Legend by David Gemmell

As Druss had promised, the day brought fresh horror: stone missiles obliterating sections of battlements, then the terrible battle cries and the surging attack with ladders to the wall, and a snarling horde breasting the granite defence to meet the silver steel of the Drenai. Today it was the turn of three thousand men from Musif, Wall Two, to relieve warriors who had fought long and hard the day before. Swords rang, men screamed and fell, and chaos descended for long hours. Druss strode the walls like a fell giant, blood-spattered and grim, his ax cleaving the Nadir ranks, his oaths and coarse insults causing the Nadir to centre on him. Rek fought with Serbitar beside him, as on the previous day, but with them now were Menahem and Antaheim, Virae and Arbedark.

By afternoon the twenty-foot-wide battlements were slippery with blood and cluttered by bodies, yet still the battle raged. Orrin, by the gate towers, fought like a man possessed, side by side with the warriors from Group Karnak. Bregan, his sword broken, had gathered a Nadir axe, two-headed and long-handled, which he wielded with astonishing skill.

“A real farmer’s weapon!” yelled Gilad during a brief lull.

’Tell that to Druss!” shouted Orrin, slapping Bregan on the back.

At dusk the Nadir fell back once more, sent on their way by jeers and catcalls. But the toll had been heavy. Druss, bathed in crimson, stepped across the bodies and limped to where Rek and Serbitar stood cleaning their weapons.

“The wall’s too damned wide to hold for long,” he muttered, leaning forward to clean Snaga on the jerkin of a dead Nadir.

“Too true,” said Rek, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his cloak. “But you are right; we cannot just give it to them yet.”

“At present,” said Serbitar, “we are killing them at a rate of three to one. It is not enough. They will wear us down.”

“We need more men,” said Druss, sitting back on the battlements and scratching his beard.

“I sent a messenger last night to my father at Dros Segril,” said Serbitar. “We should have reinforcements in about ten days.”

“Drada hates the Drenai,” said Druss. “Why should he send men?”

“He must send my personal bodyguard. It is the law of Vagria, and though my father and I have not spoken for twelve years, I am still his firstborn son. It is my right. Three hundred swords will join me here—no more than that, but it will help.”

“What was the quarrel?” asked Rek.

“Quarrel?” queried the albino.

“Between you and your father.”

“There was no quarrel. He saw my talents as ‘gifts of darkness’ and tried to kill me. I would not allow it. Vintar rescued me.” Serbitar removed his helm, untied the knot that bound his white hair, and shook his head. The evening breeze ruffled his hair. Rek exchanged glances with Druss and changed the subject.

“Ulric must realize by now that he has a battle on his hands.”

“He knew that anyway,” answered Druss. “It won’t worry him yet.”

“I don’t see why not; it worries me,” said Rek, rising as Virae joined them with Menahem and Antaheim. The three members of the Thirty left without a word, and Virae sat beside Rek, hugging his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Not an easy day,” said Rek, gently stroking her hair.

“They looked after me,” she whispered. “Just like you told them to, I suppose.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Good. We have only just met, and I don’t want to lose you yet.”

“You two ought to eat,” said Druss. “I know you don’t feel like it, but take the advice of an old warrior.” The old man stood, glanced back once at the Nadir camp, and walked slowly toward the mess hall. He was tired. Almighty tired.

Ignoring his own advice, he skirted the mess hall and made for his room at the hospital. Inside the long building he paused to listen to the moans from the wards. The stench of death was everywhere. Stretcher-bearers pushed past him bearing bloodied corpses, orderlies hurled buckets of water to the floor, others with mops or buckets of sand prepared the ground for the next day. He spoke to none of them.

Pushing open the door of his room, he stopped. Caessa sat within. “I have food for you,” she said, avoiding his eyes. Silently he took the platter of beef, red beans, and thick black bread and began to eat.

“There is a bath for you in the next room,” she said as he finished. He nodded and stripped off his clothing.

He sat in the hip bath and cleaned the blood from his hair and beard. When cold air touched his wet back, he knew she had entered. She knelt by the bath and poured an aromatic liquid into her hands, then began washing his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her fingers on his scalp. After rinsing his hair with warm fresh water, she rubbed it dry with a clean towel.

Back in his room, Druss found that she had laid out a clean undervest and black woollen trousers and had sponged his leather jerkin and boots. She poured him a goblet of Lentrian wine before leaving. Druss finished the wine and lay back on the bed, resting his head on his hand. Not since Rowena had a woman tended to him in this fashion, and his thoughts were mellow.

Rowena, his child bride, taken by slavers soon after the wedding at the great oak. Druss had followed them, not even stopping to bury his parents. For months he had travelled the land until at last, in the company of Sieben the poet, he had discovered the slavers’ camp. Having found out from them that Rowena had been sold to a merchant who was heading east, he slew the leader in his tent and set out once more. For five years he wandered across the continent, a mercenary, building a reputation as the most fearsome warrior of his time, becoming at last the champion of Ventria’s god-king, Gorben.

Finally he had found his wife in an eastern palace and had wept. For without her he had always been only half a man. She alone made him human, stilling for a while the dark side of his nature, making him whole, showing him the beauty in a field of flowers, where he looked for perfection in a blade of steel.

She used to wash his hair and stroke the tension from his neck and the anger from his heart.

Now she was gone, and the world was empty, a shifting blur of shimmering grey where once there had been colours of dazzling brightness.

Outside a gentle rain began to fall. For a while Druss listened to it pattering on the roof. Then he slept.

Caessa sat in the open air, hugging her knees. Had anyone approached her, he could not have seen where the rain ended and the tears began.

22

For the first time all the members of the Thirty manned Eldibar as the Nadir massed for the charge. Serbitar had warned Rek and Druss that today would be different: no ballistae bombardment, merely an endless series of charges to wear down the defenders. Druss had refused all advice to rest for the day and stood at the centre of the wall. Around him were the Thirty in their silver steel armor and white cloaks. With them was Hogun, while Rek and Virae stood with the men of Group Fire forty paces to the left. Orrin remained with Karnak on the right. Five thousand men waited, swords in hands, shields buckled, helms lowered.

The sky was dark and angry, huge clouds bunching to the north. Above the walls a patch of blue waited for the storm. Rek smiled suddenly as the poetry of the moment struck him.

The Nadir began to move forward in a seething furious mass, their pounding feet sounding like thunder.

Druss leapt to stand on the crenelated battlements above them.

“Come on, you whoresons!” he bellowed. “Deathwalker waits!” His voice boomed out over the valley, echoed by the towering granite walls. At that moment lightning split the sky, a jagged spear above the Dros. Thunder followed.

And the bloodletting began.

As Serbitar had predicted, the centre of the line suffered the most ferocious attacks, wave upon wave of tribesmen breasting the walls to die under the steel defence of the Thirty. Their skill was consummate. A wooden club knocked Druss from his feet, and a burly Nadir warrior aimed an axe blow for his skull. Serbitar leapt forward to block the blow, while Menahem dispatched the man with a throat slash. Druss, exhausted, stumbled over a fallen body and pitched to the feet of three attackers. Arbedark and Hogun came to the rescue as he scrabbled for his axe.

The Nadir burst through the line on the right, forcing Orrin and Group Karnak away from the battlements and back onto the grass of the killing ground. As Nadir reinforcements swept over the wall unopposed, Druss saw the danger first and bellowed a warning. He cut two men from his path and raced alone to fill the breach. Hogun desperately tried to follow him, but his way was blocked.

Three young culs from Karnak joined the old man as he hammered and cut his way to the walls, but they were soon surrounded. Orrin—his helm lost, his shield splintered—stood his ground with the remnants of his group. He blocked a wide, slashing cut from a bearded tribesman and lanced a return thrust through the man’s belly. Then he saw Druss and knew that save for a miracle he was doomed.

“With me, Karnak!” he yelled, hurling himself into the advancing mass. Behind him Bregan, Gilad, and twenty others surged forward, joined by Bar Britan and a squad of stretcher guards. Serbitar, with fifteen of the Thirty, cleaved a path along the walls.

The last of Druss’s young companions fell with a broken skull, and the old warrior stood alone as the Nadir circle closed about him. He ducked beneath a swinging sword, grabbed the man’s jerkin, and smashed a head butt to his nose. A sword blade cut his upper arm, and another sliced his leather jerkin above the hip. Using the stunned Nadir as a shield, Druss backed to the battlements, but an ax blade thudded into the trapped tribesman and tore him from Druss’s grasp. With nowhere to go, Druss braced his foot against the battlements and dived forward into the mass; his great weight carried them back, and several tumbled to the earth with him. He lost hold of Snaga, grabbed at the neck of the warrior above him and crushed his windpipe, then, hugging the body to him, waited for the inevitable killing thrust. As the body was kicked away, Druss lashed out at the leg beside him, sweeping the man from his feet.

“Whoa, Druss! It’s me—Hogun.”

The old man rolled over and saw Snaga lying several yards away. He stood and snatched up the axe.

“That was close,” said the legion gan.

“Yes,” said Druss. “Thank you! That was good work!”

“I would like to take the credit, but it was Orrin and the men from Karnak. They fought their way to you, though I don’t know how.”

It had begun to rain, and Druss welcomed it, turning his face to the sky with mouth open, eyes closed.

“They’re coming again!” someone yelled. Druss and Hogun walked to the battlements and watched the Nadir charge. It was hard to see them through the rain.

To the left Serbitar was leading the Thirty from the wall, marching silently back toward Musif.

“Where in hell’s name are they going?” muttered Hogun.

“There’s no time to worry about that,” snarled Druss, cursing silently as his shoulder flamed with fresh agonies.

The Nadir horde swept forward. Then thunder rumbled, and a huge explosion erupted at the centre of the Nadir ranks. Everything was confusion as the charge faltered.

“What happened?” asked Druss.

“Lightning struck them,” said Hogun, removing his helm and unbuckling his breastplate. “It could happen here next—it’s all this damned metal.”

A distant trumpet sounded, and the Nadir marched back to their tents. At the centre of the plain was a vast crater surrounded by blackened bodies. Smoke rose from the hole.

Druss turned and watched the Thirty enter the postern gate at Musif.

“They knew,” he said softly. “What manner of men are they?”

“I don’t know,” answered Hogun. “But they fight like devils, and at the moment that’s all I care about.”

“They knew,” Druss said again, shaking his head.

“So?”

“How much more do they know?”

“Do you tell fortunes?” the man asked Antaheim as they crouched together beneath the makeshift canvas roof with five others from Group Fire. Rain pattered on the canvas and dripped steadily to the stones below. The roof, hastily constructed, was pinned to the battlements behind them and supported by spears at the two front corners. Within, the men huddled together. They had seen Antaheim walking alone in the rain, and one of the men, Cul Rabil, had called him over despite the warnings of his comrades. Now an uncomfortable atmosphere existed within the canvas shelter.

“Well, do you?” asked Rabil.

“No,” said Antaheim, removing his helm and untying the battle knot in his long hair. He smiled. “I am not a magician. Merely a man as you—all of you—are. My training is different, that is all.”

“But you can speak without talking,” said another man. “That’s not natural.”

“It is to me.”

“Can you see into the future?” asked a thin warrior, making the sign of the protective horn beneath his cloak.

“There are many futures. I can see some of them, but I do not know which will come to pass.”

“How can there be many futures?” asked Rabil.

“It is not an easy concept to explain, but I will try. Tomorrow an archer will shoot an arrow. If the wind drops, it will hit one man; if the wind rises, it will hit another. Each man’s future therefore depends on the wind. I cannot predict which way the wind will blow, for that, too, depends on many things. I can look into tomorrow and see both men die, whereas only one may actually fall.”

“Then what is the point of it all? Your talent, I mean,” asked Rabil.

“Now, that is an excellent question and one which I have pondered for many years.”

“Will we die tomorrow?” asked another.

“How can I tell?” answered Antaheim. “But all men must die eventually. The gift of life is not permanent.”

“You say ‘gift,’ “ said Rabil. “This implies a giver?”

“Indeed it does.”

“Which, then, of the gods do you follow?”

“We follow the Source of all things. How do you feel after today’s battle?”

“In what way?” asked Rabil, pulling his cloak closer about him.

“What emotions did you feel as the Nadir fell back?”

“It’s hard to describe. Strong.” He shrugged. “Filled with power. Glad to be alive.” The other men nodded at this.

“Exultant?” offered Antaheim.

“I suppose so. Why do you ask?”

Antaheim smiled. “This is Eldibar, Wall One. Do you know the meaning of the word ‘Eldibar’?”

“Is it not just a word?”

“No, it is far more. Egel, who built this fortress, had names carved on every wall. ‘Eldibar’ means ‘exultation.’ It is there that the enemy is first met. It is there he is seen to be a man. Power flows in the veins of the defenders. The enemy falls back against the weight of our swords and the strength of our arms. We feel, as heroes should, the thrill of battle and the call of our heritage. We are exultant! Egel knew the hearts of men. I wonder, Did he know the future?”

“What do the other names mean?”

Antaheim shrugged. “That is for another day. It is not good luck to talk of Musif while we shelter under the protection of Eldibar.” Antaheim leaned back into the wall and closed his eyes, listening to the rain and the howling wind.

Musif. The wall of despair! Where strength has not been great enough to hold Eldibar, how can Musif be held? If we could not hold Eldibar, we cannot hold Musif. Fear will gnaw at our vitals. Many of our friends will have died at Eldibar, and once more we will see in our minds the laughing faces. We will not want to join them. Musif is the test.

And we will not hold. We will fall back to Kania, the wall of renewed hope. We did not die on Musif, and Kania is a narrower fighting place. And anyway, are there not three more walls? The Nadir can no longer use their ballistae here, so that is something, is it not? In any case, did we not always know we would lose a few walls?

Sumitos, the wall of desperation, will follow. We are tired, mortally weary. We fight now by instinct, mechanically and well. Only the very best will be left to stem the savage tide.

Valteri, Wall Five, is the wall of serenity. Now we have come to terms with mortality. We accept the inevitability of our deaths and find in ourselves depths of courage we would not have believed possible. The humour will begin again, and each will be a brother to each other man. We will have stood together against the common enemy, shield to shield, and we will have made him suffer. Time will pass on this wall more slowly. We will savour our senses as if we have discovered them anew. The stars will become jewels of beauty we never saw before, and friendship will have a sweetness never previously tasted.

And finally Geddon, the wall of death …

I shall not see Geddon, thought Antaheim.

And he slept.

“Tests! All we keep hearing about is that the real test will come tomorrow. How many damn tests are there?” stormed Elicas. Rek raised a hand as the young warrior interrupted Serbitar.

“Calm down!” he said. “Let him finish. We have only a few moments before the city elders arrive.”

Elicas glared at Rek but was silent after looking at Hogun for support and seeing his almost imperceptible shake of the head. Druss rubbed his eyes and accepted a goblet of wine from Orrin.

“I am sorry,” said Serbitar gently. “I know how irksome such talk is. For eight days now we have held the Nadir back, and it is true I continue to speak of fresh tests. But you see, Ulric is a master strategist. Look at his army—it is twenty thousand tribesmen. This first week has seen them bloodied on our walls. They are not his finest troops. Even as we have trained our recruits, so does he. He is in no hurry; he has spent these days culling the weak from his ranks, for he knows there are more battles to come when, and if, he takes the Dros. We have done well, exceedingly well. But we have paid dearly. Fourteen hundred men have died, and four hundred more will not fight again.

“I tell you this: Tomorrow his veterans will come.”

“And where do you gain this intelligence?” snapped Elicas.

“Enough, boy!” roared Druss. “It is sufficient that he has been right till now. When he is wrong, you may have your say.”

“What do you suggest, Serbitar?” asked Rek.

“Give them the wall,” answered the albino.

“What?” said Virae. “After all the fighting and dying? That is madness.”

“Not so, my lady,” said Bowman, speaking for the first time. All eyes turned to the young archer, who had forsaken his usual uniform of green tunic and hose. Now he wore a splendid buckskin topcoat, heavy with fringed thongs, sporting an eagle crafted from small beads across the back. His long blond hair was held in place by a buckskin headband, and by his side hung a silver dagger with an ebony haft shaped like a falcon whose spread wings made up the knuckle guard.

He stood. “It is sound good sense. We knew that walls would fall. Eldibar is the longest and therefore the most difficult to hold. We are stretched there. On Musif we would need fewer men and therefore would lose fewer. And we have the killing ground between the walls. My archers could create an unholy massacre among Ulric’s veterans before even a blow is struck.”

“There is another point,” said Rek, “and one equally important. Sooner or later we will be pushed back from the wall, and despite the fire gullies, our losses will be enormous. If we retire during the night, we will save lives.”

“And let us not forget morale,” Hogun pointed out. “The loss of the wall will hit the Dros badly. If we give it up as a strategic withdrawal, however, we will turn the situation to our advantage.”

“What of you, Orrin? How do you feel about this?” asked Rek.

“We have about five hours. Let’s get it started,” answered the gan.

Rek turned to Druss. “And you?”

The old man shrugged. “Sounds good,” he said.

“It’s settled, then,” said Rek. “I leave you to begin the withdrawal. Now I must meet the council.”

Throughout the long night the silent retreat continued. Wounded men were carried on stretchers, medical supplies loaded on to handcarts, and personal belongings packed hastily into kit bags. The more seriously injured had long since been removed to the Musif field hospital, and Eldibar barracks had been little used since the siege had begun.

By dawn’s first ghostly light the last of the men entered the postern gates at Musif and climbed the long winding stairways to the battlements. Then began the work of rolling boulders and rubble onto the stairs to block the entrances. Men heaved and toiled as the light grew stronger. Finally, sacks of mortar powder were poured onto the rubble and then packed solid into the gaps. Other men with buckets of water doused the mixtures.

“Given a day,” said Maric the builder, “that mass will be almost immovable.”

“Nothing is immovable,” said his companion. “But it will take them weeks to make it passable, and even then the stairways were designed to be defensible.”

“One way or the other, I shall not see it,” said Maric. “I leave today.”

“You are early, surely,” said his friend. “Marrissa and I also plan to leave. But not until the fourth wall falls.”

“First wall, fourth wall, what is the difference? All the more time to put distance between myself and this war. Ventria has need of builders. And their army is strong enough to hold the Nadir for years.”

“Perhaps. But I will wait.”

“Don’t wait too long, my friend,” said Maric.

Back at the keep Rek lay staring at the ornate ceiling. The bed was comfortable, and Virae’s naked form nestled into him, her head resting on his shoulder. The meeting had finished two hours since, and he could not sleep. His mind was alive with plans, counterplans, and all the myriad problems of a city under siege. The debate had been acrimonious, and pinning down any of those politicians was like threading a needle under water. The consensus opinion was that Delnoch should surrender.

Only the red-faced Lentrian, Malphar, had backed Rek. That oily serpent, Shinell, had offered to lead a delegation to Ulric personally. And what of Beric, who felt himself tricked by fate in that his bloodline had included rulers of Delnoch for centuries, yet he had lost out by being a second son? Bitterness was deep within him. The lawyer, Backda, had said little, but his words were acid when they came.

“You seek to stop the sea with a leaking bucket.”

Rek had struggled to hold his temper. He had not seen any of them standing on the battlements with sword in h
and. Nor would they. Horeb had a saying that matched these men:

“In any broth, the scum always rises to the top.”

He had thanked them for their counsel and agreed to meet in five days time to answer their proposals.

Virae stirred beside him. Her arm moved the coverlet, exposing a rounded breast. Rek smiled and for the first time in days thought about something other than war.

Bowman and a thousand archers stood on the ramparts of Eldibar, watching the Nadir mass for the charge. Arrows were loosely notched to the string, and hats were tilted at a jaunty angle to keep the right eye in shadow against the rising sun.

The horde screamed its hatred and surged forward.

Bowman waited. He licked his dry lips.

“Now!” he yelled, smoothly drawing back the string to touch his right cheek. The arrow leapt free with a thousand others, to be lost within the surging mass below. Again and again they fired until their quivers were empty. Finally Caessa leapt to the battlements and fired her last arrow straight down at a man pushing a ladder against the wall. The shaft entered at the top of the shoulder and sheared through his leather jerkin, lancing through his lung and lodging in his belly. He dropped without a sound.

Grappling irons clattered to the ramparts.

“Back!” yelled Bowman, and began to run across the open ground, across the fire-gully bridges and the trench of oil-soaked brush. Ropes were lowered, and the archers swiftly scaled them. Back at Eldibar the first of the Nadir had gained the wall. For long moments they milled in confusion before they spotted the archers clambering to safety. Within minutes the tribesmen had gathered several thousand strong. They hauled their ladders over Eldibar and advanced on Musif. Then arrows of fire arced over the open ground to vanish within the oil-soaked brush. Instantly thick smoke welled from the gully, closely followed by roaring flames twice the height of a man.

The Nadir fell back. The Drenai cheered.

The brush blazed for over an hour, and the four thousand warriors manning Musif stood down. Some lay in groups on the grass; others wandered to the three mess halls for a second breakfast. Many sat in the shade of the rampart towers.

Druss strolled among the men, swapping jests here and there, accepting a chunk of black bread from one man, an orange from another. He saw Rek and Virae sitting alone near the eastern cliff and wandered across to join them.

“So far, so good!” he said, easing his huge frame to the grass. “They’re not sure what to do now. Their orders were to take the wall, and they’ve accomplished that.”

“What next, do you think?” asked Rek.

“The old boy himself,” answered Druss. “He will come. And he’ll want to talk.”

“Should I go down?” asked Rek.

“Better if I do. The Nadir know me. Deathwalker. I’m part of their legends. They think I’m an ancient god of death stalking the world.”

“Are they wrong? I wonder,” said Rek, smiling.

“Maybe not. I never wanted it, you know. All I wanted was to get my wife back. Had slavers not taken her, I would have been a farmer. Of that I am sure, though Rowena doubted it. There are times when I do not much like what I am.”

“I’m sorry, Druss. It was a jest,” said Rek. “I do not see you as a death god. You are a man and a warrior. But most of all a man.”

“It’s not you, boy; your words only echo what I already feel. I shall die soon … Here at this Dros. And what will I have achieved in my life? I have no sons or daughters. No living kin … few friends. They will say, ‘Here lies Druss. He killed many and birthed none.’ ”

“They will say more than that,” said Virae, suddenly. “They’ll say, ‘Here lies Druss the Legend, who was never mean, petty, or needlessly cruel. Here was a man who never gave in, never compromised his ideals, never betrayed a friend, never despoiled a woman, and never used his strength against the weak.’ They’ll say, ‘He had no sons, but many a woman asleep with her babes slept more soundly for knowing Druss stood with the Drenai.’ They’ll say many, things, whitebeard. Through many generations they will say them, and men with no strength will find strength when they hear them.”

“That would be pleasant,” said the old man, smiling.

The morning drifted by, and the Dros shone in the warm sunlight. One of the soldiers produced a flute and began to play a lilting springtime melody that echoed down the valley, a song of joy in a time of death.

At midday Rek and Druss were summoned to the ramparts. The Nadir had fallen back to Eldibar, but at the centre of the killing ground was a man seated on a huge purple rug. He was eating a meal of dates and cheese and sipping wine from a golden goblet. Thrust into the ground behind him was a standard sporting a wolf’s head.

“He’s certainly got style,” said Rek, admiring the man instantly.

“I ought to go down before he finishes the food,” said Druss. “We lose face as we wait.”

“Be careful!” urged Rek.

“There are only a couple of thousand of them,” answered Druss with a broad wink.

Hand over hand, he lowered himself to the Eldibar ground below and strolled toward the diner.

“I am a stranger in your camp,” he said.

The man looked up. His face was broad and clean-cut, the jaw firm. The eyes were violet and slanted beneath dark brows; they were eyes of power.

“Welcome, stranger, and eat,” said the man. Druss sat cross-legged opposite him. Slowly the man unbuckled his lacquered black breastplate and removed it, laying it carefully at his side. Then he removed his black greaves and forearm straps. Druss noted the powerful muscles of the man’s arms and the smooth, catlike movements. A warrior born, thought the old man.

“I am Ulric of the Wolfshead.”

“I am Druss of the Axe.”

“Well met! Eat.”

Druss took a handful of dates from the silver platter before him and ate slowly. He followed this with goat’s milk cheese and washed it down with a mouthful of red wine. His eyebrows rose.

“Lentrian red,” said Ulric. “Without poison.”

Druss grinned. “I’m a hard man to kill. It’s a talent.”

“You did well. I am glad for you.”

“I was grieved to hear of your son. I have no sons, but I know how hard it is for a man to lose a loved one.”

“It was a cruel blow,” said Ulric. “He was a good boy. But then, all life is cruel, is it not? A man must rise above grief.”

Druss was silent, helping himself to more dates.

“You are a great man, Druss. I am sorry you are to die here.”

“Yes. It would be nice to live forever. On the other hand, I am beginning to slow down. Some of your men have been getting damn close to marking me—it’s an embarrassment.”

“There is a prize for the man who kills you. One hundred horses, picked from my own stable.”

“How does the man prove to you that he slew me?”

“He brings me your head and two witnesses to the blow.”

“Don’t allow that information to reach my men. They will do it for fifty horses.”

“I think not! You have done well. How is the new earl settling in?”

“He would have preferred a less noisy welcome, but I think he is enjoying himself. He fights well.”

“As do you all. It will not be enough, however.”

“We shall see,” said Druss. “These dates are very good.”

“Do you believe you can stop me? Tell me truly, Deathwalker.”

“I would like to have served under you,” said Druss. “I have admired you for years. I have served many kings. Some were weak, others wilful. Many were fine men, but you … you have the mark of greatness. I think you will get what you want eventually. But not while I live.”

“You will not live long, Druss,” said Ulric gently. “We have a shaman who knows these things. He told me that he saw you standing at the gates of Wall Four—Sumitos, I believe it is called—and the grinning skull of death floated above your shoulders.”

Druss laughed aloud. “Death always floats where I stand, Ulric! I am he who walks with death. Does your shaman not know your own legends? I may choose to die at Sumitos. I may choose to die at Musif. But wherever I choose to die, know this: As I walk into the Valley of Shadows, I will take with me more than a few Nadir for company on the road.”

“They will be proud to walk with you. Go in peace.”

23

Bloody day followed bloody day, an endless succession of hacking, slaying, and dying, skirmishes carrying groups of Nadir warriors out onto the killing ground before Musif and threatening to trap the Drenai army on the walls. But always they were beaten back and the line held. Slowly, as Serbitar had predicted, the strong were separated from the weak. It was easy to tell the difference. By the sixth week only the strong survived. Three thousand Drenai warriors either were dead or had been removed from the battle with horrifying injuries.

Druss strode like a giant along the ramparts day after day, defying all advice to rest, daring his weary body to betray him, drawing on hidden reserves of strength from his warrior’s soul. Rek also was building a name, though he cared not. Twice his baresark attacks had dismayed the Nadir and shattered their line. Orrin still fought with the remnants of Karnak, now only eighteen strong. Gilad fought beside him on the right, and on his left was Bregan, still using the captured axe. Hogun had gathered fifty of the legion about him and stood back from the rampart line, ready to fill in any gap that developed.

The days were full of agony and the screams of the dying. And the list in the hall of the dead grew longer at every sunrise. Dun Pinar fell, his throat torn apart by a jagged dagger. Bar Britan was found under a mound of Nadir bodies, a broken lance jutting from his chest. Tall Antaheim of the Thirty was struck by a javelin in the back. Elicas of the legion was trapped by the rampart towers as he hurled himself at the Nadir, screaming defiance, and fell beneath a score of blades. Jorak, the huge outlaw, had his brains dashed out by a club and, dying, grabbed two Nadir warriors and threw himself from the battlements, dragging them screaming to their deaths on the rocks below.

Amid the chaos of slashing swords many deeds of individual heroism passed unseen. One young soldier battling back to back with Druss saw an enemy lancer bearing down on the old man. Unthinking, he threw himself in the way of the flashing steel point, to die writhing among the other broken bodies on the ramparts. Another soldier, an officer named Portitac, leapt into the breach near the gate tower and stepped onto the ramparts, where he seized the top of a ladder and flung himself forward, pulling the ladder out from the wall. Twenty Nadir near the top died with him on the rocks, and five others broke limbs. Many were such tales of bravery.

And still the battles raged. Rek now sported a slanting scar from eyebrow to chin, gleaming red as he battled on. Orrin had lost three fingers from his left hand but after only two days behind the lines had joined his men once more on the wall.

From the capital at Drenan the messages came endlessly:

Hold on.

Give Woundweaver time.

Just one more month.

And the defenders knew they could not hold.

But still they fought on.

Twice the Nadir tried night attacks, but on both occasions Serbitar warned the defenders and the assailants paid dearly for their efforts. At night, handholds were difficult to find and the long climb to the battlements was fraught with peril. Hundreds of tribesmen died without need for the touch of Drenai steel or a black-shafted arrow.

Now the nights were silent and in some ways as bad as the days. For the peace and tranquillity of the moon darkness acted as a weird counterpoint to the crimson agonies of the sunlight. Men had time to think: to dream of wives, children, farms, and even more potently of a future that might have been.

Hogun and Bowman had taken to walking together on the battlements at night, the grim legion general and the bright witty outlaw. Hogun found that in Bowman’s company he could forget the loss of Elicas; he could even laugh again. For his part, Bowman felt a kinship with the gan, for he, too, had a serious side, although he kept it well hidden.

But on this particular night Bowman was in a more melancholy mood, and his eyes were distant.

“What ails you, man?” asked Hogun.

“Memories,” answered the archer, leaning over the ramparts to stare at the Nadir camp fires below.

“They must be either very bad or very good to touch you so.”

“These are very bad, my friend. Do you believe in gods?”

“Sometimes. Usually when my back is against a wall and the enemy surrounds me,” said Hogun.

“I believe in the twin powers of growth and malevolence. I believe that on rare occasions each of these powers chooses a man and in different ways destroys him.”

“And these powers have touched you, Bowman?” asked Hogun gently.

“Perhaps. Think back on recent history—you will find examples.”

“I do not need to. I know where this tale is leading,” said Hogun.

“What do you know?” asked the archer, turning to face the dark-cloaked officer. Hogun smiled gently, though he noted that Bowman’s fingers were curled around the hilt of his dagger.

“I know that you are a man whose life has been marred by some secret tragedy: a wife dead, a father slain … something. There may even be some dark deed which you perpetrated and cannot forget. But even if that were the case, the very fact that you remember it with such pain means that you acted out of character. Put it behind you, man! Who among us can change the past?”

“I wish I could tell you,” said Bowman. “But I cannot. I am sorry, I am not fit company this evening. You go on. I will stay here a while.”

Hogun wanted to clap his hand on the other’s shoulder and say something witty to break the mood, as Bowman had so often done for him. But he could not. There were times when a grim-faced warrior was needed, even loved, but this was not one of them, and he cursed himself and left silently.

For over an hour Bowman stood on the ramparts, staring out over the valley, listening to the faint songs of the Nadir women drifting out from the far camp below.

“You are troubled?” said a voice.

Bowman swung around to face Rek. The young earl was dressed in the clothes in which he had arrived: thigh-length doeskin boots, a high-collared tunic with a gold-embroidered collar, and a reversed sheepskin jerkin. By his side was his longsword.

“I am merely tired,” said Bowman.

“I, too. Is my scar fading?”

Bowman peered closely at the jagged red line from brow to chin. “You were lucky not to lose an eye,” he commented.

“Useless Nadir steel,” said Rek. “I made a perfect block, and his blasted sword snapped and lashed across my face. Good gods, man, have you any idea how long I’ve protected my face?”

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” said Bowman, grinning.

“Some people are born ugly,” said Rek. “It’s not their fault, and I for one have never held it against a man that he is ugly. But others—and I count myself among them—are born with handsome features. That is a gift which should not be lightly taken away.”

“I take it you made the perpetrator pay for his deed.”

“Naturally! And you know, I think he was smiling even as I slew him. But then, he was an ugly man. I mean really ugly. It’s not right.”

“Life can be so unfair,” agreed Bowman. “But you must look on the bright side, my lord Earl. You see, unlike me, you were never stupendously handsome. Merely well featured. The brows were too thick, the mouth a shade too wide. And your hair is now growing a little thinner. Now, had you been blessed with the nearly miraculous good looks possessed by such as I, you would have truly had something to grieve over.”

“There is something in what you say,” said Rek. “You have indeed been greatly blessed. It was probably nature’s way of making it up to you for being short.”

“Short? I am almost as tall as you.”

“Ah, but what a large word ‘almost’ is. Can a man be almost alive? Almost right? In the question of height, my friend, we do not deal in subtle shades of grey. I am taller; you are shorter. But I would concur there is not a more handsome short man at the fortress.”

“Women have always found me the perfect height,” said Bowman. “At least when I dance with them, I can whisper love words in their ears. With your long shanks, their heads would nestle near your armpit.”

“Get a lot of time for dancing in the forest, do you?” asked Rek amiably.

“I didn’t always live in the forest. My family …” Bowman stuttered to silence.

“I know your family background,” said Rek. “But it’s about time you talked about it. You’ve carried it too long.”

“How could you know?”

“Serbitar told me. As you know, he has been inside your mind … when you carried his messages to Druss.”

“I suppose the entire damned fortress knows,” said Bowman. “I will leave at dawn.”

“Only Serbitar and I know the story—and the truth of it. But leave if you will.”

“The truth of it is that I killed my father and brother.” Bowman was white-faced and tense.

“Twin accidents—you know it well!” said Rek. “Why must you torture yourself?”

“Why? Because I wonder at accidents in life. I wonder how many are caused by our own secret desires. There was a foot racer once, the finest I ever saw. He was preparing for the great games, to run for the first time against the fastest men from many nations. On the day before the race he fell and twisted his ankle. Was it really an accident, or was he frightened to face the great test?”

“Only he will ever know,” said Rek. “But therein lies the secret. He knows, and so should you. Serbitar tells me that you were hunting with your father and brother. Your father was to the left, your brother to the right, when you followed a deer into the thicket. A bush before you rustled, and you aimed and let the arrow fly. But it was your father, who had come unannounced. How could you know he would do such a thing?”

“The point is that he taught us never to shoot until we saw the target.”

“So you made a mistake. What else is new on the face of the world?”

“And my brother?”

“He saw what you had done, misunderstood, and ran at you in a rage. You pushed him away, and he fell, striking his head on a rock. No one could wish such a burden on himself. But you have nursed it, and it is now time for you to release it.”

“I never loved my father or my brother,” said Bowman. “My father killed my mother. He left her alone for months and had many mistresses. When my mother took one lover, he had him blinded and her slain … horribly.”

“I know. Don’t dwell on it.”

“And my brother was made in his image.”

“This also I know.”

“And do you know what I felt when they were both lying dead at my feet?”

“Yes. You were exultant.”

“And is that not terrible?”

“I don’t know if you have considered this, Bowman, but think on it. You blame the gods for bringing a curse upon you, but the curse really fell on the two men who deserved it.

“I don’t know yet whether I fully believe in fate, but certain things do happen in a man’s life which he cannot explain. My being here, for instance. Druss’s conviction that he will die here, for he has made a pact with death. And you … But I do believe that you were merely the instrument of … who knows? … a law of natural justice, perhaps.

“Whatever you believe about yourself, know this: Serbitar searched your heart, and he found no malice there. And he knows.”

“Perhaps,” said Bowman. Then he grinned suddenly. “Have you noticed that when Serbitar removes that horse-hair helm, he is shorter than I am?”

The room was Spartanly furnished: a rug, a pillow, and a chair, all bunched beneath the small window by which the albino stood naked and alone. Moonlight bathed his pale skin, and the night breeze ruffled his hair. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes closed. Weariness was upon him like no other weariness he had felt in all his young life. For it was born of the spirit and the truth.

The philosophers often talked of lies sitting under the tongue like salted honey. This, Serbitar knew, was true enough. But more often the hidden truth was worse. Far worse. For it settled in the belly and grew to engulf the spirit.

Below him were the Vagrian quarters that housed Suboden and the three hundred men who had come from Dros Segril. For several days he had fought alongside his personal bodyguard and become again the Prince of Dros Segril, son of Earl Drada. But the experience had been painful, for his own men had made the sign of the protective horn as he approached. They rarely spoke to him, and then only to answer a direct question speedily. Suboden, blunt-speaking as always, had asked the albino to return to his comrades.

“We are here, Prince Serbitar, because it is our duty. This we will accomplish best without you beside us.”

More painful than this, however, was the long discussion he had had with the Abbot of Swords, the man he revered, loved as a father, mentor, and friend.

Serbitar closed his eyes and opened his mind, soaring free of the body prison and sweeping aside the curtains of time.

Back he travelled, back and farther back. Thirteen long, wearisome, joy-filled years flowed past him, and he saw again the caravan that had brought him to the Abbot of Swords. Riding at the head of ten warriors was the giant red-bearded Drada, the young Earl of Segril—battle-hardened, volatile, a pitiless enemy but a true friend. Behind him ten of his most trusted warriors, men who would die for him without a moment’s hesitation, for they loved him above life. At the rear is a cart upon which, on a straw pallet covered with silken sheets, lies the young prince, a canvas screen shielding his ghost-white face from the sun.

Drada wheels the black horse round and gallops back to the cart. He leans on his saddle horn and glances down at the boy. The boy looks up; framed against the bright sky, he can see only the flaring wings of his father’s battle helmet.

The cart is moving again, into the shade of the ornate black gates. They swing open, and a man appears.

“I bid you welcome, Drada,” he says, the voice at variance with the silver armour he wears, for it is a gentle sound, the voice of a poet.

“I bring you my son,” answers the earl, his voice gruff, soldierly.

Vintar moves to the cart and looks down on the boy. He places a hand on the pale forehead, smiles, and pats the boy’s head.

“Come walk with me, boy,” he says.

“He cannot walk,” says Drada.

“But he can,” says Vintar.

The boy turns his red eyes toward Vintar questioningly and for the first time in his lonely life feels a touching of minds. There are no words. Vintar’s gentle poet’s face enters with a promise of strength and friendship. The fragile muscles on Serbitar’s skeletal body begin to shake as an infusion of power regenerates wasted cells.

“What is the matter with the boy?” Drada’s voice fills with alarm.

“Nothing. Say farewell to your son.”

The red-bearded warrior turns his horse’s head to the north and gazes down at the white-haired child. “Do as you are told. Be good.” He hesitates, pretends his horse is skittish. He is trying to find words for a final farewell, but he cannot. Always he has found difficulty with this red-eyed child. “Be good,” he says again, then raises an arm and leads his men northward on the long journey home.

As the wagon pulls away, bright sunlight streams onto the pallet and the boy reacts as if lanced. His face mirrors pain; his eyes squeeze shut. Vintar gently seeks his mind and pulses: “Stand now and follow the pictures I will place on your eyelids.”

At once the pain eases, and the boy can see more clearly than ever before. And his muscles lift him at last, a sensation he thought he had forgotten since a year ago, when he collapsed in the snow of the Delnoch mountains. From that moment to this he has lain paralyzed, unspeaking.

Now he stands, and with eyes tightly shut he sees more clearly. Without guilt he realizes he has forgotten his father and is happy for it.

The spirit of the older Serbitar tastes again the total joy that flooded the youth that day as, arm in arm with Vintar the soul, he walked across the courtyard until at last, in a brightly lit corner, they came to a tiny rose cutting nestling by a high stone wall.

“This is your rose, Serbitar. Love it. Cherish it and grow with it. One day a flower will form on that tiny plant. And its fragrance will be for you alone.”

“Is it a white rose?”

“It is whatever you will it to be.”

And through the years that followed Serbitar found peace and joy in comradeship, but never more than in the experience of true contentment with Vintar the soul on that first day.

Vintar had taught him to recognize the herb Lorassium and eat of its leaves. At first they had made him drowsy and filled his mind with colours. But as the days had passed, his powerful young mind had mastered the visions and the green juices had strengthened his weak blood. Even his eyes had changed colour to reflect the power of the plant.

And he had learned to run again, savouring the joy of the wind in his face, to climb and wrestle, to laugh and live.

And he had learned to speak without speaking, move without moving, and see without seeing.

Through all these blissful years Serbitar’s rose had blossomed and grown.

A white rose …

And now it had all come to this! One glimpse into the future had destroyed thirteen years of training and belief. One speeding shaft, viewed through the mists of time, had changed his destiny.

Serbitar had stared horror-struck at the scene below him on the battle-scarred walls of the Dros. His mind had recoiled from the violence he saw there, and he had fled, comet-swift, to a far corner of a distant universe, losing himself and his sanity among exploding stars and new suns’ birthing.

And still Vintar had found him.

“You must return.”

“I cannot. I have seen.”

“As have I.”

“Then you know that I would rather die than see it again.”

“But you must, for it is your destiny.”

“Then I refuse my destiny.”

“And your friends? Do you refuse them also?”

“I cannot watch you die again, Vintar.”

“Why not? I myself have seen the scene a hundred times. I have even written a poem about it.”

“As we are now—shall we be again, after death? Free souls?”

“I do not know, but I would have it so. Now return to your duty. I have pulsed the Thirty. They will keep your body alive for as long as they can.”

“They always have. Why should I be the last to die?”

“Because we would have it so. We love you, Serbitar. And always have. A shy child you were, who had never tasted friendship. Suspicious you were of the slightest touch or embrace—a soul crying alone in a cosmic wilderness. Even now you are alone.”

“But I love you all.”

“Because you need our love.”

“Not so, Vintar!”

“Do you love Rek and Virae?”

“They are not of the Thirty.”

“Neither were you until we made it so.”

And Serbitar had returned to the fortress and felt ashamed. But the shame he had felt earlier was as nothing compared with the feeling he now experienced.

Was it but an hour since that he had walked the ramparts with Vintar, and complained of many things, and confessed to many sins?

“You are wrong, Serbitar. So wrong. I also feel blood lust in battle. Who does not? Ask Arbedark or Menahem. While we are still men, we will feel as other men do.”

“Then is it for nothing that we are priests?” cried Serbitar. “We have spent years of our lives studying the insanity of war, of man’s lust for power, his need for bloodshed. We raise ourselves above the common man with powers that are almost godlike. Yet in the final analysis we come to this, lusting after battle and death. It is for nothing!”

“Your conceit is colossal, Serbitar,” said Vintar, an edge to his voice and the suggestion of anger showing in his eyes. “You speak of ‘godlike.’ You speak of the ‘common man.’ Where in your words is the humility we strive for?

“When you first came to the temple, you were weak and lonely and several years the youngest. But you learned the more swiftly. And you were chosen as the voice. Did you only acquire the disciplines and forgo the philosophy?”

“It would appear so,” answered Serbitar.

“You are wrong again. For in wisdom there is suffering. You are pained not because you disbelieve but because you believe. Let us return to basics. Why do we travel to a distant war?”

“To die.”

“Why do we choose this method? Why not simply allow ourselves to starve?”

“Because in war a man’s will to live is strongest. He will fight hard to stay alive. He will learn again to love life.”

“And what will that force us to face?”

“Our doubts,” whispered Serbitar.

“But you never thought that such doubt would come to you, so sure were you of your godlike powers?”

“Yes, I was sure. Now I am not. Is this such a great sin?”

“You know it is not. Why am I alive, my boy? Why did I not die with Magnar’s Thirty two decades ago?”

“You were the one chosen to found the new temple.”

“Why was I chosen?”

“You were the most perfect. It has to be so.”

“Then why was I not the leader?”

“I do not understand you.”

“How is the leader chosen?”

“I know not. You have never said.”

“Then guess, Serbitar.”

“Because he is the best choice. The most …”

“Perfect?”

“I would have said so, but I see where you are leading. If you were the most perfect, why did Magnar lead? Well, why did he?”

“You have seen the future; you should have seen and heard this conversation. You tell me.”

“You know that I did not,” said Serbitar. “There was no time for study of the minutiae.”

“Oh, Serbitar, still you will not understand! What you saw and chose to examine was the minutiae, the meaningless and the trivial. What does it mean to the history of this planet that this Dros falls? How many other castles have fallen throughout the ages? Of what cosmic importance was their failure? How vital are our deaths?”

“Tell me then, my lord abbot, how is the leader chosen?”

“Have you not guessed it, my son?”

“I believe so,”

“Then speak.”

“He is the least perfect of the acolytes,” said Serbitar softly, his green eyes searching Vintar’s face and begging denial.

“He is the least perfect,” echoed Vintar sadly.

“But why?” asked Serbitar.

“So that his task will be the more difficult, the more demanding. To give him the chance to rise and match the position he holds.”

“And I have failed?”

“Not yet, Serbitar. Not yet.”

24

Day by day more people left the siege city, piling their possessions onto carts, wagons, or the backs of mules and forming convoys that snaked their way inland toward the relative security of the Skoda mountains and the capital beyond.

With each departure fresh problems faced the defenders. Fighting men had to be seconded to other duties, such as latrine clearance, stores supply, and food preparation. Now the drain on resources came on two fronts.

Druss was furious and insisted that the gates be closed, the evacuation stopped. Rek pointed out that even more soldiers would then be needed to police the south road.

Then the first disaster of the campaign struck the defenders.

On the high day of summer—ten weeks after the battle began—Musif fell and chaos reigned. The Nadir breached the wall at the centre, driving a wedge into the killing ground beyond. The men, threatened with encirclement, fell back and raced for the fire gullies. Running skirmishes began as discipline fled, and two gully bridges collapsed as warriors milled upon them.

On Kania, Wall Three, Rek waited as long as he dared before ordering the gullies lit with flame arrows. Druss, Orrin, and Hogun scrambled to safety just as the blaze took. But beyond the gully more than eight hundred Drenai warriors battled on hopelessly in tight shield rings that grew smaller moment by moment. Many on Kania turned away, unable to bear the sight of their friends’ futile battles. Rek stood with fists clenched and watched in despair. The fighting did not last long. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Drenai were engulfed, and the battle song of victory was sung by thousands of tribesmen.

They gathered before the flames chanting, waving blood-stained swords and axes in the air. Few on the walls understood the words, but understanding was unnecessary. The message was primal, the meaning clear. It struck the heart and soul with blistering clarity.

“What do they sing?” Rek asked Druss as the old man recovered his breath following the long rope climb to the ramparts.

“It’s their glory chant:


Beyond the fire tribesmen burst into the field hospital, slaying men in their beds and dragging others out into the sunlight, where they could be seen by their comrades on the wall. Then they were peppered with arrows or slowly dismembered. One was even nailed to the window shutters of the barracks, to hang screaming for two hours before being disembowelled and beheaded.

The Drenai dead, stripped of their weapons and armour, were hurled into the fire gullies, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air and stung the eyes.

The evacuation at the south gates became a flood as the city emptied. Soldiers joined in, discarding their weapons and mingling with the crowds. No effort was made to stop them, on Rek’s direct order.

In a little house near the Street of Millers, Maerie tried to comfort the small child sobbing in her arms. The noise in the street outside frightened her as families loaded their possessions onto carts and wagons tethered with oxen or milk cows. It was pandemonium.

Maerie cuddled the child, crooning a lullaby tune and kissing the tight curls on his head.

“I must go back to the wall,” said her husband, a tall young man with dark hair and wide, gentle blue eyes. How tired he looked, hollow-eyed and gaunt.

“Don’t go, Carin,” she said as he strapped his sword belt about his waist.

“Don’t go? I must.”

“Let us leave Delnoch. We have friends in Purdol, and you could find work there.”

He was not an intuitive man, and he missed the note of desperation in her voice, failed to sense the rising panic behind her eyes.

“Don’t let these fools frighten you, Maerie. Druss is still with us, and we will hold Kania. I promise you.”

The sobbing child clutched his mother’s dress, soothed by the gentle strength of his father’s voice. Too young to understand the words yet, he was comforted by the pitch and tone. The noise outside receded from him, and he slept on his mother’s shoulder. But Maerie was older and wiser than the child, and to her the words were just words.

“Listen to me, Carin. I want to leave. Today!”

“I can’t talk now. I must go back. I will see you later. It will be all right.” Leaning forward, he kissed her, then stepped into the chaos of the street.

She looked around her, remembering: the chest by the door, a gift from Carin’s parents. The chairs made by her uncle, Damus, fashioned with care like all his work. They had brought the chairs and chest with them two years before.

Good years?

Carin was kind, thoughtful, loving. There was so much goodness to him. Easing the child into his cot, she wandered to the small bedroom, shutting the window against the noise. Soon the Nadir would come. The door would be smashed in, and filthy tribesmen would come for her, tearing at her clothing …

She shut her eyes.

Druss was still here, he had said.

Stupid Carin! Kind, loving, thoughtful, stupid Carin! Carin the miller.


; She had never been truly happy with him, though without this war she might never have realized it. She had been so close to contentment. Then he had joined the defenders, coming home so proudly in that ludicrous breastplate and oversized helm.

Stupid Carin. Kind Carin.

The door opened, and she turned to see her friend Delis, her blond hair covered in a travel shawl and a heavy cloak over her shoulders.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Carin coming with you?”

“No.”

Swiftly she gathered her belongings, pushing them into a canvas bag issued to Carin. Delis carried the bag to the wagon outside while Maerie lifted her son from his cot, wrapping him in a second blanket. Stooping, she pulled open the small chest, pushing aside the linen and pulling clear the small bag of silver that Carin had hidden there.

She did not bother to close the door.

In the keep Druss raged at Rek, swearing to kill any deserter he recognized.

“It’s too late for that,” said Rek.

“Damn you, boy!” muttered Druss. “We have fewer than three thousand men. How long do you think we will hold if we allow desertions?”

“How long if we don’t?” snapped Rek. “We are finished, anyway! Serbitar says Kania can be held for maybe two days, Sumitos for perhaps three, Valteri the same, and Geddon less. Ten days in all. Ten miserable days!” The young earl leaned on the balcony rail above the gates and watched the convoys start south. “Look at them, Druss! Farmers, bakers, tradesmen. What right have we to ask them to die? What will it matter to them if we fail? The Nadir will not kill every baker in Drenan; it will just mean a change of masters.”

“You give up too easily,” snarled Druss.

“I’m a realist. And don’t give me any Skeln Pass lectures. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You might as well,” said Druss, slumping into a leather chair. “You have already lost hope.”

Rek turned from the window, eyes blazing. “What is it with you warriors? It is understandable that you talk in clichés but unforgivable if you think in them. Lost hope, indeed! I never had any hope. This enterprise was doomed from the start, but we do what we can and what we must. So a young farmer with a wife and children decides to go home. Good! He shows a sense which men like you and I will never understand. They will sing songs about us, but he will ensure that there are people to sing them. He plants. We destroy.

“Anyway, he has played his part and fought like a man. It is criminal that he should feel the need to flee in shame.”

“Why not give them all the chance to go home?” asked Druss. “Then you and I could stand on the walls and invite the Nadir to come at us one at a time like sportsmen.”

Suddenly Rek smiled, tension and anger flowing from him. “I won’t argue with you, Druss,” he said softly. “You are a man I admire above all others. But in this I think you are wrong. Help yourself to wine. I shall be back soon.”

Less than an hour later the earl’s message was being read to all sections.

Bregan brought the news to Gilad as he ate in the shade offered by the field hospital under the towering cliff face of West Kania.

“We can go home,” said Bregan, his face flushed. “We can be there by harvest supper!”

“I don’t understand,” said Gilad. “Have we surrendered?”

“No. The earl says that any who wish to leave can now do so. He says that we can leave with pride, that we have fought like men—and as men, we must be given the right to go home.”

“Are we going to surrender?” asked Gilad, puzzled.

“I don’t think so,” said Bregan.

“Then I shall not go.”

“But the earl says it’s all right!”

“I don’t care what he says.”

“I don’t understand this, Gil. Lots of the others are going. And it is true that we’ve played our part. Haven’t we? I mean, we’ve done our best.”

“I suppose so.” Gilad rubbed his tired eyes and turned to watch the smoke from the fire gully drift lazily skyward. “They did their best, too,” he whispered.

“Who did?”

“Those who died. Those who are still going to die.”

“But the earl says it’s all right. He says that we can leave with our heads held high. Proud.”

“Is that what he says?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my head wouldn’t be high.”

“I don’t understand you, I really don’t. You have said all along that we can’t hold this fortress. Now we have a chance to leave. Why can’t you just accept it and come with us?”

“Because I’m a fool. Give my love to everyone back there.”

“You know I won’t go unless you come, too.”

“Don’t you start being a fool, Breg! You’ve got everything to live for. Just picture little Legan toddling toward you and all the stories you will be able to tell. Go on. Go!”

“No. I don’t know why you’re staying, but I shall stay, too.”

“That you must not do,” said Gilad gently. “I want you to go back, I really do. After all, if you don’t, there will be no one to tell them what a hero I am. Seriously, Breg, I would feel so much better if I knew that you were away from all this. The earl’s right. Men like you have played their part. Magnificently.

“And as for me … well, I just want to stay here. I’ve learned so much about myself and about other men. I’m not needed anywhere but here. I’m not necessary. I will never be a farmer, and I have neither the money to be a businessman nor the breeding to be a prince. I’m a misfit. This is where I belong, with all the other misfits. Please, Bregan. Please go!”

There were tears in Bregan’s eyes, and the two men embraced. Then the curly-haired young farmer rose. “I hope everything works out for you, Gil. I’ll tell them all—I promise I will. Good luck!”

“And to you, farmer. Take your axe. They can hang it in the village hall.”

Gilad watched him walk back toward the postern gates and the keep beyond. Bregan turned once and waved. Then he was gone.

Altogether 650 men chose to leave.

Two thousand forty remained. Added to these were Bowman, Caessa, and fifty archers. The other outlaws, having fulfilled their promise, returned to Skultik.

“Too damned few now,” muttered Druss as the meeting ended.

“I never liked crowds, anyway,” said Bowman lightly.

Hogun, Orrin, Rek, and Serbitar remained in their seats as Druss and Bowman wandered out into the night.

“Don’t despair, old horse,” said Bowman, slapping Druss on the back. “Things could be worse, you know.”

“Really? How?”

“Well, we could be out of wine.”

“We are out of wine.”

“We are? That’s terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Druss. “Maybe we could bottle it and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes, and rats’ entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop bucket.”

“You have the advantage of me there, old horse, since I have never tasted a Nadir slop bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather.”

“I think I’d rather suck a Nadir’s armpit,” muttered Druss.

“Fine, I’ll drink it all myself,” snapped Bowman.

“No need to get touchy, boy. I’m with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together.”

The artery writhed under Virae’s fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.

“Tighter!” ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless; he knew it
was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small Pyrrhic victory.

The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.

“He’s dead?” asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straightening his back. “But the blood is still flowing,” she said.

“It will do so for a few moments.”

“I really thought he would live,” she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked around beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him.

“His chances were one in a thousand even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen, and gangrene was almost certain.”

Her eyes were red, her face grey. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.

“I thought he had a beard,” she said, confused.

“That was the one before.”

“Oh, yes. He died, too.”

“You should rest.” Putting his arms around her, he led her from the room and out into the ward, past the stacked rows of triple-tiered bunk beds. Orderlies moved quietly among the rows. Everywhere the smell of death and the sweet, nauseous odour of putrefaction were mixed with the antiseptic bitterness of Lorassium juice and hot water scented with lemon mint.

Perhaps it was the unwelcome perfume, but she was surprised to find that the well was not dry and tears could still flow.

He led her to a back room, filled a basin with warm water, and washed the blood from her hands and face, dabbing her gently as if she were a child.

“He told me that I love war,” she said. “But it’s not true. Maybe it was then. I don’t know anymore.”

“Only a fool loves war,” said Calvar, “or a man who has never seen it. The trouble is that the survivors forget about the horrors and remember only the battle lust. They pass on that memory, and other men hunger for it. Put on your cloak and get some air. Then you will feel better.”

“I don’t think I can come back tomorrow, Calvar. I will stay with Rek at the wall.”

“I understand.”

“I feel so helpless watching men die in here.” She smiled, “I don’t like feeling helpless, I’m not used to it.”

He watched her from the doorway, her tall figure draped in a white cloak, the night breeze billowing her hair.

“I feel helpless, too,” he said softly.

The last death had touched him more deeply than it should have, but then, he had known the man, whereas others were but nameless strangers.

Carin, the former miller. Calvar remembered that the man had a wife and son living at Delnoch.

“Well, at least someone will mourn for you, Carin,” he whispered to the stars.

25

Rek sat and watched the stars shining high above the keep tower and the passage of an occasional cloud, black against the moonlit sky. The clouds were like cliffs in the sky, jagged and threatening, inexorable and sentient. Rek pulled his gaze from the window and rubbed his eyes. He had known fatigue before but never this soul-numbing weariness, this depression of the spirit. The room was dark now. He had forgotten to light the candles, so intent had he been on the darkening sky. He glanced about him. So open and welcoming during the hours of daylight, the room was now shadow-haunted and empty of life. He was an interloper. He drew his cloak about him.

He missed Virae, but she was working at the field hospital with the exhausted Calvar Syn. Nevertheless the need in him was great, and he rose to go to her. Instead he just stood there. Cursing, he lit the candles. Logs lay ready in the fireplace, so he lit the fire—though it was not cold—and sat in the firm leather chair watching the small flames grow through the kindling and eat into the thicker logs above. The breeze fanned the flame, causing the shadows to dance, and Rek began to relax.

“You fool,” he said to himself as the flames roared and he began to sweat. He removed his cloak and boots and pulled the chair back from the blaze.

A soft tap at the door roused Rek from his thoughts. He called out, and Serbitar entered the room. For a moment Rek did not recognize him; he was without his armor, dressed in a tunic of green, his long white hair tied at the nape of the neck.

“Am I disturbing you, Rek?” he said.

“Not at all. Sit down and join me.”

“Thank you. Are you cold?”

“No. I just like to watch fires burn.”

“I do, too. It helps me think. A primal memory, perhaps, of a warm cave and safety from predatory animals,” said Serbitar.

“I wasn’t alive then—despite my haggard appearance.”

“But you were. The atoms that make up your body are as old as the universe.”

“I have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about, though I don’t doubt that it is all true,” said Rek.

An uneasy silence developed, then both men spoke at once, and Rek laughed. Serbitar smiled and shrugged.

“I am unused to casual conversation. Unskilled.”

“Most people are when it comes down to it. It’s an art,” said Rek. “The thing to do is relax and enjoy the silences. That’s what friends are all about; they are people with whom you can be silent.”

“Truly?”

“My word of honour as an earl.”

“I am glad to see you retain your humour. I would have thought it impossible to do so under the circumstances.”

“Adaptability, my dear Serbitar. You can only spend so long thinking about death—then it becomes boring. I have discovered that my great fear is not of dying but of being a bore.”

“You are seldom boring, my friend.”

“Seldom? ‘Never’ is the word I was looking for.”

“I beg your pardon. ‘Never’ is the word I was, of course, seeking.”

“How will tomorrow be?”

“I cannot say,” answered Serbitar swiftly. “Where is the lady Virae?”

“With Calvar Syn. Half the civilian nurses have fled south.”

“You cannot blame them,” said Serbitar. He stood and walked to the window. “The stars are bright tonight,” he said. “Though I suppose it would be more accurate to say that the angle of the earth makes visibility stronger.”

“I think I prefer ‘the stars are bright tonight,’ ” said Rek, who had joined Serbitar at the window.

Below them Virae was walking slowly, a white cloak wrapped about her shoulders and her long hair flowing in the night breeze.

“I think I will join her, if you’ll excuse me,” said Rek.

Serbitar smiled. “Of course. I will sit by the fire and think, if I may!”

“Make yourself at home,” said Rek, pulling on his boots.

Moments after Rek had left, Vintar entered. He, too, had forsaken armour for a simple tunic of white wool, hooded and thick.

“That was painful for you, Serbitar. You should have allowed me to come,” he said, patting the younger man’s shoulder.

“I could not tell him the truth.”

“But you did not lie,” whispered Vintar.

“When does evasion of the truth become a lie?”

“I do not know. But you brought them together, and that was your purpose. They have this night.”

“Should I have told him?”

“No. He would have sought to alter that which cannot be altered.”

“Cannot or must not?” asked Serbitar.

“Cannot. He could order her not to fight tomorrow, and she would refuse. He cannot lock her away; she is an earl’s daughter.”

“If we told her?”

“She would refuse to accept it or else defy fate.”

“Then she is doomed.”

“No. She is merely going to die.”

“I will do everything in my power to protect her, Vintar. You know that.”

“As will I. But we will fail. Tomorrow night you must show the earl Egel’s secret.”

“He will be in no mood to see it.”

Rek put his arm about her shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She smiled and leaned into him, saying nothing.

“I simply can’t say it,” said Virae, her large eyes turned full upon him.

“That’s all right. Do you feel it?”

“You know that I do. I just find it hard to say. Romantic words sound … strange … clumsy when I use them. It’s as if my throat wasn’t made to form the sounds. I feel foolish. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He nodded and kissed her again. “And anyway, I haven’t had your practice.”

“True,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she snapped.

“I was just agreeing with you.”

“Well, don’t. I’m in no mood for humour. It’s easy for you—you’re a talker, a storyteller. Your conceit carries you on. I want to say all the things I feel, but I cannot. And then, when you say them first, my throat just seizes up and I know I should say something, but I still can’t.”

“Listen, lovely lady, it doesn’t matter! They are just words, as you say. I’m good with words; you’re good with actions. I know that you love me; I don’t expect you to echo me every time I tell you how I feel. I was just thinking earlier about something Horeb told me years ago. He said that for every man there is the one woman and that I would know mine when I saw her. And I do.”

“When I saw you,” she said, turning in to him and hugging his waist, “I thought you were a popinjay.” She laughed.

“You should have seen your face as that outlaw charged toward you!”

“I was concentrating. I’ve told you before that marksmanship was never my strong point.”

“You were petrified.”

“True.”

“But you still rescued me.”

“True. I’m a natural hero.”

“No, you’re not, and that’s why I love you. You’re just a man who does his best and tries to be honourable. That is rare.”

“Despite my conceit—and you may find this hard to believe—I get very uncomfortable when faced with compliments.”

“But I want to say what I feel; it’s important to me. You are the first man I ever really felt comfortable with as a woman. You brought me to life. I may die during this siege, but I want you to know that it has been worth it.”

“Don’t talk about dying. Look at the stars. Feel the night. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Why don’t you take me back to the keep and then I can show you how actions speak louder than words.”

“Why don’t I just do that!”

They made love without passion but gently, lovingly, and fell asleep watching the stars through the bedroom window.

The Nadir captain Ogasi urged his men on, baying the war chant of Ulric’s Wolfshead tribe and smashing his ax into the face of a tall defender. The man’s hands scrabbled at the wound as he fell back. The hideous battle song carried them forward, cleaving the ranks and gaining them a foothold on the grass beyond.

But as always Deathwalker and the white templars rallied the defenders.

Ogasi’s hatred gave him power as he cut left and right, trying to force his way toward the old man. A sword cut his brow, and he staggered momentarily, recovering to disembowel the swordsman. On the left the line was being pushed back, but on the right it was sweeping out like the horn of a bull.

The powerful Nadir wanted to scream his triumph to the skies.

At last they had them!

But again the Drenai rallied. Pushing himself back into the throng in order to wipe away the blood from his eyes, Ogasi watched the tall Drenai and his sword maiden block the horn as it swung. Leading maybe twenty warriors, the tall man in the silver breastplate and blue cape seemed to have gone mad. His laughter sang out over the Nadir chant, and men fell back before him.

His baresark rage carried him deep among the tribesmen, and he used no defence. His red-drenched sword blade sliced, hammered, and cut into their ranks. Beside him the woman ducked and parried, protecting his left, her own slender blade every bit as deadly.

Slowly the horn collapsed in upon itself, and Ogasi found himself being drawn back to the battlements. He tripped over the body of a Drenai archer who was still clutching his bow. Kneeling, Ogasi dragged it from the dead hand and pulled a black-shafted arrow from the quiver. Leaping lightly to the battlements, he strained for sight of Deathwalker, but the old man was at the centre, obscured by Nadir bodies. Not so the tall baresarker—men were scattering before him. Ogasi notched the arrow to the string, drew, aimed, and with a whispered curse let fly.

The shaft skinned Rek’s forearm—and flew on.

Virae turned, seeking Rek, and the shaft punched through her mail shirt to bury itself below her right breast. She grunted at the impact, staggered, and half fell. A Nadir warrior broke through the line, racing toward her.

Gritting her teeth, she drew herself upright, blocked his wild attack, and opened his jugular with a backhand cut.

“Rek!” she called, panic welling within her as her lungs began to bubble, absorbing the arterial blood. But he could not hear her. Pain erupted, and she fell, twisting her body away from the arrow so as not to drive it deeper.

Serbitar ran to her side, lifting her head.

“Damn!” she said. “I’m dying!”

He touched her hand, and immediately the pain vanished.

“Thank you, friend! Where’s Rek?”

“He is baresark, Virae. I could not reach him now.”

“Oh, gods! Listen to me—don’t let him be alone for a while after … you know. He is a great romantic fool, and I think he might do something silly. You understand?”

“I understand. I will stay with him.”

“No, not you. Send Druss. He is older, and Rek worships him.” She turned her eyes to the sky. A solitary storm cloud floated there, lost and angry. “He warned me to wear a breastplate, but it’s so damned heavy.” The cloud seemed larger now. She tried to mention it to Serbitar, but the cloud loomed and the darkness engulfed her.

Rek stood at the balcony window, gripping the rail, tears streaming from his eyes and uncontrollable sobs bursting through gritted teeth. Behind him lay Virae, still, cold, and at peace. Her face was white, her breast red from the arrow wound that had pierced a lung. The blood had stopped flowing now.

Shuddering breaths filled Rek’s lungs as he fought to control his grief. Blood dripped from a forgotten wound in his forearm. He rubbed his eyes and turned back to the bed; sitting beside her, he lifted her arm and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing.

“Virae!” he said softly. “Come back. Come back. Listen. I love you! You’re the one.” He leaned over her, watching her face. A tear appeared there, then another … But they were his own. He lifted her head and cradled it in his arms. “Wait for me,” he whispered. “I’m coming.” He fumbled at his belt, pulling the Lentrian dagger from its sheath, and held it to his wrist.

“Put it down, boy,” said Druss from the doorway. “It would be meaningless.”

“Get out!” shouted Rek. “Leave me.”

“She’s gone, lad. Cover her.”

“Cover her? Cover my Virae! No! No, I can’t. Oh, gods in Missael, I can’t just cover her face.”

“I had to once,” said the old man as Rek slumped forward, tears stinging his eyes and silent sobs racking his frame. “My woman died. You are not the only one to face death.”

For a long while Druss stood silently in the doorway, his heart aching. Then he pushed the door shut and walked into the room.

“Leave her for a while and talk to me, boy,” he said, taking Rek by the arm. “Here by the window. Tell me again how you met.”

And Rek told him of the attack in the forest, the killing of Reinard, the ride to the temple, and the journey to Delnoch.

“Druss!”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I can live with this.”

“I have known men who couldn’t. But there is no need to cut your wrists. There’s a horde of tribesmen out there who will do it for you gladly.”

“I don’t care about them anymore; they can have the damned place. I wish I had never come here.”

“I know,” said Druss gently. “I spoke to Virae yesterday in the hospital. She told me she loved you. She said—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes, you do, because it’s a memory you can hold. And it keeps her alive in your mind. She said that if she died, it would be worth it just to have met you. She worshiped you, Rek. She told me of the day you stood by her against Reinard and all his men—she was so proud of you. I was, too, when I heard about it. You had something, boy, that few men ever possess.”

“And now I’ve lost it.”

“But you had it! That can never be taken away from you. Her only regret was she was never really able to tell you how she felt.”

“Oh, she told me—it didn’t need words. What happened to you when your wife died? How did it feel?”

“I don’t think I need to tell you. You know how I felt. And don’t think it’s any easier after thirty years. If anything, it becomes harder. Now, Serbitar is waiting to see you in the hall. He says it’s important.”

“Nothing is important anymore. Druss, will you cover her face? I couldn’t bear to do it.”

“Yes. Then you must see the albino. He has something for you.”

Serbitar was waiting at the bottom of the stairs as Rek slowly descended to the main hall. The albino wore full armour and a helm topped with white horsehair. The visor was down, shielding his eyes. He looked, Rek thought, like a silver statue. Only his hands were bare, and they were white as polished ivory.

“You wanted me?” said Rek.

“Follow me,” said Serbitar. Turning on his heel, he strode from the hall toward the spiral stone stairwell leading to the dungeons below the keep. Rek had been ready to refuse any request, but now he was forced to follow, and his anger grew. The albino stopped at the top of the stairs and removed a flaming torch from a copper wall bracket.

“Where are we going?” asked Rek.

“Follow me,” repeated Serbitar.

Slowly and carefully the two men descended the cracked, worn steps until at last they reached the first level of dungeons. Long disused, the hallway glittered with water-sodden cobwebs and wet moss-covered arches. Serbitar moved on until they reached an oak door, a rusty bolt holding it fast. He struggled with the bolt for some moments, finally working it free, then both men had to haul on the door before it creaked and groaned and opened. Another stairwell beyond yawned dark before them.

Once again Serbitar started down. The steps ended in a long corridor, ankle-deep in water. They waded through to a final door shaped like an oak leaf and bearing a gold plaque with inscribed lettering in the Elder tongue.

“What does it say?” asked Rek.

“It says, To the worthy—welcome. Herein lies Egel’s secret and the soul of the Earl of Bronze.’ ”

“What does it mean?”

Serbitar tried the door handle, but the door was locked, seemingly from within, since no bolt, chain, or keyhole could be seen.

“Do we break it down?” said Rek.

“No. You open it.”

“It is locked. Is this a game?”

“Try it.”

Rek turned the handle gently, and the door swung open without a sound. Soft lights sprang up within the room, glowing globes of glass set in the recesses of the walls. The room was dry, though now the water from the corridor outside flowed in and spread across the richly carpeted floor.

At the centre of the room, on a wooden stand, was a suit of armour unlike anything Rek had ever seen. It was wonderfully crafted in bronze, the overlapping scales of metal glittering in the light. The breastplate carried a bronze eagle with wings flaring out over the chest and up to the shoulders. Atop this was a helmet, winged and crested with an eagle’s head. Gauntlets there were, scaled and hinged, and greaves. Upon the table before the armour lay a bronze-ringed mail shirt lined with softest leather and mail leggings with bronze-hinged kneecaps. But above all Rek was drawn to the sword encased in a block of solid crystal. The blade was golden and over two feet in length; the hilt was double-handed, the guard a pair of flaring wings.

“It is the armour of Egel, the first Earl of Bronze,” said Serbitar.

“Why was it allowed to lie here?”

“No one could open the door,” answered the albino.

“It was not locked,” said Rek.

“Not to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“The meaning is clear: You and no other were meant to open the door.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Shall I fetch you the sword?” asked Serbitar.

“If you wish.”

Serbitar walked to the crystal cube, drew his sword, and hammered at the block. Nothing happened. His blade clanged back into the air, leaving no mark upon the crystal.

“You try,” said Serbitar.

“May I borrow your sword?”

“Just reach for the hilt.”

Rek moved forward and lowered his hand to the crystal, waiting for the cold touch of glass, which never came. His hand sank into the block, his fingers curling around the hilt. Effortlessly he drew the blade forth.

“Is it a trick?” he asked.

“Probably. But it is none of mine. Look!” The albino put his hands on the now-empty crystal and heaved himself up upon it. “Pass your hands below me,” he said.

Rek obeyed; for him the crystal did not exist.

“What does it mean?”

“I do not know, my friend. Truly I do not.”

“Then how did you know it was here?”

“That is even more difficult to explain. Do you remember that day in the grove when I could not be awakened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I travelled far across the planet and even beyond, but in my travels I breasted the currents of time and I visited Delnoch. It was night, and I saw myself leading you through the hall and down to this room. I saw you take the sword, and I heard you ask the question you have just asked. And then I heard my answer.”

“So, at this moment you are hovering above us listening?”

“Yes.”

“I know you well enough to believe you, but answer me this: That may explain how you are here now with me, but how did the first Serbitar know the armour was here?”

“I genuinely cannot explain it, Rek. It is like looking into the reflection of a mirror and watching it go on and on into infinity. But I have found in my studies that often there is more to this life than we reckon with.”

“Meaning?”

“There is the power of the Source.”

“I am in no mood for religion.”

“Then let us instead say that all those centuries ago Egel looked into the future and saw this invasion, so he left his armour here, guarded by magic which only you—as the earl—could break.”

“Is your spirit image still observing us?”

“Yes.”

“Does it know of my loss?”

“Yes.”

“Then you knew she would die?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“It would have been a waste of joy.”

“What does that mean?” said Rek, anger building inside him and pushing away the grief.

“It means that were you a farmer anticipating a long life, I might have warned you, to prepare you. But you are not; you are fighting a savage horde, and your life is at risk every day. As was Virae’s. You knew that she might die. Had I told you this was certain, not only would it have gained you nothing, it also would have robbed you of the joy you had.”

“I could have saved her.”

“No, you could not.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why would I lie? Why would I wish her dead?”

Rek did not answer. The word “dead” entered his heart and crushed his soul. Tears welled in him again, and he fought them back, concentrating on the armour.

“I will wear that tomorrow,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will wear it and die.”

“Perhaps,” answered the albino.

26

The dawn was clear, the air fresh and sweet as two thousand Drenai warriors prepared for the assault on Kania. Below them the Nadir shamans were moving through the ranks of tribesmen, sprinkling the blood of chickens and sheep on the bared blades that the warriors held before them.

Then the Nadir massed, and a great swelling chant came from thousands of throats as the horde moved forward, bearing ladders, knotted ropes, and grappling irons. Rek watched from the centre of the line. He lifted the bronze helm and placed it over his head, buckling the chin strap. To his left was Serbitar, to his right Menahem. Others of the Thirty were spread along the wall.

And the carnage began.

Three assaults were turned back before the Nadir gained a foothold on the battlements. And that was short-lived. Some two score tribesmen breached the defence, only to find themselves faced with a madman in bronze and two silver ghosts who strode among them dealing death. There was no defense against these men, and the bronze devil’s sword could cut through any shield or armour; men died under that terrible blade screaming as if their souls were ablaze. That night the Nadir captains carried their reports to the tent of Ulric, and the talk was all of the new force upon the battlements. Even the legendary Druss seemed more human—laughing as he did in the face of Nadir swords—than this golden machine of destruction.

“We felt like dogs being beaten from his path with a stick,” muttered one man. “Or weapon less children being thrust aside by an elder.”

Ulric was troubled, and though he lifted their spirits at last by pointing out again and again that it was merely a man in bronze armour, after the captains had left, he summoned the ancient shaman, Nosta Khan, to his tent. Squatting before a blazing brazier of coals, the old man listened to his warlord, nodding the while. At last he bowed and closed his eyes.