Legend

27

Caessa sat beside the bed, silent but watchful, her eyes never leaving the sleeping Druss. Thirty stitches laced the wound on the axeman'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 stood by Calvar Syn as the stitches were inserted. She 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 seized her by the hand and raced for the woods above the cliff. But they were 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 wild-cat, but had been over-powered, abused and slain. All the while the child 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 broken. A fisherman saw her plunge and pulled her clear. From that day on she changed.

The laughing child laughed no more, nor danced, nor 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, since her twentieth birthday, Caessa had 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 silently raised.- No torches were lit, 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 goodnight then."

"Goodnight, 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. Goodnight." 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. Goodnight."

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 axeman.

"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 marches. 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, axeman. 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 rilled 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 dulled 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, 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 despatched."

"What?" shouted the surgeon. "Murdered, you mean?"

"Exactly so. Move those who can move. The others… how do you think the Nadir will threat 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 stair-well. 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 back-handed 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 stair-well 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 he 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'd 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 towards 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 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 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 agonising scream from him, he bunched his legs beneath him 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 him 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 on to 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 which 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 rearguard 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 rearguard. 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 backwards, 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 cat 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.