Legend

10

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

"You! Where will I find the Earl?"

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

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

"I think he's in the great hall," he said. "Sir!" he added hurriedly. The officers had never seen battle nor any degree of violence, yet he knew instinctively the threat contained in the ice-cold eyes. He's insane, he thought as the old man slowly lowered him to the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So will the Nadir," said Druss, pulling up a high-backed chair to sit opposite the dying Earl.

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

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

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

"I may have to kill Gan Orrin," said Druss.

"No! You must understand that he is not evil, nor even wilful. He is a man out of his depth, and struggling hard. I don't think he lacks courage. See him and then judge for yourself."

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

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

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

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

"Darkseed," he said. "It helps me."

"It is habit forming," said Druss, but the Earl chuckled.

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

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

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

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

"But is it?"

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

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

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

"I don't like it, Druss. They are mercenaries and not to be trusted."

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

"Sir?"

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

"Yes, sir."

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

"Just over nine thousand. But six thousand of those are recruits, and only a thousand — The Legion — are battle-hardened warriors."

"Surgeons?"

"Ten, led by Calvar Syn. You remember him?"

"Aye. A point on the credit side."

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

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

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

"How is he?" asked Druss.

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

"I see you have retained your good humour, doctor," said Druss, grinning.

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

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

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

"You're the doctor — you tell me."

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

"Where will I find Gan Orrin?"

"Main Barracks. Now go!" Druss grinned and left the room.

Dun Mendar took a deep breath. "You don't like him, sir?"

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

As Druss walked across the parade ground before the main barracks building, he became aware of the stares of the soldiers and the muted whispers as he passed. He smiled inwardly. It had begun! From now on he would be unable to relax for a moment.

Never could he show these men a glimpse of Druss the Man. He was The Legend. The invincible Captain of the Axe. Indestructible Druss.

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

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

"Third doorway of the fifth corridor on the right," answered the soldier, back straight, eyes staring a head.

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

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

"You are Gan Orrin?" asked Druss.

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

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

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

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

"You must be exhausted," Druss said at last.

"What?"

"Exhausted. The workload here is enough to break a lesser man. Organisation of supplies, training, patrols, strategy, planning. You must be completely worn out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Throughout the last five years, since his elevation, he had avoided self-examination. However, only days before he had sent Hogun and 200 of his Legion Lancers into the outlands. At first he had held to the belief that it was a sensible military decision. But as the days passed and no word came he had agonised over his orders. It had little to do with strategy, but everything to do with jealousy. Hogun, he had realised with sick horror, was the best soldier in the Dros. When he had returned and told Orrin that his decision had proved a wise one, far from bolstering Orrin it had finally opened his eyes to his own inadequacy. He had considered resigning, but could not face the disgrace. He had even contemplated suicide, but could not bear the thought of the dishonour it would bring to his uncle, Abalayn. All he could do was to die on the first wall. And this he was prepared for. He had feared Druss would rob him even of that.

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

"Enough of that talk!" snapped the old man. "Listen to me. You are the Gan. From this day on no man will speak ill of you. What you fear, keep to yourself, and believe in me. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fails at something. The Dros will hold, for I will be damned if I will let it fall. If I had felt you were a coward, Orrin, I would have tied you to a horse and sent you packing. You have never been in a siege, nor led a troop into battle. Well, now you will do both, and do it well, for I will be beside you. Get rid of your doubts. Yesterday is dead. Past mistakes are like smoke in the breeze. What counts is tomorrow, and every tomorrow until Wound-weaver gets here with reinforcements. Make no mistake, Orrin. When we survive and the songs are sung, you will be worth your place in them and no one will sneer. Not a soul. Believe it! Now I have talked enough. Give me your seal on parchment and I will start today with my duties."

"Will you want me with you today?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am Druss. Sometimes called Captain of the Axe. In Ventria they call me Druss the Sender. In Vagria I am merely the Axeman. To the Nadir I am Death-walker. In Lentria I am the Silver Slayer.

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

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

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

"Yes, sir! And sir…"

"Out with it, lad."

"Welcome to Dros Delnoch."

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

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

They couldn't hear what he told the officers, but the men moved with a purpose as he dismissed them. Then, with a final wave he returned to the Keep.

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

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

"Gan Hogun, sir," announced the servant. "And Dun Elicas."

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

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

"Be seated, gentlemen," said Druss.

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

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

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

"I understand you have already met the Nadir?" said Druss.

"Yes. They will be here in less than a month."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So who do you suggest to pick and train them?"

Hogun turned to Elicas, who shrugged.

"You must be able to suggest someone," said Druss.

"I don't know the men of Dros Delnoch that well, sir," said Hogun, "and no one from the Legion would be appropriate."

"Why not?"

"They are warriors. We shall need them on the wall."

"Who is your best ranker?"

"Bar Britan. But he's a formidable warrior, sir."

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

"I bow to your logic, Druss," said Hogun.

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

"Put your mind at rest on that score, Axeman!" snapped Hogun.

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

"There will be one officer to each group and five rankers, each commanding ten men. These under-leaders will be chosen after the first three day's training. By then we should have taken their mark. Understood?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Any questions?"

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

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

"Oh yes," lied Hogun, smoothly. "Without a doubt."

The two men grinned.

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