Legend by David Gemmell

Rek was asleep, exhausted by battle and sorrow. The nightmare came slowly, enveloping him like black smoke. His dream eyes opened, and before him was a cave mouth, black and terrible. Fear emanated from it like a tangible force. Behind him was a pit, stretching down into the fiery bowels of the earth, from which came strange sounds, whimpers, and screams. In his hand was no sword, upon his body no armour. A slithering sound came from the pit, and Rek turned to see oozing up from it a gigantic worm, slime-covered and putrescent. The stench made him reel back. The mouth of the worm was huge and could swallow a man with ease; around it were triple rows of pointed fangs, and lodged between one set was the arm of a man, bloody and broken. Rek backed toward the cave mouth, but a hissing made him spin around. From the blackness of the cave came a spider, its giant maw dripping poison. Within its mouth was a face, green and shimmering, and from the mouth of the face flowed words of power. As each word sounded, Rek grew weaker, until he could hardly stand.

“Are you just going to stand there all day?” said a voice.

Rek turned to see Virae by his side, dressed in a flowing gown of white. She smiled at him.

“You’re back!” he said, reaching out for her.

“No time for that, you fool! Here! Take your sword.” Her arms reached toward him, and the bronze sword of Egel appeared in her hands. A shadow fell across them as Rek snatched the sword, spinning around to face the worm that was towering above them. The blade swept through three feet of the creature’s neck as the mouth descended, and green gore spouted from the wound. Rek struck again and again until the creature, almost cut in two, flopped backward into the pit.

“The spider!” yelled Virae, and he spun once more. The beast was upon him, its huge mouth mere paces away. Rek hurled his sword into the gaping maw, and it flew like an arrow to split the green face within like a melon. The spider reared into the air and toppled backward. A breeze blew up, and the beast became black smoke that drifted into the air and then was gone.

“I suppose you would have gone on standing there if I hadn’t come along,” said Virae.

“I think so,” answered Rek.

“You fool,” she said, smiling, and he moved forward tentatively, holding out his arms.

“Can I touch you?" he asked.

“An odd request for a husband to make.”

“You won’t disappear?”

Her smile faded. “Not yet, my love.”

His arms crushed her to him, tears spilling from his eyes. “I thought you were gone forever. I thought I would never see you again.”

For a while they said nothing but merely stood together embracing.

Finally she gently pushed him away. “You must go back,” she said.

“Back?”

“To Delnoch. You are needed there.”

“I need you more than I need Delnoch. Can we not stay here? Together?”

“No. There is no ‘here.’ It doesn’t exist. Only you and I are real. Now you must return.”

“I will see you again, won’t I?”

“I love you, Rek. I will always love you.”

He awoke with a start, eyes focusing on the stars outside his window. Her face could still be seen, fading against the midnight sky.

“Virae!” he shouted. “Virae!” The door opened, and Serbitar ran to the bedside.

“Rek, you’re dreaming. Wake up!”

“I am awake. I saw her. She came to me in a dream and rescued me.”

“All right, but she’s gone now. Look at me.”

Rek gazed into Serbitar’s green eyes. He saw concern there, but this soon faded and the albino smiled.

“You are all right,” said Serbitar. “Tell me of the dream.”

Afterward Serbitar questioned him about the face. He wanted every detail that could be remembered. Finally he smiled.

“I think you were the victim of Nosta Khan,” he said. “But you held him off—a rare feat, Rek.”

“Virae came to me. It was not a dream?”

“I think not. The Source released her for a time.”

“I would like to believe that, I truly would.”

“I think you should. Have you looked for your sword?”

Rek swung out of the bed and padded over to the table where his armour lay. The sword was gone.

“How?” whispered Rek. Serbitar shrugged.

“It will return. Never fear!”

Serbitar lit the candles and stoked the fire to life in the hearth. As he finished, a gentle tapping came at the door.

“Come in,” called Rek.

A young officer entered, bearing the sword of Egel.

“I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but I saw the light. One of the sentries found your sword upon the Kania battlements, so I brought it here. I wiped the blood from it first, sir.”

“Blood?”

“Yes, sir. It was covered in blood. Strange how wet it still was.”

“Thank you again.” Rek turned to Serbitar. “I don’t understand.”

In the tent of Ulric the candles flickered. The warlord sat transfixed, staring at the headless body on the floor before him. The sight was one that would haunt him for the rest of his days. One moment the shaman had been sitting in trance before the coals, the next a red line had been drawn across his neck and his head had toppled into the fire.

Finally Ulric called his guards to remove the corpse, having first wiped his own sword blade across the bloody neck.

“He angered me,” he told the guards.

The Nadir chieftain left his tent and walked out under the stars. First the legendary axman, then the warriors in silver. Now a bronze devil whose magic was greater than Nosta Khan’s. Why did he feel this chill in his soul? Dros Delnoch was just another fortress. Had he not conquered a hundred such? Once he passed the gates of Delnoch, the Drenai empire was his. How could they hold against him? The answer was simple: They could not! One man—or devil—in bronze could not stem the Nadir tribes.

But what new surprises does this Dros hold? he asked himself.

He glanced up at the towering walls of Kania.

“You will fall!” he shouted. His voice echoed through the valley. “I shall bring you down!”

In the ghostly light of the predawn Gilad made his way from the mess canteen with a bowl of hot broth and a chunk of crusty black bread. Slowly he threaded his way through the ranks of men lining the walls until he came to his own position above the blocked postern tunnel. Togi was already there, sitting hunched and round-shouldered with his back to the wall. He nodded as Gilad squatted beside him, then spit on the whetstone in his callused hand and continued to sharpen his long cavalry sabre.

“Feels like rain,” said Gilad.

“Aye. It’ll slow their climbing.”

Togi never initiated a conversation yet always found a point others would miss. Theirs was a strange friendship: Togi, a taciturn black rider of fifteen years’ standing, and Gilad, a volunteer farmer from the Sentran Plain. Gilad could not remember quite how they had come into contact, for Togi’s face was scarcely memorable. He had just grown aware of the man. Men of the legion had now been spread along the wall, joining other groups. No one had said why, but it was obvious to Gilad: These were the warrior elite, and they added steel to the defence wherever they were placed. Togi was a vicious warrior who fought silently. No screams or war cries, merely a ruthless economy of movement and rare skill that left Nadir warriors dead or dismembered.

Togi did not know his own age, only that as a youth he had joined the riders as a stable boy and later had won his black cloak in the Sathuli wars. He had had a wife years back, but she had left him, taking their son with her. He had no idea where they had gone and professed not to care much. He had no friends that he spoke of and cared little for authority. Gilad had asked him once what he thought of the legion officers.

“They fight as well as the rest of us,” he said. “But it is the only thing we will ever do together.”

“What do you mean?” asked Gilad.

“Nobility. You can fight or die for them, but you will never be one of them. To them we don’t exist as people.”

“Druss is accepted,” Gilad pointed out.

“Aye. By me also,” answered Togi, a fierce gleam in his dark eyes. “That’s a man, that one. But it alters nothing. Look at the silver men who fight under the albino—not one of them is from a lowly village. An earl’s son leads them; nobles all of them.”

“Then why do you fight for them if you hate them so much?”

“Hate them? I don’t hate them. It’s just the way life is. I don’t hate anybody, and they don’t hate me. We understand each other, that’s all. To me the officers are no different from the Nadir; they’re both different races. And I fight because that’s what I do—I’m a soldier.”

“Did you always want to be a soldier?”

“What else was there?”

Gilad spread his hands. “Anything you choose.”

“I’d like to have been a king.”

“What kind of king?”

“A bloody tyrant!” answered Togi. He winked but did not smile. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was the merest flicker of movement around the eyes.

The day before, as the Earl of Bronze had made his dramatic entrance on to the walls, Gilad had nudged Togi and pointed.

“New armour—it suits him,” said the rider.

“It looks old,” said Gilad.

Togi merely shrugged. “So long as it does the job …”

That day Togi’s sabre had snapped six inches above the hilt. He had hurled himself on the leading Nadir and rammed the broken blade into his neck, snatching the man’s short sword and laying about him ferociously. His speed of thought and quicksilver movements amazed Gilad. Later, during a lull between assaults, he had retrieved a second sabre from a dead soldier.

“You fight well,” Gilad had said.

“I’m alive,” Togi had answered.

“Is that the same thing?”

“It is on these walls, though good men have fallen. But that is a matter of luck. The bad or the clumsy do not need bad luck to kill them, and even good luck wouldn’t save them for long.”

Now Togi stowed the whetstone in his pouch and wiped the curving blade with an oiled cloth. The steel shone blue-white in the gathering light.

Farther along the line Druss was chatting to the warriors, lifting their spirits with jests. He made his way toward them, and Gilad pushed himself to his feet, but Togi remained where he was. Druss, white beard ruffled by the breeze, stopped and spoke quietly to Gilad.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he said.

“I had nowhere to go,” answered Gilad.

“No. Not many men appreciate that,” said the old warrior. He glanced down at the crouching rider. “I see you there, Togi, you young pup. Still alive, then?”

“So far,” he said, looking up.

“Stay that way,” said Druss, and walked on along the line.

“That is a great man,” said Togi. “A man to die for.”

“You knew him before this?”

“Yes.” Togi would say no more, and Gilad was about to press him, when the blood-chilling sound of the Nadir war chant signalled the dawn of one more red day.

Below the walls, among the Nadir, was a giant called Nogusha. Ulric’s champion for ten years, he had been sent forward with the first wave, and with him as personal body-guards were twenty Wolfshead tribesmen. Their duty was to protect him until he could meet and kill Deathwalker. Strapped to his back was a three-foot sword, the blade six inches wide; by his side were two daggers in twin sheaths. An inch over six feet, Nogusha was the tallest warrior in the Nadir ranks and the most deadly, a veteran of three hundred hand-to-hand contests.

The horde reached the walls. Ropes swirled over the battlements, and ladders rattled on the grey stone. Nogusha barked commands to the men around him, and three tribesmen climbed above him, the others swarming alongside. The bodies of the first two above him plummeted down to the rocks below, but the third created a space for Nogusha before being hacked to death. As Nogusha gripped the battlements with one huge hand, his sword flashed into the air, while on either side of him the bodyguards closed in. The massive sword cleaved a passage as the group formed a wedge driving toward Druss some twenty paces distant. Although the Drenai closed in behind Nogusha’s band, blocking the wall, none could approach the giant tribesman. Men died beneath his flashing broadsword. On either side of him his bodyguards were faring less well: one by one they fell until at last only Nogusha still stood. By now he was only paces away from Druss, who turned and saw him, battling alone and soon to fall. Their eyes met, and understanding was there instantly. This was a man Druss would be hard put not to recognize: Nogusha the swordsman, Ulric’s executioner, a man whose deeds were the fabric of fresh Nadir legends, a living, younger counterpart to Druss himself.

The old man leapt lightly from the ramparts to the grass beyond, where he waited. He made no move to halt the attack on the Nadir warrior. Nogusha saw Druss waiting, slashed a path, and jumped clear. Several Drenai warriors made to follow him, but Druss waved them back.

“Well met, Nogusha,” said the old man.

“Well met, Deathwalker.”

“You will not live to collect Ulric’s reward,” said Druss. “There is no way back.”

“All men must die. And this moment for me is as close to paradise as I could wish for. All my life you have been there before me, making my deeds seem shadows.”

Druss nodded solemnly. “I, too, have thought of you.”

Nogusha attacked with stunning speed. Druss hammered the sword aside, stepped in, and struck a blow of awesome power with his left fist. Nogusha staggered but recovered swiftly, blocking the downward sweep of Druss’s axe. The battle that followed was brief and viciously fought. No matter how high the skill, a contest between an axman and a swordsman could never last long. Nogusha feinted to the left, then swept his sword up under Druss’s guard. With no time for thought, Druss hurled himself under the arcing blade, slamming his shoulder into Nogusha’s midriff. As the tribesman was hurled backward, the sword’s blade sliced the back of Druss’s jerkin, gashing the skin and flesh of his upper back. The old man ignored the sudden pain and threw himself across the body of the fallen swordsman. His left hand clamped over the right wrist of his opponent, and Nogusha did likewise.

The struggle was now titanic as each man strained to break the other’s grip. Their strength was nearly identical, and while Druss had the advantage of being above the fallen warrior and thus in a position to use his weight to bear down, Nogusha was younger and Druss had been cut deeply. Blood welled down his back, pooling above the thick leather belt around his jerkin.

“You … cannot hold … against me,” hissed Nogusha through clenched teeth.

Druss, face purple with effort, did not answer. The man was right; he could feel his strength ebbing. Nogusha’s right arm began to lift, the sword blade glinting in the morning sun. Druss’s left arm was beginning to shake with the effort and would give out at any moment. Suddenly the old man lifted his head and rammed his forehead down onto Nogusha’s helpless face. The man’s nose splintered as the edge of his adversary’s silver-rimmed helm crashed upon it. Thrice more Druss butted the tribesman, and Nogusha began to panic. Already his nose and one cheek-bone were smashed. He twisted, released Druss’s arm, and exploded a mighty punch to his chin, but Druss rode it and hammered Snaga into the man’s neck. Blood burst from the wound, and Nogusha ceased to struggle. His eyes met the old man’s, but no word was said: Druss had no breath, and Nogusha had no vocal chords. The tribesman transferred his gaze to the sky and died. Druss slowly pulled himself upright; then, taking Nogusha by the feet, he dragged him up the short steps to the battlements. Meanwhile the Nadir had fallen back, ready for another charge. Druss called two men and ordered them to pass up Nogusha’s body, then he climbed onto the ramparts.

“Hold on to my legs but do not let yourselves be seen,” Druss whispered to the soldiers behind him. In full view of the Nadir massed below, he pulled the body of Nogusha upright in a tight bear hug, took hold of his neck and groin, and with a mighty effort raised the huge body above his head. With a heave and a scream he hurled the body out over the walls. But for the men holding him, he would have fallen. They helped him down, their faces anxious.

“Get me to the hospital before I bleed to death,” he whispered.

27

Caessa sat beside the bed, silent but watchful, her eyes never leaving the sleeping Druss. Thirty stitches laced the wound on the axman’s broad back, the line curving alongside the shoulder blade and over the shoulder itself, where the cut was deepest. The old man was asleep, drugged with poppy wine. The blood loss from the wound had been prodigious, and he had collapsed on the way to the hospital. Caessa had stood by Calvar Syn as the stitches were inserted. She had said nothing. Now she merely sat.

She could not understand her fascination for the warrior. Certainly she did not desire him—men had never raised desire in her. Love? Was it love? She had no way of knowing, no terms of reference to gauge her feelings by. Her parents had died horribly when she was seven. Her father, a peaceful placid farmer, had tried to stop raiders from robbing his barn, and they had cut him down without a moment’s thought. Caessa’s mother had seized her by the hand and raced for the woods above the cliff. But they had been seen, and the chase was short. The woman could not carry the child, for she was pregnant. And she would not abandon her. She had fought like a wildcat but had been overpowered, abused, and slain. All the while the child had sat beneath an oak tree, frozen with terror, unable even to scream. A bearded man with foul breath had finally come to her, lifted her brutally by the hair, carried her to the cliff edge, and hurled her out over the sea.

She had missed the rocks, though her head was gashed in the fall and her right leg was broken. A fisherman saw her plunge and pulled her clear. From that day on she changed.

The laughing child laughed no more, or danced, or sang. Sullen she was, and vicious she became. Other children would not play with her, and as she grew older, she found herself more and more alone. At the age of fifteen she killed her first man, a traveller who had chattered to her by a river’s edge, asking directions. She crept into his camp and cut his throat while he slept, sitting beside him to watch him die.

He was the first of many.

The death of men made her cry. In her tears she became alive. For Caessa, to live was the most important single objective of her life. And so men died.

In later years, after her twentieth birthday, Caessa devised a new method of selecting victims: those who were attracted to her. They would be allowed to sleep with her, but later, as they dreamed—perhaps of the pleasures they had enjoyed—she would draw a sharpened blade gently across their throats. She had killed no one since joining Bowman some six months before, for Skultik had become her last refuge.

Yet now she sat beside the bed of an injured man and wished for him to live. Why?

She drew her dagger and pictured its blade drawing across the old man’s throat. Usually this death fantasy made her warm with desire, but now it created a sense of panic. In her mind’s eye she saw Druss sitting beside her in a darkened room, a log fire burning in the hearth. His arm was over her shoulder, and she was nestling into his chest. She had pictured the scene many times, but now she saw it afresh, for Druss was so large, a giant in her fantasy. And she knew why.

She was seeing him through the eyes of a seven-year-old.

Orrin slipped quietly into the room. He was thinner now, drawn and haggard, yet stronger. An indefinable quality marked his features. Lines of fatigue had aged him, but the change was more subtle; it emanated from the eyes. He had been a soldier longing to be a warrior; now he was a warrior longing to be anything else. He had seen war and cruelty, death and dismemberment. He had watched the sharp beaks of crows at work on dead men’s eyes and the growth of worms in pus-filled sockets. And he had found himself and wondered no longer.

“How is he?” he asked Caessa.

“He will recover. But he will not fight for weeks.”

“Then he will not fight again, for we have only days. Prepare him to be moved.”

“He cannot be moved,” she said, turning to look at him for the first time.

“He must be. We are giving up the wall, and we draw back tonight. We lost over four hundred men today. Wall Four is only a hundred yards long; we can hold that for days. Get him ready.”

She nodded and rose. “You are tired, too, General,” she said. “You should rest.”

“I will soon,” he answered, and smiled. The smile sent a shiver down her back. “We will all rest soon, I think.”

Bearers transferred Druss to a stretcher, lifting him gently and covering him with white blankets against the night cold. With other wounded men they made a convoy to Wall Four, where ropes were lowered and the stretchers were silently raised. No torches were lit, and only the light of the stars bathed the scene. Orrin climbed the last rope and hauled himself over the battlements. A helping hand reached out and pulled him upright; it was Gilad.

“You always seem on hand to help me, Gilad. Not that I’m complaining.”

Gilad smiled. “With the weight you’ve lost, General, you would win that race now.”

“Ah, the race! It seems like a different age. What happened to your friend. The one with the axe?”

“He went home.”

“A wise man. Why did you stay?”

Gilad shrugged. He had grown tired of the question.

“It’s a nice night, the best yet,” said Orrin. “Strange, I used to lie in bed at night and watch the stars. They always made me sleepy. Now I have no need of sleep. I feel I’m throwing away life. Do you feel that?”

“No, sir. I sleep like a baby.”

“Good. Well, I’ll say good night, then.”

“Good night, sir.”

Orrin walked away slowly, then turned. “We didn’t do too badly, did we?” he said.

“No, sir,” replied Gilad. “I think the Nadir will remember us without affection.”

“Yes. Good night.” He had begun the walk down the short rampart steps when Gilad stepped forward.

“Sir!”

“Yes?”

“I … I wanted to say … Well, just that I have been proud to serve under you. That’s all, sir.”

“Thank you, Gilad. But I am the one who should be proud. Good night.”

Togi said nothing as Gilad returned to the wall, but the young officer could feel the rider’s eyes upon him.

“Well, say it,” said Gilad. “Get it over with.”

“Say what?”

Gilad looked at his friend’s blank face and searched his eyes for signs of humour or contempt. Nothing showed. “I thought you would think … I don’t know,” he said lamely.

“The man has shown quality and courage, and you told him so. There is no harm in that, although it wasn’t your place. In peacetime I’d think you were crawling, currying favour with a comment like that. Not here. There is nothing to gain, and he knew that. So it was well said.”

“Thank you,” said Gilad.

“For what?”

“For understanding. You know, I believe he is a great man, greater than Druss, perhaps. For he has neither Druss’s courage nor Hogun’s skill, yet he is still here. Still trying.”

“He’ll not last long.”

“None of us will,” said Gilad.

“No, but he won’t see the last day. He’s too tired—up here he’s too tired.” Togi tapped his temple.

“I think you’re wrong.”

“No, you don’t. That’s why you spoke to him as you did. You sensed it, too.”

Druss floated on an ocean of pain, burning, searing his body. His jaw clamped shut, teeth grinding against the insistent agony creeping like slow acid through his back. Words were almost impossible, hissed through gritted teeth, and the faces of those around his bed shivered and swam, blurring beyond recognition.

He became unconscious, but the pain followed him down into the depths of dreams where gaunt, shadow-haunted landscapes surrounded him and jagged mountains reared black against a grey, brooding sky. Druss lay on the mountain, unable to move against the pain, his eyes focused on a small grove of lightning-blasted trees some twenty paces from where he lay. Standing before them was a man dressed in black. He was lean, and his eyes were dark. He moved forward and sat on a boulder, gazing down at the axman.

“So, it comes to this,” he said. The voice had a hollow ring like wind whistling through a cavern.

“I shall recover,” hissed Druss, blinking away the sweat dripping into his eyes.

“Not from this,” said the man. “You should be dead now.”

“I have been cut before.”

“Ah, but the blade was poisoned—green sap from the northern marshes. Now you are riddled with gangrene.”

“No! I will die with my axe in my hand.”

“Think you so? I have waited for you, Druss, through these many years. I have watched the legions of travellers cross the dark river at your hands. And I have watched you. Your pride is colossal, your conceit immense. You have tasted glory and prized your strength above all else. Now you will die. No axe. No glory. Never to cross the dark river to the Forever Halls. There is satisfaction for me in this; can you understand that? Can you comprehend it?”

“No. Why do you hate me?”

“Why? Because you conquer fear. And because your life mocks me. It is not enough that you die. All men die, peasants and kings—all are mine, come the end. But you, Druss, you are special. Were you to die as you desire, you would mock me still. So for you I have devised this exquisite torture.

“You should by now be dead from your wound. But I have not yet claimed you. And now the pain will grow more intense. You will writhe … You will scream … Finally your mind will snap and you will beg. Beg for me. And I shall come and take you by the hand, and you will be mine. Men’s last memories of you will be of a mewling, weeping wreck. They will despise you, and your legend will be tainted at the last.”

Druss forced his massive arms beneath him and struggled to rise. But the pain drove him down once more, forcing a groan through clenched teeth.

“That’s it, axman. Struggle on. Try harder. You should have stayed on your mountain and enjoyed your dotage. Vain man! You could not resist the call of blood. Suffer—and bring me joy.”

In the makeshift hospital Calvar Syn lifted the hot towels from Druss’s bare back, replacing them swiftly as the stench filled the room. Serbitar stepped forward and also examined the wound.

“It is hopeless,” said Calvar Syn, rubbing his hand over the polished dome of his skull. “Why is he still alive?”

“I don’t know,” said the albino softly. “Caessa, has he spoken?”

The girl glanced up from her bedside chair, her eyes dull with fatigue. She shook her head. The door opened, and Rek moved inside silently. He lifted his eyebrows in a question to the surgeon, but Calvar Syn shook his head.

“Why?” asked Rek. “The wound was no worse than he has had before.”

“Gangrene. The wound will not close, and the poison has spread through his body. He cannot be saved. All the experience I have gained in forty years says he should now be dead. His body is putrefying at an amazing rate.”

“He is a tough old man. How long can he last?”

“He will not live to see tomorrow,” answered the surgeon.

“How goes it on the wall?” asked Serbitar. Rek shrugged. His armour was bloody, and his eyes tired.

“We are holding for the moment, but they are in the tunnel beneath us, and the gate will not stand. It’s a damned shame we had no time to fill the gate tunnel. I think they will be through before dusk. They have already burst a postern gate, but Hogun and a few others are holding the stairwell.

“That’s why I came, Doctor. I’m afraid you will have to prepare once more for evacuation. From now on the hospital will be at the keep. How soon can you move?”

“How can I say? Men are being brought in all the time.”

“Begin your preparations, anyway. Those who are too badly hurt to be moved must be dispatched.”

“What?” shouted the surgeon. “Murdered, you mean?”

“Exactly so. Move those who can move. The others … how do you think the Nadir will treat them?”

“I will move everyone, regardless. If they die during the evacuation, it will still be better than knifing them in their beds.”

“Then begin now. We are wasting time,” said Rek.

On the wall Gilad and Togi joined Hogun at the postern stairwell. The stairs were littered with corpses, but more Nadir warriors rounded the bend in the spiral and scrambled over the bodies. Hogun stepped forward, blocking a thrust, and disembowelled the leading man. He fell, tripping the warrior behind him. Togi slashed a two-handed stroke through the second man’s neck as he fell in turn. Two more warriors advanced, holding round ox hide shields before them. Behind, others pushed forward.

“It’s like holding back the sea with a bucket,” yelled Togi.

Above them the Nadir gained a foothold on the ramparts, driving a wedge into the Drenai formation. Orrin saw the danger and raced forward with fifty men of the new Group Karnak. Below them to the right the battering ram thundered against the giant gates of oak and bronze. So far the gates held, but ominous cracks had appeared beneath the crossed centre beams, and the wood groaned under the impact.

Orrin battled his way to the Nadir wedge, using his sword two-handed, cutting and slashing with no attempt at defence. Beside him a Drenai warrior fell, his throat gashed. Orrin backhanded a cut to the attacker’s face, then blocked a blow from his left.

It was three hours to dusk.

Bowman knelt on the grass behind the battlements, three quivers of arrows before him on the ground. Coolly he notched shaft to his bow, drew, and let fly. A man to the left of Orrin fell, the arrow piercing his temple. Then a second Nadir fell to Orrin’s sword before another arrow downed a third. The wedge was falling apart as the Drenai hacked their way forward.

At the stairwell Togi was bandaging a long gash in his forearm while a fresh squad of legion warriors held the entrance. Gilad leaned against a boulder, wiping sweat from his brow.

“A long day,” he said.

“It will be longer yet,” muttered Togi. “They can sense how close they are to taking the wall.”

“Yes. How is the arm?”

“All right,” answered Togi. “Where now?”

“Hogun said to fill in where we’re needed.”

“That could be anywhere. I’m for the gate. Coming?”

“Why not?” answered Gilad, smiling.

Rek and Serbitar cleared a section of battlements, then raced to join Orrin and his group. All along the wall the defensive line was bending. But it held.

“If we can hold out until they re-form for another charge, we may yet have time to get everyone back behind Valteri,” yelled Orrin as Rek fought his way alongside.

For another hour the battle raged, then the huge bronze head of the battering ram breached the timbers of the gate. The great beam at the centre sagged as a crack appeared; then, with a tearing groan, it slid from its sockets. The ram was withdrawn slowly to clear the way for the fighting men beyond.

Gilad sent a runner to the battlements to inform Rek or either of the gans, then drew his sword and waited with fifty others to hold the entrance.

As he rocked his head from side to side to ease the aching muscles of his shoulders, he glanced at Togi. The man was smiling.

“What is so funny?”

“My own stupidity,” answered Togi. “I suggested the gates to get a bit of rest. Now I’m going to encounter death.”

Gilad said nothing. Death! His friend was right: There would be no escape to Wall Five for the men at the gate. He felt the urge to turn and run and suppressed it. What did it matter, anyway? He had seen enough of death in the last few weeks. And if he survived, what would he do, where would he go? Back to the farm and a dull wife? Grow old somewhere, toothless and senile, telling endlessly boring stories of his youth and courage?

“Great gods!” said Togi suddenly. “Just look at that!”

Gilad turned. Coming slowly toward them across the grass was Druss, leaning on the girl outlaw, Caessa. He staggered and almost fell, but she held him. As they came closer, Gilad swallowed back the horror he felt. The old man’s face had a sunken look; it was pallid and tinged with blue, like a two-day-old corpse. The men stepped aside as Caessa steered Druss to the centre of the line, then she drew a short sword and stood with him.

The gates opened, and the Nadir poured through. Druss, with great effort, drew Snaga. He could hardly see through the mists of pain, and each step had been a new agony as the girl had brought him forward. She had dressed him carefully, crying all the while, then helped him to his feet. He himself had begun to weep, for the pain was unbearable.

“I can’t make it,” he had whimpered.

“You can,” she had told him. “You must.”

“The pain …”

“You have had pain before. Fight through it.”

“I cannot. I’m finished.”

“Listen to me, damn you! You are Druss the Legend, and men are dying out there. One last time, Druss. Please. You mustn’t give up like an ordinary man. You are Druss. You can do it. Stop them. You must stop them. My mother’s out there!”

His vision cleared momentarily, and he saw her madness. He could not understand it, for he knew nothing of her life, but he sensed her need. With an effort that tore an agonizing scream from him, he bunched his legs beneath himself and stood, clamping a huge hand to a shelf on the wall to hold himself upright. The pain grew, but he was angry now and used the pain to spur himself on.

Druss took a deep breath. “Come on, little Caessa, let’s find your mother,” he said. “But you will have to help me; I’m a little unsteady.”

The Nadir swept through the gates and onto the waiting blades of the Drenai. Above them, Rek received word of the calamity. For the moment the attack on the wall had ceased as men massed below in the gate tunnel.

“Back!” he shouted. “Get to Wall Five.” Men began to run across the grass, through the deserted streets of outer Delnoch, streets that Druss had cleared of people so many days before. There would be no killing ground now between walls, for the buildings still stood, haunted and empty.

Warriors raced for the transient security of Wall Five, giving no thought to the rear guard at the broken gate. Gilad did not blame them and, strangely, had no wish to be with them.

Only Orrin, as he ran, noticed the rear guard. He turned to join them, but Serbitar was beside him, grasping his arm. “No,” he said. “It would be useless.”

They ran on. Behind them the Nadir breasted the wall and raced in pursuit.

In the gateway the carnage continued. Druss, fighting from memory, hacked and slashed at the advancing warriors. Togi died as a short lance hammered into his chest; Gilad did not see him fall. For Caessa the scene was different: There were ten raiders, and Druss was battling against them all. Each time he killed a man, she smiled. Eight … Nine …

The last of the raiders, a man she could never forget, for he had killed her mother, came forward. He had a gold earring and a scar running from eyebrow to chin. Lifting her sword, she hurled herself forward, ramming the blade into his belly. The squat Nadir toppled backward, pulling the girl with him. A knife sliced between her shoulder blades. But she did not feel it. The raiders were all dead, and for the first time since childhood she was safe. Her mother would come out of the trees now and take her home, and Druss would be given a huge meal, and they would laugh. And she would sing for him. She would …

Only seven men still stood around Druss and the Nadir surrounded them. A lance thrust out suddenly, crushing Druss’s ribs and piercing a lung. Snaga lashed back a murderous reply, cutting the lancer’s arm from his shoulder. As he fell, Gilad sliced his throat. Then Gilad himself fell, pierced through the back, and Druss stood alone. The Nadir fell back as one of their captains moved forward.

“Remember me, Deathwalker?” he said.

Druss tore the lance from his side, hurling it away from him.

“I remember you, lardbelly. The herald!”

“You said you would have my soul, yet I stand here and you die. What think you of that?”

Suddenly Druss lifted his arm to fling Snaga forward, and the blade split the herald’s head like a pumpkin.

“I think you talk too much,” said Druss. He toppled to his knees and looked down to see the lifeblood flowing from him. Beside him Gilad was dying, but his eyes were open. “It was good to be alive, wasn’t it, boy?”

Around them the Nadir stood, but no move was made against them. Druss looked up and pointed at a warrior.

“You, boy,” he said in guttural dialect, “fetch my axe.” For a moment the warrior did not move, then he shrugged and pulled Snaga from the head of the herald. “Bring it here,” ordered Druss. As the young soldier advanced, Druss could see that he intended to kill him with his own weapon, but a voice barked out a command and the warrior stiffened. He handed Druss the axe and moved back.

Druss’s eyes were misting now, and he could not make out the figure looming before him.

“You did well, Deathwalker,” said Ulric. “Now you can rest.”

“If I had just one more ounce of strength, I would cut you down,” muttered Druss, struggling with his axe. But the weight was too great.

“I know that. I did not know Nogusha carried poison on his blade. Will you believe that?”

Druss’s head bowed, and he toppled forward.

Druss the Legend was dead.

28

Six hundred Drenai warriors watched silently as the Nadir gathered about the body of Druss and lifted it gently, bearing it back through the gates he had striven to hold. Ulric was the last man to pass the portals. In the shadow of the broken timbers he turned, his violet eyes scanning the men at the wall, stopping at last to rest on a figure of bronze. Ulric lifted his hand as if in greeting, then slowly pointed at Rek. The message was clear enough.

First the legend, now the earl.

Rek made no reply but merely watched as the Nadir warlord strode into the shadows of the gate and out of sight.

“He died hard,” said Hogun as Rek turned and sat back on the ramparts, lifting his helm visor.

“What did you expect?” asked Rek, rubbing tired eyes with weary fingers. “He lived hard.”

“We will follow him soon,” said Hogun. “There’s not a day’s fighting left in the men we have. The city is deserted now: even the camp baker has left.”

“What of the council?” asked Rek.

“Gone, all of them. Bricklyn should be back in the next day or two with words from Abalayn. I think he will be bringing his message directly to Ulric—he’ll be based in the keep by then.”

Rek did not answer; there was no need. It was true: The battle was over. Only the massacre remained.

Serbitar, Vintar, and Menahem approached silently, their white cloaks tattered and bloody. But there was no mark of wounds upon them. Serbitar bowed.

“The end is come,” he said. “What are your orders?”

Rek shrugged. “What would you have me say?”

“We could fall back to the keep,” offered Serbitar, “but we have not enough men to hold even that.”

“Then we will die here,” said Rek. “One place is as good as another.”

“Truly,” said Vintar gently. “But I think we have a few hours grace.”

“Why?” asked Hogun, loosening the bronze brooch at his shoulder and removing his cloak.

“I think the Nadir will not attack again today. Today they have slain a mighty man, a legend even among their ranks. They will feast and celebrate. Tomorrow, when we die, they will feast again.”

Rek removed his helm, welcoming the cool breeze on his sweat-drenched head. Overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun golden. He drew in a deep breath of clear mountain air, feeling its power soaking into tired limbs. His mind flew back to days of joy with Horeb in the inn at Drenan, long-gone days, never to be revisited. He swore aloud, then laughed.

“If they don’t attack, we should have a party of our own,” he said. “Gods, a man can die but once in a lifetime! Surely it’s worth celebrating.” Hogun grinned and shook his head, but Bowman, who had approached unnoticed, clapped Rek on the shoulder.

“Now, that is my kind of language,” he said. “But why not do it properly, go the whole way?”

“The whole way?” asked Rek.

“We could join the Nadir party,” said Bowman. “Then they would have to buy the drinks.”

“There’s some truth in that, Earl of Bronze,” said Serbitar. “Shall we join them?”

“Have you gone mad?” said Rek, looking from one to the other.

“As you said, Rek, we only die once,” suggested Bowman. “We have nothing to lose. Anyway, we should be protected by the Nadir laws of hospitality.”

“This is insanity!” said Rek. “You’re not serious?”

“Yes, I am,” said Bowman. “I think I would like to pay my last respects to Druss. And it will make a grand exit for Nadir poets to sing about in later years. Drenai poets are almost bound to pick it up, too. I like the idea; it has a certain poetic beauty to it. Dining in the dragon’s lair.”

“Damn it, I’m with you, then,” said Rek. “Though I think my mind must be unhinged. When should we leave?”

Ulric’s ebony throne had been set outside his tent, and the Nadir warlord sat upon it dressed in eastern robes of gold thread upon silk. Upon his head was the goatskin-fringed crown of the Wolfshead tribe, and his black hair was braided after the fashion of the Ventrian kings. Around him, in a vast circle many thousands strong, sat his captains; beyond them were many other circles of men. At the centre of each circle Nadir women danced in a frenzy of motion in tune to the rippling rhythms of a hundred drums. In the circle of captains the women danced around a funeral pyre ten feet high on which lay Druss the Legend, arms crossed and ax upon his chest.

Outside the circles, countless fires blazed and the smell of burning meat filled the air. Everywhere camp women carried yokes bearing buckets of Lyrrd, an alcohol brewed from goat’s milk. Ulric himself drank Lentrian red in honour of Druss. He did not like the drink; it was too thin and watery for a man reared on the more potent liquors brewed on the northern steppes. But he drank it anyway. It would be bad manners to do less, for the spirit of Druss had been invited among them: A spare goblet was filled to the brim beside Ulric’s own, and a second throne had been set to the right of the Nadir warlord.

Ulric stared moodily over the rim of his goblet, focusing his gaze on the body atop the pyre.

“It was a good time to die, old man,” he said softly. “You will be remembered in our songs, and men will talk of you around our camp fires for generations to come.”

The moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the stars gleamed like distant candles. Ulric sat back and gazed into eternity. Why this black mood? What was the weight his soul carried? Rarely before had he felt this way, and certainly never on the eve of such a victory.

Why?

His gaze returned to the body of the axman.

“You have done this to me, Deathwalker,” he said. “For your heroics have made me the dark shadow.”

In all legends, Ulric knew, there were bright heroes and dark, dark evil. It was the very fabric of each tale.

“I am not evil,” he said. “I am a warrior born, with a people to protect and a nation to build.” He swallowed another mouthful of Lentrian and refilled his goblet.

“My lord, is something wrong?” asked his carle-captain, Ogasi, the thickset steppe rider who had slain Virae.

“He accuses me,” said Ulric, pointing to the body.

“Shall we light the pyre?”

Ulric shook his head. “Not until midnight. The gates must be open when he arrives.”

“You do him great honour, lord. Why, then, does he accuse you?”

“With his death. Nogusha carried a poisoned blade. I had the story from his tent servant.”

“That was not at your command, lord. I was there.”

“Does it matter? Am I no longer responsible for those who serve me? I have tainted my legend in order to end his. A dark, dark deed, Ulric Wolfshead.”

“He would have died tomorrow anyway,” said Ogasi. “He lost only a day.”

“Ask yourself, Ogasi, what that day meant. Men like Deathwalker come perhaps once in twenty lifetimes. They are rare. So what is that day worth to ordinary men? A year? Ten years? A lifetime? Did you see him die?”

“I did, lord.”

“And will you forget it?”

“No, lord.”

“Why not? You have seen brave men die before.”

“He was special,” said Ogasi. “Even when he fell at the last, I thought he would rise. Even now some of the men cast fearful glances at his pyre, expecting to see him stand again.”

“How could he have stood against us?” asked Ulric. “His face was blue with gangrene. His heart should have stopped long since. And the pain …”

Ogasi shrugged. “While men compete in war, there will be warriors. While there are warriors, there will be princes among warriors. Among the princes will be kings, and among the kings an emperor. You said it yourself, my lord. Such as he come once in twenty lifetimes. You would expect him to die in his bed?”

“No. I had thought to let his name die. Soon I will control the mightiest empire known to men. History will be as I write it.

“I could erase him from the memory of men or, worse still, sully his name until his legend reeks. But I shall not. I will have a book written about his life, and men shall know how he thwarted me.”

“I would expect nothing less from Ulric,” said Ogasi, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“Ah, but then you know me, my friend. There are others among the Drenai who will be expecting me to dine on Druss’s mighty heart. Eater of babies, the plague that walks, the barbarian of Gulgothir.”

“Names you yourself invented, my lord, I think.”

“True. But then, a leader must know all the weapons of war. And there are many which owe nothing to the lance and sword, the bow and the sling. The word steals men’s souls, while the sword kills only their bodies. Men see me and know fear. It is a potent device."

“Some weapons turn on their users, my lord. I have—” The man suddenly stuttered to silence.

“Speak, Ogasi! What ails you?”

“The Drenai, my lord! They are in the camp!” said Ogasi, his eyes wide in disbelief. Ulric spun in his chair. Everywhere the circles were breaking as men stood to watch the Earl of Bronze striding toward the Lord of the Nadir.

Behind him in ranks came sixteen men in silver armour, and behind them a legion gan walking beside a blond warrior bearing a longbow.

The drums petered to silence, and all eyes swung from the Drenai group to the seated warlord. Ulric’s eyes narrowed as he saw that the men were armed. Panic welled in his breast, but he forced it down, his mind racing. Would they just walk up and slay him? He heard the hiss of Ogasi’s blade leaving its scabbard and raised a hand.

“No, my friend. Let them approach.”

“It is madness, lord,” whispered Ogasi as the Drenai drew nearer.

“Pour wine for our guests. The time to kill them will come after the feast. Be prepared.”

Ulric gazed down from his raised throne into the grey-blue eyes of the Earl of Bronze. The man had forsaken his helm but otherwise was fully armoured, the great sword of Egel hanging at his side. His companions stood back, awaiting events. There was little sign of tension, though the legion general Ulric knew as Hogun had his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt and was watching Ogasi keenly.

“Why are you here?” asked Ulric. “You are not welcome in my camp.”

The earl looked slowly about him and then returned the gaze of the Nadir warlord.

“It is strange,” he said, “how a battle can change a man’s perspective. First, I am not in your camp, I am standing on Delnoch ground, and that is mine by right—it is you who are on my lands. Be that as it may, for tonight you are welcome. As to why I am here. My friends and I have come to bid farewell to Druss the Legend—Deathwalker. Is Nadir hospitality so poor that no refreshment is offered us?”

Ogasi’s hand strayed toward his sword once more. The Earl of Bronze did not move.

“If that sword is drawn,” he said softly, “I will remove his head.”

Ulric waved Ogasi back.

“Do you think to leave here alive?” he asked Rek.

“If I so choose, yes,” replied the earl.

“And I have no say in this matter?”

“None.”

“Truly? Now you intrigue me. All around you are Nadir bowmen. At my signal your bright armour will be hidden by black-shafted arrows. And you say I cannot?”

“If you can, then order it,” demanded the earl. Ulric moved his gaze to the archers. Arrows were ready, and many bows were already bent, their iron points glittering in the firelight.

“Why can I not order it?” he asked.

“Why have you not?” countered the earl.

“Curiosity. What is the real purpose of your visit? Have you come to slay me?”

“No. If I wished, I could have slain you as I killed your shaman: silently, invisibly. Your head would now be a worm-filled shell. There is no duplicity here. I came to honour my friend. Will you offer me hospitality or shall I return to my fortress?”

“Ogasi!” called Ulric.

“My lord?”

“Fetch refreshments for the earl and his followers. Order the archers back to their fires and let the entertainment continue.”

“Yes, lord,” said Ogasi dubiously.

Ulric gestured the earl to the throne at his side. Rek nodded and turned to Hogun. “Go and enjoy yourselves. Return for me in an hour.”

Hogun saluted, and Rek watched his small group wander off around the camp. He smiled as Bowman leaned over a seated Nadir and lifted a goblet of Lyrrd. The man stared when he saw his drink disappear, then laughed as Bowman drained it without a splutter.

“Damn good, hey?” said the warrior. “Better than that red vinegar from the south.”

Bowman nodded and pulled a flask from his hip pouch, offering it to the man. Suspicion was evident in the hesitant way the Nadir accepted the flask, but his friends were watching.

Slowly he removed the top, then took a tentative sip, followed by a full-blown swallow.

“This is damn good, too,” said the man. “What is it?”

“They call it Lentrian fire. Once tasted, never forgotten!”

The man nodded, then moved aside to make a place for Bowman.

“Join us, longbow. Tonight no war. We talk, yes?”

“Decent of you, old horse. I think I will.”

Seated on the throne, Rek lifted Druss’s goblet of Lentrian red and raised it toward the pyre. Ulric also raised his goblet, and both men silently toasted the fallen axman.

“He was a great man,” said Ulric. “My father told me tales of him and his lady. Rowena, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, he loved her greatly.”

“It is fitting,” said Ulric, “that such a man should know great love. I am sorry he is gone. It would be a fine thing if war could be conducted as a game where no lives were lost. At the end of a battle combatants could meet—even as we are doing—and drink and talk.”

“Druss would not have had it so,” said the earl. “Were this a game where the odds mattered, Dros Delnoch would already be yours. But Druss was a man who could change the odds and make nonsense of logic.”

“Up to a point, for he is dead. But what of you? What manner of man are you, Earl Regnak?”

“Just a man, Lord Ulric—even as you.”

Ulric leaned closer, his chin resting on his hand. “But then, I am not an ordinary man. I have never lost a battle.”

“Nor yet have I.”

“You intrigue me. You appear from nowhere, with no past, married to the dying earl’s daughter. No one has ever heard of you, and no man can tell me of your deeds. Yet men die for you as they would for a beloved king. Who are you?”

“I am the Earl of Bronze.”

“No. That I will not accept.”

“Then what would you have me say?”

“Very well, you are the Earl of Bronze. It matters not. Tomorrow you may return to your grave—you and all those who follow you. You began this battle with ten thousand men; you now boast perhaps seven hundred. You pin your faith on Magnus Woundweaver, but he cannot reach you in time, and even if he did, it would matter not. Look about you. This army is bred on victory. And it grows. I have four armies like this. Can I be stopped?”

“Stopping you is not important,” said the earl. “It never was.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“We are trying to stop you.”

“Is this a riddle which I should understand?”

“Your understanding is not important. It may be that destiny intends you to succeed. It may be that a Nadir empire will prove vastly beneficial to the world. But ask yourself this: Were there no army here when you arrived, save Druss alone, would he have opened the gate to you?”

“No. He would have fought and died,” said Ulric.

“But he would not have expected to win. So why would he do it?”

“Now I understand your riddle, Earl. But it saddens me that so many men must die when it is futile to resist. Nevertheless I respect you. I will see that your pyre is as high as that of Druss.”

“Thank you, no. If you do kill me, lay my body in a garden beyond the keep. There is already a grave there, surrounded by flowers, within which lies my wife. Put my body beside it.”

Ulric fell silent for several minutes, taking time to refill the goblets.

“It shall be as you wish, Earl of Bronze,” he said at last. “Join me in my tent now. We shall eat a little meat, drink a little wine, and be friends. I shall tell you of my life and my dreams, and you may talk of the past and your joys.”

“Why only the past, Lord Ulric?”

“It is all you have left, my friend.”

29

At midnight, as the flames from the funeral pyre blazed against the night sky, the Nadir horde drew their weapons, holding them aloft in silent tribute to the warrior whose soul, they believed, stood at the gates of paradise.

Rek and the company of Drenai followed suit, then he turned and bowed to Ulric. Ulric returned the bow, and the company set off to return to the postern gate of Wall Five. The return journey was made in silence, each man’s thoughts his own.

Bowman thought of Caessa and of her death at Druss’s side. He had loved her in his way, though he had never spoken of it. To love her was to die.

Hogun’s mind reeled with the awesome picture of the Nadir army seen from close range, numberless and mighty. Unstoppable!

Serbitar thought of the journey he would make with the remnants of the Thirty at dusk on the morrow. Only Arbedark would be missing, for they had convened the night before and declared him an abbot. Now he would journey from Delnoch alone to found a new temple in Ventria.

Rek fought against despair. Ulric’s last words echoed again and again in his mind:

“Tomorrow you will see the Nadir as never before. We have paid homage to your courage by attacking only in daylight, allowing you to rest at night. Now I need to take your keep, and there will be no rest until it falls. Day and night we will come at you until none are left alive to oppose us.”

Silently the group mounted the postern steps, making its way to the mess hall. Rek knew sleep would not come to him this night. It was his last night upon the earth, and his tired body summoned fresh reserves so that he could taste life and know the sweetness of drawing breath.

The group sat around a trestle table, and Rek poured wine. Of the Thirty, only Serbitar and Vintar remained. For many minutes the five men said little, until at last Hogun broke the uncomfortable silence.

“We knew it would come to this, did we not? There was no way to hold indefinitely.”

“Very true, old horse,” said Bowman. “Still, it is a trifle disappointing, don’t you think? I must own that I always kept alive a small hope that we would succeed. Now that it is gone, I feel a tiny twinge of panic.” He smiled gently and finished his drink with a single swallow.

“You are not pledged to stay,” said Hogun.

“True. Perhaps I will leave in the morning.”

“I don’t think you will, though I don’t know why,” said Hogun.

“Well, if truth be told, I promised that Nadir warrior, Kaska, that I would have another drink with him once they took the keep. Nice chap—if a trifle maudlin in his cups. He has six wives and twenty-three children. It is a wonder he has the time to come to war.”

“Or the strength!” added Hogun, grinning. “And what of you, Rek. Why do you stay?”

“Hereditary stupidity,” answered Rek.

“That is not enough,” said Bowman. “Come on, Rek—the truth, if you please.”

Rek scanned the group swiftly, noting the fatigue on all their faces and realizing for the first time that he loved them all.

His eyes met Vintar’s, and understanding flowed between them. The older man smiled.

“I think,” said Rek, “that only the Abbot of Swords can answer that question—for all of us.”

Vintar nodded and closed his eyes for several moments. All the men knew he was searching their hearts and minds, yet there was no fear, no embarrassment, no desire any longer to be alone.

“All things that live must die,” said Vintar. “Man alone, it seems, lives all his life in the knowledge of death. And yet there is more to life than merely waiting for death. For life to have meaning, there must be a purpose. A man must pass something on—otherwise he is useless.

“For most men that purpose revolves around marriage and children who will carry on his seed. For others it is an ideal—a dream, if you like. Each of us here believes in the concept of honour: that it is man’s duty to do that which is right and just, that might alone is not enough. We have all transgressed at some time. We have stolen, lied, cheated—even killed—for our own ends. But ultimately we return to our beliefs. We do not allow the Nadir to pass unchallenged because we cannot. We judge ourselves more harshly than others can judge us. We know that death is preferable to betrayal of that which we hold dear.

“Hogun, you are a soldier and you have faith in the Drenai cause. You have been told to stand and will do so without question. It would not occur to you that there were any alternatives but to obey. And yet you understand when others think differently. You are a rare man.

“Bowman, you are a romantic and yet a cynic. You mock the nobility of man, for you have seen that too often nobility gives way to more base desires. Yet you have secretly set yourself standards which other men will never understand. You, more than any of the others, desire to live. The urge is strong in you to run away. But you will not, not as long as a single man stands to defend these walls. Your courage is great.

“Rek, you are the most difficult to answer for. Like Bowman, you are a romantic, but there is a depth to you which I have not tried to plumb. You are intuitive and intelligent, but it is your intuition that guides you. You know it is right that you stay—and also senseless that you stay. Your intellect tells you that this cause is folly, but your intuition forces you to reject your intellect. You are that rare animal, a born leader of men. And you cannot leave.

“All of you are bound together in chains a thousand times stronger than steel.

“And finally there is one—who comes now—for which all I have said remains true. He is a lesser man than any here and yet a greater, for his fears are greater than yours, and yet he also will stand firm and die beside you.”

The door opened, and Orrin entered, his armour bright and freshly oiled. Silently he sat among them, accepting a goblet of wine.

“I trust Ulric was in good health,” he said.

“He has never looked better, old horse,” answered Bowman.

“Then we will give him a bloody nose tomorrow,” said the general, his dark eyes gleaming.

The dawn sky was bright and clear as the Drenai warriors ate a cold breakfast of bread and cheese, washed down with honeyed water. Every man who could stand manned the walls, blades to the ready. As the Nadir prepared to advance, Rek leapt to the battlements and turned to face the defenders.

“No long speeches today,” he shouted. “We all know our plight. But I want to say that I am proud, more proud than I could ever have imagined. I wish I could find words …” He stammered to silence, then lifted his sword from its scabbard and held it high.

“By all the gods that ever walked, I swear that you are the finest men I ever knew. And if I could have chosen the end of this tale and peopled it with heroes of the past, I would not change a single thing. For no one could have given more than you have.

“And I thank you."

“But if any man here wishes to leave now, he may do so. Many of you have wives, children, others depending on you. If that be the case, leave now with my blessing. For what we do here today will not affect the outcome of the war.”

He leapt lightly to the ramparts to re-join Orrin and Hogun.

Farther along the line a young cul shouted: “What of you, Earl of Bronze? Will you stay?”

Rek stepped to the wall once more. “I must stay, but I give you leave to go.”

No man moved, though many considered it.

The Nadir war cry rose, and the battle began.

Throughout that long day, no foothold could be gained by the Nadir and the carnage was terrible.

The great sword of Egel lunged and slew, cleaving armour, flesh, and bone, and the Drenai fought like demons, cutting and slaying ferociously. For these, as Serbitar had predicted so many weeks ago, were the finest of the fighting men, and death and fear of death had no place in their minds. Time and again the Nadir reeled back, bloodied and bemused.

But as dusk approached, the assault on the gates strengthened and the great barrier of bronze and oak began to buckle. Serbitar led the last of the Thirty to stand, as Druss had done, in the shadow of the gate porch. Rek raced to join them, but a withering mind pulse from Serbitar ordered him back to the wall. He was about to resist when Nadir warriors scrambled over the ramparts behind him. Egel’s sword flashed, beheading the first, and Rek was once more in the thick of battle.

In the gateway Serbitar was joined by Suboden, the captain of his Vagrian bodyguard. Only some sixty men were still alive out of the force that had originally arrived.

“Go back to the walls,” said Serbitar.

The fair-haired Vagrian shook his head. “I cannot. We are here as your carle-guard, and we will die with you.”

“You bear me no love, Suboden. You have made that plain.”

“Love has little to do with my duty, Lord Serbitar. Even so, I hope you will forgive me. I thought your powers were demon-sent, but no man possessed would stand as you do now.”

“There is nothing to forgive, but you have my blessing,” Serbitar told the blond carle-captain.

The gates splintered suddenly, and with a roar of triumph the Nadir burst through, hurling themselves upon the defenders spearheaded by the white-haired templar.

Drawing a slender Ventrian dagger, Serbitar fought two-handed, blocking, stabbing, parrying, and cutting. Men fell before him, but always more leapt to fill the breach he created. Beside him the slim

Vagrian carle-captain hacked and hammered at the oncoming barbarians. An axe splintered his shield, but hurling aside the fragments, he took a double-handed grip on his sword, bellowed his

defiance, and launched himself forward. An axe crushed his ribs, and a lance tore into his thigh. He fell into the seething mass, stabbing left and right. A kick sent him sprawling to his back, and three

spears buried themselves in his chest. Feebly he sought to lift his sword one last time, but an iron-studded boot stamped on his hand, while a blow from a wooden club ended his life.

Vintar fought coolly, pushing himself alongside the albino, waiting for the arrow he knew would be loosed at any second. Ducking beneath a slashing sword, he disembowelled his opponent and turned.

In the shadows of the sundered gates an archer drew back on his string, his fingers nestling against his cheek. The shaft leapt from the bow to take Vintar in the right eye, and he fell against the Nadir spears.

The remaining defenders fought in an ever-tightening circle as dusk deepened into night. The Nadir cries were silenced now, the battle tense and silent but for the sounds of steel on steel on flesh.

Menahem was lifted from his feet by the force of a stabbing spear that tore into his lungs. His sword whistled down toward the neck of the kneeling lancer—and stopped.

Lightly he touched the blade to the man’s shoulder. Unable to believe his luck, the warrior dragged his spear free and buried it once more in the priest’s chest.

Now Serbitar was alone.

Momentarily the Nadir fell back, staring at the blood-covered albino. Much of the blood was his own. His cloak was in tatters, his armor gashed and dented, his helm long since knocked from his head.

He took three deep shuddering breaths, looked inside himself, and saw that he was dying. Reaching out with his mind, he sought Vintar and the others.

Silence.

A terrible silence.

It was all for nothing, then, he thought as the Nadir tensed for the kill. He chuckled wryly.

There was no Source.

No centre to the universe.

In the last seconds left to him he wondered if his life had been a waste.

He knew it had not. For even if there was no Source, there ought to have been. For the Source was beautiful.

A Nadir warrior sprang forward. Serbitar flicked aside his thrust, burying his dagger in the man’s breast, but the pack surged in, a score of sharp blades meeting inside his frail form. Blood burst from his mouth, and he fell.

From a great distance came a voice:

“Take my hand, my brother. We travel.”

It was Vintar!

The Nadir surged and spread toward the deserted Delnoch buildings and the score of streets that led to Geddon and the keep beyond. In the front line Ogasi raised his sword, bellowing the Nadir victory chant. He began to run, then skidded to a halt.

Ahead of him on the open ground before the buildings stood a tall man with a trident beard, dressed in the white robes of the Sathuli. He carried two tulwars, curved and deadly. Ogasi advanced slowly, confused.

A Sathuli within the Drenai fortress?

“What do you do here?” yelled Ogasi.

“Merely helping a friend,” replied the man. “Go back! I shall not let you pass.”

Ogasi grinned. So the man was a lunatic. Lifting his sword, he ordered the tribesmen forward. The white-robed figure advanced on them.

“Sathuli!” he yelled.

From the buildings came a mighty answering roar as three thousand Sathuli warriors, their white robes ghostly in the gathering darkness, streamed to the attack.

The Nadir were stunned, and Ogasi could not believe his eyes. The Sathuli and the Drenai were lifelong enemies. He knew it was happening, but his brain would not drink it in. Like a white tide on a dark beach, the Sathuli front line crashed into Nadir.

Joachim sought Ogasi, but the stocky tribesman was lost amid the chaos.

The savage twist to events, from certain victory to certain death, dismayed the tribesmen. Panic set in, and a slow withdrawal became a rout. Trampling their comrades, the Nadir turned and ran with the white army at their backs, harrying them on with screams as bestial as any heard on the Nadir steppes.

On the walls above, Rek was bleeding from wounds in his upper arms and Hogun had suffered a sword cut to his scalp, blood running from the gash and skin flapping as he lashed out at his attackers.

Now Sathuli warriors appeared on the battlements and once more the Nadir fled their terrible tulwars, backing to the walls and seeking escape down the ropes.

Within minutes it was over. Elsewhere on the open ground small pockets of Nadir warriors were surrounded and dispatched.

Joachim Sathuli, his white robes stained with crimson, slowly mounted the rampart steps, followed by his seven lieutenants. He approached Rek and bowed. Turning, he handed his bloody tulwars to a dark-bearded warrior. Another man passed him a scented towel. Slowly, elaborately, he wiped his face and then his hands. Finally he spoke.

“A warm welcome,” he said, his face unsmiling but his eyes full of humour.

“Indeed,” said Rek. “It is lucky the other guests had to leave; otherwise there would not have been any room.”

“Are you so surprised to see me?”

“No, not surprised. Astonished sounds more accurate.”

Joachim laughed. “Is your memory so short, Delnoch? You said we should part as friends, and I agreed. Where else should I be in a friend’s hour of need?”

“You must have had the devil’s own task convincing your warriors to follow you.”

“Not at all,” answered Joachim, an impish gleam in his eyes. “Most of their lives they have longed to fight inside these walls.”

The tall Sathuli warrior stood on the high walls of Geddon, gazing down at the Nadir camp beyond the deserted battlements of Valteri. Rek was asleep now, and the bearded prince strode the walls alone. Around him were sentries and soldiers of both races, but Joachim remained solitary.

For weeks Sathuli scouts atop the Delnoch range had watched the battle raging below. Often Joachim himself had scaled the peaks to view the fighting. Then a Nadir raiding party had struck at a Sathuli village, and Joachim had persuaded his men to follow him to Delnoch. Added to this, he knew of the traitor who dealt with the Nadir, for he had witnessed a meeting in a high, narrow pass between the traitor and the Nadir captain, Ogasi.

Two days later the Nadir had tried to send a force over the mountains, and the Sathuli had repulsed it.

Joachim heard the news of Rek’s loss with sadness. Fatalistic himself, he could still share the feelings of a man whose woman had died. His own had died in childbirth two years before, and the wound was still fresh.

Joachim shook his head. War was a savage mistress but a woman of power nonetheless. She could wreak more havoc in a man’s soul than time.

The Sathuli arrival had been timely and not without cost. Four hundred of his men were dead, a loss scarcely bearable to a mountain people who numbered a mere thirty thousand, many of those being children and ancients.

But a debt was a debt.

The man Hogun hated him, Joachim knew. But this was understandable, for Hogun was of the legion and the Sathuli had spilled legion blood for years. They reserved their finest tortures for captured riders. This was an honours, but Joachim knew the Drenai could never understand. When a man died, he was tested—the harder the death, the greater the rewards in paradise. Torture advanced a man’s soul, and the Sathuli could offer no greater reward to a captured enemy.

He sat upon the battlements and stared back at the keep. For how many years had he longed to take this fortress? How many of his dreams had been filled with pictures of the keep in flames?

And now he was defending it with the lives of his followers.

He shrugged. A man with his eyes on the sky did not see the scorpion below his feet. A man with his eyes on the ground did not see the dragon in the air.

He paced the ramparts, coming at last to the gate tower and the stone inscription carved there: geddon.

The wall of death.

The air was thick with the smell of death, and the morning would see the crows fly in to the feast. He should have killed Rek in the woods. A promise to an unbeliever was worth nothing, so why had he kept it? He laughed suddenly, accepting the answer: Because the man had not cared.

And Joachim liked him.

He passed a Drenai sentry who saluted him and smiled. Joachim nodded, noting the uncertainty of the smile.

He had told the Earl of Bronze that he and his men would stay for one more day and then return to the mountains. He had expected a plea to remain—offers, promises, treaties. But Rek had merely smiled.

“It is more than I would have asked for,” he said.

Joachim was stunned, but he could say nothing. He told Rek of the traitor and of the Nadir attempt to cross the mountains.

“Will you still bar the way?”

“Of course. That is Sathuli land.”

“Good! Will you eat with me?”

“No, but I thank you for the offer.”

No Sathuli could break bread with an unbeliever.

Rek nodded. “I think I will rest now,” he said. “I will see you at dawn.”

In his high room in the keep Rek slept, dreaming of Virae, always of Virae. He awoke hours before dawn and reached out for her. But the sheets beside him were cold, and as always, he felt the loss anew. On this night he wept long and soundlessly. Finally he rose, dressed, and descended the stairs to the small hall. The manservant Arshin brought him a breakfast of cold ham and cheese, with a flagon of cold water laced with honey mead. He ate mechanically until a young officer approached with the news that Bricklyn had returned with dispatches from Drenan.

The burgher entered the hall, bowed briefly, and approached the table, laying before Rek several packages and a large sealed scroll. He seated himself opposite Rek and asked if he could pour himself a drink. Rek nodded as he opened the scroll. He read it once, smiled, then laid it aside and looked across at the burgher. He was thinner and perhaps even greyer than the first time Rek had seen him. He was still dressed in riding clothes, and his green cloak was dust-covered. Bricklyn drained the water in two swallows and refilled his cup; then he noticed Rek’s eyes upon him.

“You have seen the message from Abalayn?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you for bringing it. Will you stay?”

“But of course. Surrender arrangements must be made, and Ulric welcomed to the keep.”

“He has promised to spare no one,” said Rek softly.

Bricklyn waved his hand. “Nonsense! That was war talk. Now he will be magnanimous.”

“And what of Woundweaver?”

“He has been recalled to Drenan, and the army disbanded.”

“Are you pleased?”

“That the war is over? Of course. Though I am naturally saddened that so many had to die. I hear that Druss fell at Sumitos. A great shame. He was a fine man and a magnificent warrior. But it was as he would have wished to go, I am sure. When would you like me to see Lord Ulric?”

“As soon as you wish.”

“Will you accompany me?”

“No.”

“Then who will?” asked Bricklyn, noting with pleasure the resignation mirrored in Rek’s face.

“No one.”

“No one? But that would not be politic, my lord. There should be a deputation.”

“You will travel alone.”

“Very well. What terms shall I negotiate?”

“You will negotiate nothing. You will merely go to Ulric and say that I have sent you.”

“I do not understand, my lord. What would you have me say?”

“You will say that you have failed.”

“Failed? In what? You speak in riddles. Are you mad?”

“No. Just tired. You betrayed us, Bricklyn, but then, I expect nothing less from your breed. Therefore, I am not angry. Or vengeful. You have taken Ulric’s pay, and now you may go to him. The letter from Abalayn is a forgery, and Woundweaver will be here in five days with over fifty thousand men. Outside there are three thousand Sathuli, and we can hold the wall. Now be gone! Hogun knows that you are a traitor and has told me that he will kill you if he sees you. Go now.”

For several minutes Bricklyn sat stunned, then he shook his head. “This is madness! You cannot hold! It is Ulric’s day, can you not see it? The Drenai are finished, and Ulric’s star shines. What do you hope to achieve?”

Rek slowly drew a long, slender dagger and placed it on the table before him.

“Go now,” he repeated quietly.

Bricklyn rose and stormed to the door. He turned in the doorway.

“You fool!” he spit. “Use the dagger on yourself, for what the Nadir will do when they take you will make merry viewing.” Then he was gone.

Hogun stepped from behind a tapestry-covered alcove and moved to the table. His head was bandaged, and his face pale. In his hand he held his sword.

“How could you let him go, Rek? How?”

Rek smiled. “Because I couldn’t be bothered to kill him.”

30

The last candle guttered and died as a light autumn wind billowed the curtains. Rek slept on, head resting on his arms at the table where only an hour before he had sent Bricklyn to the Nadir. His sleep was light but dreamless. He shivered as the room became cooler, then awoke with a start in the darkness. Fear touched him, and he reached for his dagger. He shivered again. It was cold … so cold. He glanced at the fire. It was blazing, but no heat reached him. He stood and walked toward it, squatting in front of it and opening his hands to the heat. Nothing. Confused, he stood once more and turned back to the table, and then the shock hit him.

Head resting on his arms, the figure of Earl Regnak still slept there. He fought down panic, watching his sleeping form, noting the weariness in the gaunt face, the dark-hollowed eyes, and the lines of strain about the mouth.

Then he noticed the silence. Even at this late hour of deepest darkness some sounds should be heard from sentries or servants or the few cooks preparing the morning’s breakfast. But there was nothing. He moved to the doorway and beyond into the darkened corridor, then beyond that into the shadow of the portcullis gate. He was alone. Beyond the gate were the walls, but no sentries paced them. He walked on in the darkness, and the clouds cleared and the moon shone brightly.

The fortress was deserted.

From the high walls of Geddon he looked to the north. The plain was empty. No Nadir tents were pitched there.

So he was truly alone. Panic left him, and a deep sense of peace covered his soul like a warm blanket. He sat on the ramparts, gazing back at the keep.

Was this a taste of death? he wondered. Or merely a dream? He cared not. Whether a foretaste of tomorrow’s reality or the result of a needed fantasy was immaterial. He was enjoying the moment.

And then, with a deep sense of warmth, he knew that he was not alone. His heart swelled, and tears came to his eyes. He turned, and she was there: Dressed as he had first seen her, with a bulky sheepskin jerkin and woollen trews, she opened her arms and walked into his embrace. He held her tightly to him, pressing his face into her hair. For a long time they stood thus while deep sobs racked his body. Finally the crying subsided, and he gently released her. She looked up at him and smiled.

“You have done well, Rek,” she said. “I am so proud of you.”

“Without you it is meaningless,” he said.

“I wouldn’t change anything, Rek. If they told me that I could have my life again but not meet you, I would refuse. What does it matter that we had only months? What months they were!”

“I never loved anyone as I loved you,” he said.

“I know.”

They talked for hours, but the moon shone from the same place and the stars were static, the night eternal. Finally she kissed him to stem his words.

“There are others you must see.”

He tried to argue, but she held her fingers to his mouth. “We will meet again, my love. For now, speak to the others.”

Around the walls was now a mist, swirling and thick. Overhead the moon shone in a cloudless sky. She walked into the mist and was gone. He waited, and soon a figure in silver armor came toward him. As always he looked fresh and alert, his armour reflected the moonlight, and his white cloak was spotless. He smiled.

“Well met, Rek,” said Serbitar. They clasped hands in the warrior’s grip.

“The Sathuli came,” said Rek. “You held the gate just long enough.”

“I know. Tomorrow will be hard, and I will not lie to you. All futures have I seen, and in only one do you survive the day. But there are forces here which I cannot explain to you, and even now their magic is at work. Fight well!”

“Will Woundweaver arrive?” asked Rek.

Serbitar shrugged. “Not tomorrow.”

“Then we will fall?”

“It is likely. But if you do not, I want you to do something for me.”

“Name it,” said Rek.

“Go once more to Egel’s room, where there is a last gift for you. The servant Arshin will explain.”

“What is it? Is it a weapon? I could use it tomorrow.”

“It is not a weapon. Go there tomorrow night.”

“Serbitar?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“Was all as you dreamed it would be? The Source, I mean?”

“Yes! And so much more. But I cannot speak of it now. Wait for a while longer. There is another who must speak with you.”

The mist deepened, and Serbitar’s white form drew back until he merged and was gone.

And Druss was there. Mighty and strong, his black jerkin glistening, his axe at his side.

“He gave me a fine send-off,” said Druss. “How are you, boy? You look tired.”

“I am tired but all the better for seeing you.”

Druss clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

“That Nogusha used a poisoned blade on me. I tell you, laddie, it hurt like hell. Caessa dressed me. I don’t know how she got me to my feet. Still … she did.”

“I saw it,” said Rek.

“Aye, a grand exit, was it not? That young lad Gilad fought well. I have not seen him yet, but I expect I shall. You’re a good boy, Rek. Worthy! It was good to know you.”

“And you, Druss. I never met a better man.”

“Of course you did, boy. Hundreds! But it’s nice of you to say it. However, I didn’t come here to exchange compliments. I know what you are facing, and I know tomorrow will be hard—damned hard. But don’t give ground. Do not retreat to the keep. Whatever happens, hold the wall. Much rests on it. Keep Joachim beside you; if he dies, you are finished. I must go. But remember. Hold the wall. Do not retreat to the keep.”

“I will remember. Good-bye, Druss.”

“Not good-bye. Not yet,” said Druss. “Soon.”

The mist moved forward, enveloping the axman and sweeping over Rek. Then the moonlight faded, and dark descended on the Earl of Bronze.

Back in the keep Rek awoke. The fire still burned, and he was hungry again.

In the kitchens Arshin was preparing breakfast. The old man was tired, but he brightened when Rek walked in.

He liked the new earl and remembered when Virae’s father, Delnar, had been a young man, proud and strong. There seemed a similarity, but perhaps, Arshin thought, the long years had distorted his memory.

He handed the earl some toasted bread and honey, which he wolfed down, following it with watered wine.

Back in his quarters Rek buckled his armour into place and made his way to the battlements. Hogun and Orrin were already there, supervising the barricade within the gate tunnel.

“This is the weak spot,” said Orrin. “We should retire to the keep. At least the gates will hold for some hours.”

Rek shook his head. “We will stand on Geddon. There must be no retreat.”

“Then we shall die here,” said Hogun. “For that barricade will hold them not at all.”

“Perhaps,” said Rek. “We shall see. Good morning, Joachim Sathuli.”

The bearded warrior nodded and smiled. “You slept well, Earl of Bronze?”

“Well, indeed. I thank you for giving us this day of your time.”

“It is nothing. The payment of a small debt.”

“You owe me nothing. But I tell you this: If we survive this day, there shall be no more war between us. The rights to the high Delnoch passes are mine, though you dispute the rights of the Drenai to them. Therefore, before these witnesses, I give them to you.

“There is also a scroll bearing my seal at the keep. When you leave tonight, you shall have it. A copy will go to Abalayn in Drenan.

“I know that the gesture will have little meaning if the Nadir win through today, but it is all I can do.”

Joachim bowed. “The gesture is enough in itself.”

The talk ceased as the Nadir drums sounded and the warriors of Dros Delnoch spread out along the wall to receive the attackers. Rek lowered his helm visor and drew the sword of Egel. Below, in the barricaded gate tunnel, stood Orrin and one hundred warriors. The tunnel was only twenty feet wide at the centre, and Orrin reckoned to hold it for the greater part of the morning. After that, with the barricades torn down, the sheer weight of the Nadir horde would push them back into the open ground behind the ramparts.

And so the last bloody day began at Dros Delnoch.