”

“I will die!”

“No. You will live in all of us.”

“Why must you kill me?”

“I am truly sorry,” said Vintar gently. With Serbitar’s aid he sought Arbedark and Menahem. Temple shrank, and Vintar closed his heart with grief to the overwhelming despair. The four warriors summoned the other members of the Thirty and with heavy hearts returned to the hollows.

Rek hurried across to Vintar as the abbot opened his eyes and moved.

“Were you in time?” he asked.

“Yes,” muttered Vintar wearily. “Let me rest now.”

It was an hour short of dusk when Rek, Virae, and the Thirty rode under the great portcullis gate set beneath the Delnoch keep. Their horses were weary, lather-covered, and wet-flanked. Men rushed to greet Virae, soldiers doffing helms and citizens asking for news from Drenan. Rek stayed in the background until they were inside the keep. A young officer escorted the Thirty to the barracks while Rek and Virae made their way to the topmost rooms. Rek was exhausted.

Stripping off his clothes, he bathed himself with cold water and then shaved, removing the four-day stubble and cursing as the keen razor—a gift from Horeb—nicked his skin. He shook most of the dust from his garments and dressed once more. Virae had gone to her own rooms, and he had no idea where they were. Strapping on his sword belt, he made his way back to the main hall, stopping twice to ask servants the way. Once there, he sat alone, gazing at the marble statues of ancient heroes. He felt lost: insignificant and overpowered.

As soon as they had arrived, they had heard the news that the Nadir horde was before the walls. There was a tangible air of panic among the townsfolk, and they had seen refugees leaving by the score with carts piled high, a long, sorrowful convoy heading south.

Rek was unsure whether tiredness or hunger was predominant in him at that moment. He heaved himself to his feet, swayed slightly, then cursed loudly. Near the door was a full-length oval mirror. As he stood before it, the man who stared back at him appeared tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful. His grey-blue eyes were purposeful
, his chin strong, his body lean. The blue cape, though travel-worn, still hung well, and the thigh-length doeskin boots gave him the look of a cavalry officer.

As Rek gazed at the Earl of Dros Delnoch, he saw himself as others would see him. They were not to know of his inner doubts and would see only the image he had created.

So be it.

He left the hall and stopped the first soldier he met to ask him where Druss was to be found. Wall One, the soldier said, and described the location of the postern gates. The tall young earl set out for Eldibar as the sun sank; going through the town, he stopped to buy a small loaf of honey cake, which he ate as he walked. It was growing darker as he reached the postern gate of Wall Two, but a sentry showed him the way through and at last he entered the killing ground behind Wall One. Clouds obscured the moon, and he almost fell into the fire pit that stretched across the pass. A young soldier hailed him and showed him the first wooden bridge across it.

“One of Bowman’s archers, are you?” asked the soldier, not recognizing the tall stranger.

“No. Where is Druss?”

“I have no idea. He could be on the battlements, or you might try the mess hall. Messenger, are you?”

“No. Which is the mess hall?”

“See the lights over there? That’s the hospital. Past there is the storeroom; keep walking until you hit the smell of the latrines, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. Recruit, are you?”

“Yes,” said Rek. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’d better come with you.”

“There is no need.”

“Yes, there is,” said the man, and Rek felt something sharp in the small of his back. “This is a Ventrian dagger, and I suggest you just walk along with me for a short way.”

“What’s the point of all this?”

“First, someone tried to kill Druss the other day, and second, I don’t know you,” said the man. “So walk on and we will find him together.”

The two men moved on toward the mess hall. Now that they were closer, they could hear the sounds from the buildings ahead. A sentry hailed them from the battlements; the soldier answered, then asked for Druss.

“He’s on the wall near the gate tower,” came the answer.

“This way,” said the soldier, and Rek climbed the short steps to the battlement walls. Then he stopped dead. On the plain thousands of torches and small fires illuminated the Nadir army. Siege towers straddled the pass like wooden giants from mountain wall to mountain wall. The whole valley was lit as far as the eye could see; it was like a view of the second level of hell itself.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” said the soldier.

“I don’t think it will look any better by daylight,” said Rek.

“You are not wrong,” agreed the other. “Let’s move.”

Ahead of them Druss was seated on the battlements, talking to a small group of soldiers. He was telling a wonderfully embroidered tall story that Rek had heard before. The punch line evoked the desired effect, and the night silence was broken by the sound of laughter.

Druss laughed heartily with the men, then noticed the newcomers. He turned and studied the tall man in the blue cape.

“Well?” he asked the soldier.

“He was looking for you, Captain, so I brought him along.”

“To be more precise,” said Rek, “he thought I might be an assassin. Hence the dagger behind me.”

Druss raised an eyebrow. “Well, are you an assassin?”

“Not recently. Can we talk?”

“We appear to be doing just that.”

“Privately.”

“You start talking and I will decide how private it is to be,” said Druss.

“My name is Regnak. I have just arrived with warriors from the temple of the Thirty and Virae, the daughter of Delnar.”

“We will talk privately,” decided Druss. The men wandered away out of earshot.

“So speak,” said Druss, his cold grey eyes fixed on Rek’s face.

Rek seated himself on the battlement wall and stared out over the glowing valley.

“A little on the large side, isn’t it?”

“Scare you, does it?”

“To the soles of my boots. However, you’re obviously in no mood to make this an easy meeting, so I will simply spell out my position. For better or worse, I am the earl. I’m not a fool, nor yet a general, though often the two are synonymous. As yet I will make no changes. But bear this in mind … I will take a backseat to no man when decisions are needed.”

“You think that bedding an earl’s daughter gives you that right?” asked Druss.

“You know it does! But that’s not the point. I have fought before, and my understanding of strategy is as sound as that of any man here. Added to that, I have the Thirty, and their knowledge is second to none. But even more important, if I have to die at this forsaken place, it will not be as a bystander. I shall control my own fate.”

“You seek to take a lot on yourself, laddie.”

“No more than I can handle.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No,” said Rek frankly.

“I didn’t think you did,” said Druss with a grin. “What the hell made you come here?”

“I think fate has a sense of humour.”

“She always had in my day. But you look like a sensible young fellow. You should have taken the girl to Lentria and set up home there.”

“Druss, nobody takes Virae anywhere she does not want to go. She has been reared on war and talk of war; she can cite all your legends and the facts behind every campaign you ever fought. She’s an Amazon, and this is where she wants to be.”

“How did you meet?”

Rek told him about the ride from Drenan, through Skultik, the death of Reinard, the temple of the Thirty, the shipboard wedding, and the battle with the Sathuli. The old man listened to the straightforward story without comment.

“And here we are,” concluded Rek.

“So you’re baresark,” said Druss.

“I didn’t say that!” retorted Rek.

“But you did, laddie—by not saying it. It doesn’t matter. I have fought beside many such. I am only surprised the Sathuli let you go; they’re not known for being an honorable race.”

“I think their leader—Joachim—is an exception. Listen, Druss, I would be obliged if you could keep quiet about the baresark side.”

Druss laughed. “Don’t be a fool, boy! How long do you think it will stay a secret once the Nadir are on the walls? You stick by me and I will see that you don’t swat anyone from our side.”

“That’s good of you, but I think you could be a little more hospitable. I’m as dry as a vulture’s armpit.”

“There is no doubt,” said Druss, “that talking works up more of a thirst than fighting. Come on, we will find Hogun and Orrin. This is the last night before the battle, so it calls for a party.”

20

As the dawn sky lightened on the morning of the third day, the first realities of apocalypse hammered home on the walls of Dros Delnoch. Hundreds of ballistae arms were pulled back by thousands of sweating warriors. Muscles bunching and knotting, the Nadir drew back the giant arms until the wicker baskets at their heads were almost horizontal. Each basket was loaded with a block of jagged granite.

The defenders watched in frozen horror as a Nadir captain raised his arm. The arm swept down, and the air became filled with a deadly rain that crashed and thundered amid and around the defenders. The battlements shook as the boulders fell. By the gate tower, three men were smashed to oblivion as a section of crenelated battlement exploded under the impact of one huge rock. Along the wall men cowered, hurling themselves flat, hands over their heads. The noise was frightening; the silence that followed was terrifying. For as the first thunderous assault ceased and soldiers raised their heads to gaze below, it was only to see the same process being casually repeated. Back and farther back went the massive wooden arms. Up went the captain’s hand. Down it went.

And the rain of death bore down.

Rek, Druss, and Serbitar stood above the gate tower, enduring the first horror of war along with the men. Rek had refused to allow the old warrior to stand alone, though Orrin had warned that for both leaders to stand together was lunacy. Druss had laughed. “You and the lady Virae shall watch from the second wall, my friend. And you will see that no Nadir pebble can lay me low.”

Virae, furious, had insisted that she be allowed to wait on the first wall with the others, but Rek had summarily refused. An argument was swiftly ended by Druss: “Obey your husband, woman!” he thundered. Rek had winced at that, closing his eyes against the expected outburst. Strangely, Virae had merely nodded and retired to Musif, Wall Two, to stand beside Hogun and Orrin.

Now Rek crouched by Druss and gazed left and right along the wall. Swords and spears in hand, the men of Dros Delnoch waited grimly for the deadly storm to cease.

During the second reloading Druss ordered half the men back to stand beneath the second wall, out of range of the catapults. There they joined Bowman’s archers.

For three hours the assault continued, pulverizing sections of the wall, butchering men, and obliterating one overhanging tower, which collapsed under the titanic impact and crumbled slowly into the valley below. Most of the men leapt to safety, and only four were carried screaming over the edge to be broken on the rocks below.

Stretcher-bearers braved the barrage to carry wounded men back to the Eldibar field hospital. Several rocks had hit the building, but it was solidly built and so far none had broken through. Bar Britan, black-bearded and powerful, raced alongside the bearers with sword in hand, urging them on.

“Gods, that’s bravery!” said Rek, nudging Druss and pointing. Druss nodded, noting Rek’s obvious pride at the man’s courage. Rek’s heart went out to Britan as the man ignored the lethal storm.

At least fifty men had been stretchered away. Fewer than Druss had feared. He raised himself to stare over the battlements.

“Soon,” he said. “They are massing behind the siege towers.”

A boulder crashed through the wall ten paces away from Druss, scattering men like sand in the wind. Miraculously, only one failed to rise, the rest re-joining their comrades. Druss raised his arm to signal Orrin. A trumpet sounded, and Bowman and the rest of the men surged forward. Each archer carried five quivers of twenty arrows as they raced across the open ground, over the fire-gully bridges, and on toward the battlements.

With a roar of hate almost tangible to the defenders, the Nadir swept toward the wall in a vast black mass, a dark tide set to sweep the Dros before it. Thousands of the barbarians began to haul the huge siege towers forward, while others ran with ladders and ropes. The plain before the walls seemed alive as the Nadir poured forward, screaming their battle cries.

Breathless and panting, Bowman arrived to stand beside Druss, Rek, and Serbitar. The outlaws spread out along the wall.

“Shoot when you’re ready,” said Druss. The green-clad outlaw swept a slender hand through his blond hair and grinned.

“We can hardly miss,” he said. “But it will be like spitting into a storm.”

“Every little bit helps,” said the axman.

Bowman strung his yew bow and notched an arrow. To the left and right of him the move was repeated a thousand times. Bowman sighted on a leading warrior and released the string, the shaft slashing the air to slice and hammer through the man’s leather jerkin. As he stumbled and fell, a ragged cheer went up along the wall. A thousand arrows followed, then another thousand and another. Many Nadir warriors carried shields, but many did not. Hundreds fell as the arrows struck, tripping the men behind. But still the black mass kept coming, trampling the wounded and dead beneath them.

Armed with his Vagrian bow, Rek loosed shaft after shaft into the horde, his lack of skill an irrelevant factor since, as Bowman had said, one could hardly miss. The arrows were a barbed mockery of the clumsy ballistae attack so recently used against them. But they were taking a heavier toll.

The Nadir were close enough now for individual faces to be clearly seen. Rough-looking men, thought Rek, but tough and hardy, raised to war and blood. Many of them lacked armour, others wore mail shirts, but most were clad in black breastplates of lacquered leather and wood. Their screaming battle cries were almost bestial. No words could be heard; only their hate could be felt. Like the angry scream of some vast, inchoate monster, thought Rek as the familiar sensation of fear gripped his belly.

Serbitar raised his helm visor and leaned over the battlements, ignoring the few arrows that flashed up and by him.

“The ladder men have reached the walls,” he said softly.

Druss turned to Rek. “The last time I stood beside an Earl of Dros Delnoch in battle, we carved a legend,” he said.

“The odd thing about sagas,” offered Rek, “is that they very rarely mention dry mouths and full bladders.”

A grappling hook whistled over the wall.

“Any last words of advice?” asked Rek, dragging his sword free from its scabbard.

Druss grinned, drawing Snaga. “Live!” he said.

More grappling irons rattled over the walls, jerking taut instantly and biting into the stone as hundreds of hands applied pressure below. Frantically the defenders lashed razor-edged blades at the vine ropes until Druss bellowed at the men to stop.

“Wait until they’re climbing!” he shouted. “Don’t kill ropes—kill men!”

Serbitar, a student of war since he was thirteen, watched the progress of the siege towers with detached fascination. The obvious idea was to get as many men on the walls as possible by using ropes and ladders and then to pull in the towers. The carnage below among the men pulling the tower ropes was horrific as Bowman and his archers peppered them with shafts. But more always rushed in to fill the places of the dead and dying.

On the walls, despite the frenzied slashing of ropes, the sheer numbers of hooks and throwers had enabled the first Nadir warriors to gain the battlements.

Hogun, with five thousand men on Musif, Wall Two, was sorely tempted to forget his orders and race to the aid of Wall One. But he was a professional soldier, reared on obedience, and he stood his ground.

Tsubodai waited at the bottom of the rope as the tribesmen slowly climbed above him. A body hurtled by him to splinter on the jagged rocks, and blood splashed his lacquered leather breastplate. He grinned, recognizing the twisted features of Nestzan, the race runner.

“He had it coming to him,” he said to the man beside him. “Now, if he’d been able to run as fast as he fell, I wouldn’t have lost so much money!”

Above them the climbing men had stopped now as the Drenai defenders forced the attackers back toward the ramparts. Tsubodai looked up at the man ahead of him.

“How long are you going to hang there, Nakrash?” he called. The man twisted his body and looked down.

“It’s these Green Steppe dung eaters,” he shouted. “They couldn’t gain a foothold on a cowpat.”

Tsubodai laughed happily, stepping away from the rope to see how the other climbers were moving. All along the wall it was the same: the climbing had stopped, the sounds of battle echoing down from above. As bodies crashed to the rocks around him, he dived back into the lee of the wall.

“We’ll be down here all day,” he said. “The Khan should have sent the Wolfshead in first. These Greens were useless at Gulgothir, and they’re even worse here.”

His companion grinned and shrugged. “Line’s moving again,” he said.

Tsubodai grasped the knotted rope and pulled himself up beneath Nakrash. He had a good feeling about today. Maybe he could win the horses Ulric had promised to the warrior who would cut down the old greybeard everyone was talking about.

“Deathwalker.” A potbellied old man without a shield.

“Tsubodai,” called Nakrash. “You don’t die today, hey? Not while you still owe me on that footrace.”

“Did you see Nestzan fall?” Tsubodai shouted back. “Like an arrow. You should have seen him swinging his arms. As if he wanted to push the ground away from him.”

“I’ll be watching you. Don’t die, do you hear me?”

“You watch yourself. I’ll pay you with Deathwalker’s horses.”

As the men climbed higher, more tribesmen filled the rope beneath him. Tsubodai glanced down.

“Hey, you!” he called. “Not a lice-ridden Green, are you?”

“From the smell you must be Wolfshead,” replied the climber, grinning.

Nakrash scaled the battlements, dragging his sword clear and then turning to pull Tsubodai alongside him. The attackers had forced a wedge through the Drenai line, and still neither Tsubodai nor Nakrash could join the action.

“Move away! Make room!” called the man behind them.

“You wait there goat breath,” said Tsubodai. “I’ll just ask the round eyes to help you over. Hey, Nakrash, stretch those long legs of yours and tell me where Deathwalker is.”

Nakrash pointed to the right. “I think you will soon get a chance at those horses. He looks closer than before.” Tsubodai leapt lightly to the ramparts, straining to see the old man in action.

“Those Greens are just stepping up and asking for his axe, the fools.” But no one heard him above the clamour.

The thick wedge of men ahead of them was thinning fast, and Nakrash leapt into a gap and slashed open the throat of a Drenai soldier who was trying desperately to free his sword from a Nadir belly. Tsubodai was soon beside him, hacking and cutting at the tall round-eyed southerners.

Battle lust swept over Tsubodai, as it had during ten years of warfare under Ulric’s banner. He had been a youngster when the first battle had begun, tending his father’s goats on the granite steppes far to the north. Ulric had been a war leader for only a few years at that time. He had subdued the Long Monkey tribe and offered its men the chance to ride with his forces under their own banner. They had refused and died to a man. Tsubodai remembered that day: Ulric had personally tied their chieftain to two horses and ordered him torn apart. Eight hundred men had been beheaded, and their armour handed over to youngsters like Tsubodai.

On the next raid he had taken part in the first charge. Ulric’s brother, Gat-sun, had praised him highly and given him a shield of stretched cowhide edged with brass. He had lost it in a knucklebone game the same night, but he still remembered the gift with affection. Poor Gat-sun! Ulric had had him executed the following year for trying to lead a rebellion. Tsubodai had ridden against him and had been among the loudest to cheer as his head fell. Now, with seven wives and forty horses Tsubodai was, by any reckoning, a rich man. And still to see thirty.

Surely the gods loved him.

A spear grazed his shoulder. His sword snaked out, half severing the arm. Oh, how the gods loved him! He blocked a slashing cut with his shield.

Nakrash came to his rescue, disembowelling the attacker, who fell screaming to the ground to vanish beneath the feet of the warriors pushing from behind.

To his right the Nadir line gave way, and he was pushed back as Nakrash took a spear in the side. Tsubodai’s blade slashed the air, taking the lancer high in the neck; blood spurted, and the man fell back. Tsubodai glanced at Nakrash, lying at his feet writhing, his hands grasping the slippery lance shaft.

Leaning down, he pulled his friend clear of the action. There was nothing more he could do, for Nakrash was dying. It was a shame and put a pall on the day for the little tribesman. Nakrash had been a good companion for the last two years. Looking up, he saw a black-garbed figure with a white beard cleaving his way forward, a terrible axe of silver steel in his blood-splashed hands.

Tsubodai forgot about Nakrash in an instant. All he could see were Ulric’s horses. He pushed forward to meet the axe-man, watching his movements, his technique. He moved well for one so old, thought Tsubodai as the old man blocked a murderous cut and backhanded his axe across the face of a tribesman, who was hurled screaming over the battlements.

Tsubodai leapt forward, aiming a straight thrust for the old man’s belly. From then on it seemed to him that the scene was taking place under water. The white-bearded warrior turned his blue eyes on Tsubodai, and a chill of terror seeped into his blood. The axe seemed to float against his sword blade, sweeping the thrust aside, then the blade reversed and with an agonizing lack of speed cleaved Tsubodai’s chest.

His body slammed back into the ramparts and slid down to rest beside Nakrash. Looking down, he saw bright blood replaced by dark arterial gore. He pushed his hand into the gash, wincing as a broken rib twisted under his fist.

“Tsubodai?” said Nakrash softly. Somehow the sound carried to him.

He hunched his body over his friend, resting his head on his chest.

“I hear you, Nakrash.”

“You almost had the horses. Very close.”

“Damn good, that old man, hey?” said Tsubodai.

The noise of the battle receded. Tsubodai realized it had been replaced by a roaring in his ears, like the sea gathering shingle.

He remembered the gift Gat-sun had given him and the way he had spit in Ulric’s eye on the day of his execution.

Tsubodai grinned. He had liked Gat-sun.

He wished he had not cheered so loudly.

He wished …

Druss hacked at a rope and turned to face a Nadir warrior who was scrambling over the wall. Batting aside a sword thrust, he split the man’s skull, then stepped over the body and tackled a second warrior, gutting him with a backhand slash. Age vanished from him now. He was where he was always meant to be—at the heart of a savage battle. Behind him Rek and Serbitar fought as a pair, the slim albino’s slender rapier and Rek’s heavy longsword cutting and slashing.

Druss was joined now by several Drenai warriors, and they cleared their section of the wall. Along the wall on both sides similar moves were being repeated as the five thousand warriors held. The Nadir could feel it, too, as slowly the Drenai inched them back. The tribesmen fought with renewed determination, cutting and killing with savage skill. They had only to hold on until the siege tower ledges touched the walls, then thousands more of their comrades could swarm in to reinforce them. And they were but a few yards away.

Druss glanced behind. Bowman and his archers were fifty paces back, sheltering behind small fires that had been hastily lit. Druss raised his arm and waved at Hogun, who ordered a trumpet sounded.

Along the wall several hundred men pulled back from the fighting to gather up wax-sealed clay pots and hurl them at the advancing towers. Pottery smashed against wooden frames, splashing dark liquid to stain the wood.

Gilad, with sword in one hand and clay pot in the other, parried a thrust from a swarthy axman, crashed his sword into the other’s face, and threw his globe. He just had time to see it shatter in the open doorway at the top of the tower, where Nadir warriors massed, before two more invaders pressed forward to tackle him. The first he gutted with a stabbing thrust, only to find his sword trapped in the depths of the dying man’s belly. The second attacker screamed and slashed at Gilad, who released his grip on his sword hilt and leapt backward. Instantly another Drenai warrior intercepted the Nadir, blocked his attack, and all but beheaded him with a reverse stroke. Gilad tore his sword free of the Nadir corpse and smiled his thanks to Bregan.

“Not bad for a farmer!” yelled Gilad, forcing his way back into the battle and slicing through the guard of a bearded warrior carrying an iron-pitted club.

“Now, Bowman!” shouted Druss.

The outlaws notched arrows whose tips were partially covered by oil-soaked cloth and held them over the flames of the fires. Once the arrows were burning, they fired them over the battlements to thud into the siege tower walls. Flames sprang up instantly, and black smoke, dense and suffocating, was whipped upward by the morning breeze. One flaming arrow flashed through the open doorway of the tower where Gilad’s globe of oil had struck to pierce the leg of a Nadir warrior whose clothes were oil-drenched. Within seconds the man was a writhing, screaming human torch, blundering into his comrades and setting them ablaze.

More clay pots sailed through the air to feed the flames on the twenty towers, and the terrible stench of burning flesh was swept over the walls by the breeze.

With the smoke burning his eyes, Serbitar moved among the Nadir, his sword weaving an eldritch spell. Effortlessly he slew, a killing machine of deadly, awesome power. A tribesman reared up behind him, knife raised, but Serbitar twisted and opened the man’s throat in one smooth motion.

“Thank you, Brother,” he pulsed to Arbedark on Wall Two.

Rek, while lacking Serbitar’s grace and lethal speed, used his sword to no less effect, gripping it two-handed to bludgeon his way to victory beside Druss. A hurled knife glanced from his breastplate, slicing the skin over his bicep. He cursed and ignored the pain as he ignored other minor injuries received that day: the gashed thigh and the ribs bruised by a Nadir javelin that had been turned aside by his breastplate and mail shirt.

Five Nadir burst through the defences and raced on toward the defenceless stretcher-bearers. Bowman skewered the first from forty paces, and Caessa the second, then Bar Britan raced to intercept them with two of his men. The battle was brief and fierce, the blood from Nadir corpses staining the earth.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a change was coming over the battle. Fewer tribesmen were gaining the walls, for their comrades had been forced back to the battlements and there was little room to gain purchase. The Nadir now fought not to conquer but to survive. The tide of war—fickle at best—had turned, and they had become the defenders.

But the Nadir were grim men and brave. For they neither cried out nor sought to surrender but stood their ground and died fighting.

One by one they fell, until the last of the warriors was swept from the battlements to lie broken on the rocks below.

Silently now the Nadir army retired from the field, stopping out of bowshot range to slump to the ground and stare back at the Dros with dull, unremitting hatred. Black plumes of smoke rose from the smouldering towers, and the stink of death filled their nostrils.

Rek leaned on the battlements and rubbed his face with a bloodied hand. Druss walked forward, wiping Snaga clean with a piece of torn cloth. Blood flecked the iron grey of the old man’s beard, and he smiled at the new earl.

“You took my advice then, laddie?”

“Only just,” said Rek. “Still, we didn’t do too badly today.”

“This was just a sortie. The real test will come tomorrow.”

Druss was wrong. Three times more the Nadir attacked that day before dusk sent them back to their campfires, dejected and temporarily defeated. On the battlements weary men slumped to the bloody ground, tossing aside helmets and shields. Stretcher-bearers carried wounded men from the scene, while the corpses were left to lie for the time being, their needs no longer being urgent. Three teams were detailed to check the bodies of Nadir warriors. The dead were hurled from the battlements, and the living were dispatched with speed, their bodies pitched to the plain below.

Druss rubbed his tired eyes. His shoulder burned with fatigue, his knee was swollen, and his limbs felt leaden. But he had come through the day better than he had hoped. He glanced around. Some men lay sprawled asleep on the stone. Others merely sat with their backs to the walls, eyes glazed and minds wandering. There was little conversation. Farther along the wall the young earl was talking to the albino. They had both fought well, and the albino seemed fresh; only the blood that spattered his white cloak and breastplate gave evidence of his day’s work. Regnak, though, seemed tired enough for both. His face, gray with exhaustion, looked older, the lines more deeply carved. Dust, blood, and sweat merged together on his features, and a rough bandage on his forearm was beginning to drip blood to the stones.

“You’ll do, laddie,” said Druss softly.

“Druss, old horse, how are you feeling?” Bowman asked.

“I have had better days,” snarled the old man, lurching upright and gritting his teeth against the pain from his knee. The young archer almost made the mistake of offering Druss an arm to lean on but checked himself in time. “Come and see Caessa,” he said.

“About the last thing I need now is a woman. I’ll get some sleep,” answered Druss. “Just here will be fine.” With his back to the wall, he slid gently to the ground, keeping his injured knee straight. Bowman turned and walked back to the mess hall, where he found Caessa and explained the problem. After a short argument she gathered some linen while Bowman sought a jug of water, and in the gathering twilight they walked back to the battlements. Druss was asleep, but he awoke as they approached him.

The girl was a beauty, no doubt about that. Her hair was auburn but gold-tinted in the moonlight, matching the tawny flecks in her eyes. She stirred his blood as few women had the power to do now. But there was something else about her, something unattainable. She crouched down by him, her slender fingers probing gently at the swollen knee. Druss grunted as she dug more deeply. Then she removed his boot and rolled up the trouser leg. The knee was discoloured and puffy, the veins in the calf below swollen and tender.

“Lie back,” she told him. Moving alongside him, left hand curled around his thigh, she lifted the leg and held his ankle in her right hand. Slowly she flexed the joint.

“There is water on the knee,” she said as she set down his leg and began to massage the joint. Druss closed his eyes. The sharpness of the pain receded to a dull ache. The minutes passed, and he dozed. She woke him with a light slap on the calf, and he found his knee was tightly bandaged.

“What other problems do you have?” she asked coolly.

“None,” he said.

“Don’t lie to me, old man. Your life depends on it.”

“My shoulder burns,” he admitted.

“You can walk now. Come with me to the hospital, and I will ease the pain.” She gestured to Bowman, who leaned forward and helped the axman to his feet. The knee felt good, better than it had in weeks.

“You have real skill, woman,” he said. “Real skill.”

“I know. Walk slowly—it will feel a little sore by the time we get there.”

In a side room at the hospital she told him to remove his clothes. Bowman smiled and leaned back against the door with arms folded across his chest.

“All of them?” asked Druss.

“Yes. Are you shy?”

“Not if you’re not,” said Druss, slipping from his jerkin and shirt, then sitting on the bed to remove his trousers and boots.

“Now what?” he asked.

Caessa stood before him, examining him critically, running her hands over his broad shoulders and probing his muscles.

“Stand up,” she told him, “and turn around.” He did so, and she scrutinized his back. “Move your right arm above your head—slowly.” As the examination continued, Bowman watched the old warrior, marvelling at the number of scars he carried. Everywhere: front and back; some long and straight, others jagged; some stitched, others blotchy and overlapped. His legs, too, showed evidence of many light wounds. But by far the greatest number was in the front. Bowman smiled. You have always faced your enemies, Druss, he thought.

Caessa told the warrior to lie on the bed facedown and began to manipulate the muscles of his back, easing out knots and pummelling crystals under the shoulder blades.

“Get me some oil,” she asked Bowman without looking around. He fetched liniment from the stores, then left the girl to her work. For over an hour she massaged the old man, until at last her arms burned with fatigue. Druss had fallen asleep long since, and she covered him with a blanket and silently left the room. In the corridor outside she stood for a moment, listening to the cries of the wounded in the makeshift wards and watching the orderlies assisting the surgeons. The smell of death was strong here, and she made her way out into the night.

The stars were bright, like frozen snowflakes on a velvet blanket, the moon a bright silver coin at the centre. She shivered. Ahead of her a tall man in black and silver armour strode toward the mess hall. It was Hogun. He saw her and waved, changed direction, and came toward her. She cursed under her breath; she was tired and in no mood for male company.

“How is he?” asked Hogun.

“Tough!” she said.

“I know that, Caessa. The whole world knows it. But how is he?”

“He’s old, and he’s tired—exhausted. And that’s after only one day. Don’t pin too many hopes on him. He has a knee which could collapse under him at any time, a bad back which will grow worse, and too many crystals in too many joints.”

“You paint a pessimistic picture,” said the general.

“I tell it as it is. It is a miracle that he’s alive tonight. I cannot see how a man of his age, with the physical injuries he’s carrying, could fight all day and survive.”

“And he went where the fighting was thickest,” said Hogun. “As he will do tomorrow.”

“If you want him to survive, make sure he rests the day after.”

“He will never stand for it,” said Hogun.

“Yes, he will. He may get through tomorrow—and that I doubt. But by tomorrow night he will hardly be able to move his arm. I will help him, but he will need to rest one day in three. And an hour before dawn tomorrow I want a hot tub set up in his room here. I will massage him again before the battle begins.”

“You’re spending a lot of time over a man whom you described as old and tired and whose deeds you mocked only a short time since.”

“Don’t be a fool, Hogun. I am spending this time with him because he is old and tired, and though I do not hold him in the same reverence as you, I can see that the men need him. Hundreds of little boys playing at soldiers to impress an old man who thrives on war.”

“I will see that he rests after tomorrow,” said Hogun.

“If he survives,” Caessa added grimly.

21

By midnight the final toll for the first day’s battle was known. Four hundred seven men were dead. One hundred sixty-eight were wounded, and half of those would not fight again.

The surgeons were still working, and the head count was being double-checked. Many Drenai warriors had fallen from the battlements during the fighting, and only a complete roll call would supply their numbers.

Rek was horrified, though he tried not to show it during the meeting with Hogun and Orrin in the study above the great hall. There were seven present at the meeting: Hogun and Orrin representing the warriors, Bricklyn for the townsfolk, and Serbitar, Vintar, and Virae. Rek had managed to snatch four hours sleep and felt fresher for it; the albino had slept not at all and seemed no different.

“These are grievous losses for one day’s fighting,” said Bricklyn. “At that rate we could not hold out for more than two weeks.” His greying hair was styled after the fashion of the Drenai court, swept back over his ears and tightly curled at the nape of the neck. His face, though fleshy, was handsome, and he had a highly practiced charm. The man was a politician and therefore not to be relied upon, thought Rek.

Serbitar answered Bricklyn. “Statistics mean nothing on the first day,” he said. “The wheat is being separated from the chaff.”

“What does that mean, Prince of Dros Segril?” asked the burgher, the question more sharp in the absence of his usual smile.

“No disrespect was intended to the dead,” replied Serbitar. “It is merely a reality in war that the men with the least skill are those first to fall. Losses are always greater at the outset. The men fought well, but many of the dead lacked skill—that is why they are dead. The losses will diminish, but they will still be high.”

“Should we not concern ourselves with what is tolerable?” asked the burgher, turning to Rek. “After all, if we should believe that the Nadir will breach the walls eventually, what is the point of continued resistance? Are lives worth nothing?”

“Are you suggesting surrender?” asked Virae.

“No, my lady,” replied Bricklyn smoothly. “That is for the warriors to decide, and I will back any decision they make. But I believe we must examine alternatives. Four hundred men died today, and they should be honoured for their sacrifice. But what of tomorrow? And the day after. We must be careful that we do not put pride before reality.”

“What is he talking about?” Virae asked Rek. “I cannot understand any of it.”

“What are these alternatives you speak of?” said Rek. “As I see it, there are only two. We fight and win, or we fight and lose.”

“These are the plans uppermost at this time,” said Bricklyn. “But we must think of the future. Do we believe we can hold out here? If so, we must fight on by all means. But if not, then we must pursue an honourable peace, as other nations have done.”

“What is an honourable peace?” asked Hogun softly.

“It is where enemies become friends and quarrels are forgotten. It is where we receive the Lord Ulric into the city as an ally to Drenan, having first obtained from him the promise that no harm will come to the inhabitants. Ultimately all wars are so concluded, as evidenced by the presence here of Serbitar, a Vagrian price. Thirty years ago we were at war with Vagria. Now we are friends. In thirty years time we may have meetings like this with Nadir princes. We must establish perspectives here.”

“I take your point,” said Rek, “and it is a good one.”

“You may think so. Others may not!” snapped Virae.

“It is a good one,” continued Rek smoothly. “These meetings are no place for sabre-rattling speeches. We must, as you say, examine realities. The first reality is this: We are well trained, well supplied, and we hold the mightiest fortress ever built. The second reality is that Magnus Woundweaver needs time to train and build an army to resist the Nadir even if Delnoch falls. There is no point in discussing surrender at this time, but we will bear it in mind for future meetings.

“Now, is there any other town business to discuss, for the hour is late and we have kept you overly long, my dear Bricklyn?”

“No, my lord. I think we have concluded our business,” answered the burgher.

“Then may I thank you for your help—and your sage counsel—and bid you good night.”

The burgher stood, bowed to Rek and Virae, and left the room. For several seconds they listened to his departing footsteps. Virae, flushed and angry, was about to speak when Serbitar broke the silence.

“That was well said, my lord Earl. He will be a thorn in our side.”

“He is a political animal,” said Rek. “He cares nothing for morality, honour, or pride. But he has his place and his uses. What of tomorrow, Serbitar?”

“The Nadir will begin with at least three hours of ballistae bombardment. Since they cannot advance their army while such an assault is in progress, I would suggest we retire all but fifty men to Musif an hour before dawn. When the barrage ceases, we will move forward.”

“And what,” said Orrin, “if they launch their second assault at dawn? They will be over the walls before our force can reach the battlements.”

“They do not plan such a move,” said the albino simply.

Orrin was unconvinced but felt uncomfortable in the presence of Serbitar. Rek noted his concern.

“Believe me, my friend, the Thirty have powers beyond the ken of normal men. If he says it, then it is so.”

“We shall see, my lord,” said Orrin doubtfully.

“How is Druss?” asked Virae. “He looked quite exhausted when I saw him at dusk.”

“The woman Caessa tended to him,” said Hogun, “and she says he will be well. He is resting at the hospital.”

Rek wandered to the window, opened it, and breathed in the crisp night air. From there he could see far down into the valley, where the Nadir camp fires blazed. His eyes rested on the Eldibar hospital, where lamps still burned.

“Who would be a surgeon?” he said.

At Eldibar Calvar Syn, waist wrapped in a bloody leather apron, moved like a sleepwalker. Fatigue bit deep into his bones as he moved from bed to bed, administering potions.

The day had been a nightmare—more than a nightmare—for the bald, one-eyed surgeon. In thirty years he had seen death many times. He had watched men die who should have lived and seen men survive wounds that should have slain them outright. And often his own very special skills had thwarted death where others could not even staunch the wound. But today had been the worst day of his life. Four hundred strong young men, this morning fit and in their prime, were now rotting meat. Scores of others had lost limbs or fingers. Those with major wounds had been transferred to Musif. The dead had been carted back behind Wall Six for burial beyond the gates.

Around the weary surgeon orderlies flung buckets of salted water to the bloody floor, brushing away the debris of pain.

Calvar Syn walked silently into Druss’s room and gazed down on the sleeping figure. By the bedside hung Snaga, the silver slayer. “How many more, you butcher?” said Calvar. The old man stirred but did not wake.

The surgeon stumbled into the corridor and made his way to his own room. There he hurled the apron across a chair and slumped to his bed, lacking even the energy to pull a blanket across his body. Sleep would not come. Nightmare images of agony and horror flitted across his mind, and he began to sob. A face entered his mind, elderly and gentle. The face grew, absorbing his anguish and radiating harmony. Larger and larger it became, until like a warm blanket it covered his pain. And he slept deeply and dreamlessly.

“He rests now,” said Vintar as Rek turned away from the window in the keep.

“Good,” said Rek. “He won’t rest much tomorrow. Serbitar, have you had any more thoughts about our traitor?”

The albino shook his head. “I don’t know what we can do. We are watching the food and the wells. There is no other way he can affect us. You are guarded, as is Druss and Virae.”

“We must find him,” said Rek. “Can you not enter the mind of every man in the fortress?”

“Of course! We would surely have an answer for you within three months.”

“I take the point,” Rek said, smiling ruefully.

Khitan stood silently, watching the smoke billow up from his towers. His face was expressionless, his eyes dark and shrouded. Ulric approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“They were just wood, my friend.”

“Yes, my lord. I was thinking that in future we need a false-fronted screen of soaking hides. It should not be too difficult, though the increased weight could prove a problem in terms of stability.”

Ulric laughed. “I thought to find you broken with grief. And yet already you plan.”

“I feel stupid, yes,” answered Khitan. “I should have foreseen the use of the oil. I knew the timbers would never burn merely from fire arrows and gave no thought to other combustibles. No one will beat us like that again.”

“Most assuredly, my learned architect,” said Ulric, bowing.

Khitan chuckled. “The years are making me pompous, my lord. Deathwalker did well today. He is a worthy opponent.”

“Indeed he is, but I don’t think today’s plan was his. They have white templars among them, who destroyed Nosta Khan’s acolytes.”

“I thought there was some devilry in that,” muttered Khitan. “What will you do with the defenders when we take the fortress?”

“I have said that I will slay them.”

“I know. I wondered if you had changed your mind. They are valiant.”

“And I respect them. But the Drenai must learn what happens to those who oppose me.”

“So, my lord, what will you do?”

“I shall burn them all on one great funeral pyre—all save one, who shall live to carry the tale.”

An hour before dawn Caessa slipped silently into Druss’s room and approached the bedside. The warrior was sleeping deeply, lying on his belly with his massive forearms cradling his head. As she watched him, Druss stirred. He opened his eyes, focusing on her slender legs clad in thigh-length doeskin boots. Then his gaze travelled upward. She wore a body-hugging green tunic with a thick silver-studded leather belt that accentuated her small waist. By her side hung a short sword with an ebony handle. He rolled over and met her gaze; there was anger in her tawny eyes.

“Finished your inspection?” she snapped.

“What ails you, girl?”

All emotion left her face, withdrawing like a cat into shadows.

“Nothing. Turn over. I want to check your back.”

Skilfully she began to knead at the muscles of his shoulder blade, her fingers like steel pins, causing him to grunt occasionally through gritted teeth.

“Turn over again.”

With Druss once more on his back, she lifted his right arm, locked her own arms around it, and gave a sharp pull and twist. A violent cracking sound followed, and for a fraction of a second Druss thought she had broken his shoulder. Releasing his arm, she rested it on his left shoulder, then crossed his left arm to sit on the right shoulder. Leaning forward to pull him onto his side, she placed her clenched fist under his spine between the shoulder blades, then rolled him back. Suddenly she threw her weight across his chest, forcing his spine into her fist. Twice more he grunted as alarming sounds filled the air, which he identified as a kind of crunching snap. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“You’re stronger than you look, girl.”

“Be quiet and sit up, facing the wall.”

This time she seemed almost to break his neck, placing her hands under his chin and over his ear, wrenching first to the left and then to the right. The sound was like a dry branch snapping.

“Tomorrow you rest,” she said as she turned to leave.

He stretched and moved his injured shoulder. He felt good, better than he had in weeks.

“What were those cracking sounds?” he asked, halting her at the door.

“You have arthritis. The first three dorsals were locked solid; therefore, blood could not flow properly. Also, the muscle under the shoulder blade had knotted, causing spasms which reduced the strength of your right arm. But heed me, old man, tomorrow you must rest. That or die.”

“We all die,” he said.

“True. But you are needed.”

“Do you dislike me—or all men?” he asked as her hand touched the door handle.

She turned to look at him, smiled, pushed the door shut, and came back into the room, stopping within inches of his burly naked frame.

“Would you like to sleep with me, Druss?” she asked sweetly, laying her left arm across his shoulder.

“No,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes. The pupils were small, unnaturally so.

“Most men do,” she whispered, moving closer.

“I am not most men.”

“Are you dried up, then?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Or is it boys you lust after? We have some like that in our band.”

“No, I can’t say I have ever lusted after a man. But I had a real woman once, and since then I have never needed another.”

She stepped away from him. “I have ordered a hot bath for you, and I want you to stay in it until the water cools. It will help the blood flow through those tired muscles.” With that she turned and was gone. For a few moments Druss stared at the door, then he sat down on the bed and scratched his beard.

The girl disturbed him. There was something in her eyes. Druss had never been good with women, not intuitive as some men were. Women were another race to him, alien and forbidding. But this child was something else again; in her eyes was madness, madness and fear. He shrugged and did what he always had done when a problem eluded him: forgot about it.

After the bath he dressed swiftly, combed his hair and beard, then snatched a hasty breakfast in the Eldibar mess hall and joined the fifty volunteers on the battlements as the dawn sunlight pierced the early morning mist. It was a crisp morning, fresh with the promise of rain. Below him the Nadir were gathering, carts piled with boulders making their slow way to the catapults. Around him there was little conversation; on days such as this a man’s thoughts turned inward. Will I die today? What is my wife doing now? Why am I here?

Farther along the battlements Orrin and Hogun walked among the men. Orrin said little, leaving the legion general to make jokes and ask questions. He resented Hogun’s easy style with the enlisted men, but not too deeply; it was probably more regret than resentment.

A young cul—Bregan, was it?—made him feel better as they passed the small group of men near the gate tower.

“Will you be fighting with Karnak today, sir?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir. It is a great honour—for all of us.”

“It is nice of you to say so,” said Orrin.

“No, I mean it,” said Bregan. “We were talking about it last night.”

Embarrassed and pleased, Orrin smiled and walked on.

“Now that,” offered Hogun, “is a greater responsibility than checking supply lines.”

“In what way?”

“They respect you. And that man hero-worships you. It is not an easy thing to live up to. They will stand beside you when all have fled. Or they will flee with you when all else stand.”

“I won’t run away, Hogun,” said Orrin.

“I know you won’t; that’s not what I meant. As a man, there are times when you want to lie down, or give in, or walk away. It’s usually left to the individual, but in this case you are no longer one man. You are fifty. You are Karnak. It is a great responsibility.”

“And what of you?” asked Orrin.

“I am the legion,” he answered simply.

“Yes, I suppose you are. Are you frightened today?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Orrin, smiling. “I wouldn’t like to be the only one.”