Legend

15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm a soldier — not a damned planner," he would announce, and the meeting would be adjourned for an hour.

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

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

Druss set a working party to enlarge the area.

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

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

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

Three days later his wish was partly answered.

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

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

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

"What is your message?"

"Open the gates!" called back the Nadir officer, a short barrel-chested man, bow-legged and powerful.

"Are you the Deathwalker?" called the man.

"Yes."

"You are old and fat. It pleases me."

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

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

"Tell the Lord Ulric," said Druss, "that he is welcome to ride to Drenan at any time. We will even allow an escort of 100 warriors, as befits a prince of the north."

"The Lord Ulric allows no conditions," said the officer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why should he?" asked Hogun."

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

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

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

"Before dusk," predicted Druss.

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

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

"He meant he wants us to let his army through."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That doesn't appeal to me, not at all," said Bregan.

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

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

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

"Of course not. A man should be free to do what he wants to do, as long as it doesn't hurt others."

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not fair, Gil! I backed him because he was Karnak; I backed you too."

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

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

"I damn near had that Bar Britan. It was a judge's decision at the last."

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

"Such judgement!" said Gilad. "It's small wonder to me that you didn't enter yourself, so great is your knowledge."

"I don't have to fly in order to know that the sky is blue," said Bregan "Anyway, who did you back?"

"Gan Hogun."

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

"You know very well. Drebus would have told you."

"I didn't think to ask."

"Liar! Well, I don't care. I backed myself to reach the last fifty."

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

"One lucky blow and I could have won a month's wages."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To go where, pray? And with what monies?"

"Ye gods!" thundered Druss, surging to his feet. "What will you be wanting me to do next? Where they go, if they do, how they go — is their concern and yours. I am a soldier and my job is to fight and kill. And believe me, I do that very well. We have been ordered to fight to the last and that we will do. Now, I may not know very much about law and all the little niceties of city politics, but I do know this: Any man who speaks of surrender during the coming siege is a traitor. And I will see him hang."

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

Orrin shot Druss a warning glance.

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" Ulric asked him.

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

"And you saw nothing?"

"No. But I sensed… felt…"

"Speak!"

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

"And their power is greater than yours?" said Ulric.

"Merely different," hedged the shaman.

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

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

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

Nosta Khan's body trembled and his eyes opened.

"Well?" asked Ulric.

"I found them."

"Can you destroy them?"

"I believe so. I must gather my acolytes."

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

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

"Yes. We must be wary."

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

"I don't know," answered the Abbot.

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

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

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

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

And rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And rose.

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

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

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

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

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

"Get back!" shouted Serbitar. "Get away from him!"

This time she obeyed, backing towards the albino.

"Give me the sword."

Vintar and Rek had joined them.

"What on earth is it?" whispered Rek.

"Nothing on earth," replied Vintar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The captain came forward from the shadows by the mast.

"What was it?" he asked.

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

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

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

"It is free," said Vintar. "Believe me."

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

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

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

He smiled.

There would be another time…