The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Five

Word soon spread among the warriors and crew of the tragedy that had befallen the huge axeman. Many of the men could not understand the depth of his grief, knowing nothing of love, but all could see the change in him. He sat at the prow, staring out over the sea, the massive axe in his hands. Sieben alone could approach him, but even the poet did not remain with him for long.

There was little laughter for the remaining three days of the voyage, for Dross’s brooding presence seemed to fill the deck. The corsair giant, Patek, remained as far from the axeman as space would allow, spending his time on the tiller deck.

On the morning of the fourth day the distant towers of Capalis could be seen, white marble glinting in the sun.

Sieben approached Dross. “Milus Bar intends to pick up a cargo of spices and attempt the return journey. Shall we stay on board?”

“I’m not going back,” said Dross.

“There is nothing here for us now,” pointed out the poet.

“There is the enemy,” the axeman grunted.

“What enemy?”

“The Naashanites.”

Sieben shook his head. “I don’t understand you. We don’t even know a Naashanite!”

“They killed my Rowena. I’ll make them pay.” Sieben was about to debate the point, but he stopped himself. The Naashanites had bought the services of the corsairs and in Dross’s mind this made them guilty. Sieben wanted to argue, to hammer home to Dross that the real villain was Earin Shad, and that he was now dead. But what was the use? In the midst of his grief Dross would not listen. His eyes were cold, almost lifeless, and he clung to the axe as if it were his only friend.

“She must have been a very special woman,” observed Eskodas when he and Sieben stood by the port rail as The Thunderchild eased her way into the harbour. “I never met her. But he speaks of her with reverence.”

Eskodas nodded, then pointed to the quayside. “There are no dock-workers,” he said, “only soldiers. The city must be under siege.”

Sieben saw movement at the far end of the quay, a column of soldiers wearing black breastplates adorned with silver marching behind a tall, wide-shouldered nobleman. “That must be Gorben,” he said. “He walks as if he owns the world.”

Eskodas chuckled. “Not any more - but I’ll agree he is a remarkably handsome fellow.”

The Emperor wore a simple black cloak above an unadorned breastplate, yet he still - like a hero of legend - commanded attention. Men ceased in their work as he approached, and Bodasen leapt from the ship even before the mooring ropes were fastened, landing lightly and stepping into the other man’s embrace. The Emperor clapped him on the back, and kissed Bodasen on both cheeks.

“I’d say they were friends,” observed Eskodas dryly.

“Strange customs they have in foreign lands,” said Sieben, with a grin.

The gangplank was lowered and a squad of soldiers moved on board, vanishing below decks and reappearing bearing heavy chests of brass-bound oak.

“Gold, I’d say,” whispered Eskodas and Sieben nodded. Twenty chests in all were removed before the Drenai warriors were allowed to disembark. Sieben clambered down the gangplank just behind the bowman. As he stepped ashore he felt the ground move beneath him and he almost stumbled, then righted himself.

“Is it an earthquake?” he asked Eskodas.

“No, my friend, it is merely that you are so used to the pitching and rolling of the ship that your legs are unaccustomed to solid stone. It will pass very swiftly.”

Druss strode down to join them as Bodasen stepped forward, the Emperor beside him.

“And this, my Lord, is the warrior I spoke of - Druss the Axeman. Almost single-handedly he destroyed the corsairs.”

“I would like to have seen it,” said Gorben. “But there is time yet to admire your prowess. The enemy are camped around our city and the attacks have begun.”

Druss said nothing, but the Emperor seemed unconcerned. “May I see your axe?” he asked. Druss nodded and passed the weapon to the monarch. Gorben accepted it and lifted the blades to his face. “Remarkable workmanship. Not a nick or a rust mark - the surface is entirely unblemished. A rare kind of steel.” He examined the black haft and the silver runes. “This is an ancient weapon, and has seen much death.”

“It will see more,” said Druss, his voice low and rumbling. At the sound Sieben shivered.

Gorben smiled and handed back the axe, then turned to Bodasen. “When you have settled your men into their quarters you will find me at the Magisters’ Hall.” He strode away without another word.

Bodasen’s face was white with anger. “When you are in the presence of the Emperor you should bow deeply. He is a man to respect.”

“We Drenai are not well versed in subservient behaviour,” Sieben pointed out.

“In Ventria such disrespect is punishable by disembowelling,” said Bodasen.

“But I think we can learn,” Sieben told him cheerfully.

Bodasen smiled. “See that you do, my friends. These are not Drenai lands, and there are other customs here. The Emperor is a good man, a fine man. Even so he must maintain discipline, and he will not tolerate such bad manners again.”

The Drenai warriors were billeted in the town centre, all save Druss and Sieben who had not signed on to fight for the Ventrians. Bodasen took the two of them to a deserted inn and told them to choose their own rooms. Food, he said, could be found at either of the two main barracks, although there were still some shops and stalls in the town centre.

“Do you want to look at the city?” asked Sieben, after the Ventrian general had left. Druss sat on a narrow bed staring at his hands; he did not seem to hear the question. The poet sat alongside him. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“Empty.”

“Everyone dies, Druss. Even you and I. It is not your fault.”

“I don’t care about fault. I just keep thinking about our time in the mountains together. I can still feel… the touch of her hand. I can still hear…” He stumbled to silence, his face reddened and his jaw set in a tight line. “What was that about the city?” he growled.

“I thought we could take a look around.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Druss rose, gathered his axe and strode through the door. The inn was situated on Vine Street. Bodasen had given them directions through the city and these were easy to follow, the roads being wide, the signs in several languages including the western tongue. The buildings were of white and grey stone, some more than four levels high. There were gleaming towers, domed palaces, gardens and tree-lined avenues. The scent of flowers, jasmine and rose, was everywhere.

“It is very beautiful,” observed Sieben. They passed a near-deserted barracks and headed on towards the eastern wall. From the distance they could hear the clash of blades and the thin cries of wounded men. “I think I’ve seen enough,” announced Sieben, halting.

Druss gave a cold smile. “As you wish,” he said.

“There’s a temple back there I’d like to see more of. You know, the one with the white horses?”

“I saw it,” said Druss. The two men retraced their steps until they came to a large square. The temple was domed, and around it were twelve exquisitely sculpted statues of rearing horses, three times larger than life. A huge arched gateway, with open gates of polished brass and silver between beckoned the two men into the temple. The domed roof had seven windows, all of coloured glass, and beams of light criss-crossed the high altar. There were benches that could seat almost a thousand people, Sieben calculated, and upon the altar was a table on which was set a hunting horn of gold encrusted with gems. The poet walked down the aisle and climbed to the altar. “It’s worth a fortune,” he said.

“On the contrary,” came a low voice, “it is priceless.” Sieben turned to see a priest in robes of grey wool, embroidered with silver thread. The man was tall, his shaven head and long nose giving him a birdlike appearance. “Welcome to the shrine of Pashtar Sen.”

“The citizens here must be worthy of great trust,” said Sieben. “Such a prize as this would gain a man enormous wealth.”

The priest gave a thin smile. “Not really. Lift it!”

Sieben reached out his hand, but his fingers closed on air. The golden horn, so substantial to the eye, was merely an image. “Incredible!” whispered the poet. “How is it done?”

The priest shrugged and spread his thin arms. “Pashtar Sen worked the miracle a thousand years ago. He was a poet and a scholar, but also a man of war. According to myth he met the goddess, Ciris, and she gave him the hunting horn as a reward for his valour. He placed it here. And the moment it left his grasp it became as you see it.”

“What is its purpose?” Sieben asked.

“It has healing properties. Barren women are said to become fertile if they lie upon the altar and cover the horn. There is some evidence that this is true. And once every ten years the horn is said to become solid once more and then, so we are told, it can bring a man back from the halls of death, or carry his spirit to the stars.”

“Have you ever seen it become solid?”

“No. And I have been a servant here for thirty-seven years.”

“Fascinating. What happened to Pashtar Sen?”

“He refused to fight for the Emperor and was impaled on a spike of iron.”

“Not a good ending.”

“Indeed not, but he was a man of principle and believed the Emperor to be in the wrong. Are you here to fight for Ventria?”

“No. We are visitors.”

The priest nodded and turned to Druss. “Your mind is far away, my son,” he said. “Are you troubled?”

“He has suffered a great loss,” said Sieben swiftly.

“A loved one? Ah, I see. Would you wish to commune with her, my son?”

“What do you mean?” growled Druss.

“I could summon her spirit. It might bring you peace.”

Druss stepped forward. “You could do that?”

“I could try. Follow me.” The priest led them into the shadowed recesses at the rear of the temple, then along a narrow corridor to a small, windowless room. “You must leave your weapons outside,” said the priest. Druss leaned Snaga against the wall, and Sieben hung his baldric of knives to the haft. Inside the room there were two chairs facing one another; the priest sat in the first, beckoning Druss to take the second. “This room,” said the priest, “is a place of harmony. No profane language has ever been heard here. It is a room of prayer and kind thoughts. It has been so for a thousand years. Whatever happens, please remember that. Now give me your hand.”

Druss stretched out his arm and the priest took hold of his hand, asking who it was that he wished to call. Druss told him. “And your name, my son?”

“Druss.”

The man licked his lips and sat, eyes closed, for several minutes. Then he spoke. “I call to thee, Rowena, child of the mountains. I call to thee on behalf of Druss. I call to thee across the plains of Heaven, I speak to thee across the vales of Earth. I reach out to thee, even unto the dark places below the oceans of the world, and the arid deserts of Hell.” For a moment nothing happened. Then the priest stiffened and cried out. He slumped down in the chair, head dropping to his chest.

His mouth opened and a single word issued forth: “Druss!” It was a woman’s voice. Sieben was startled. He glanced at the axeman; all colour faded from Druss’s face. “Rowena!”

“I love you, Druss. Where are you?”

“In Ventria. I came for you.”

“I am here waiting. Druss! Oh no, everything is fading. Druss, can you hear… ?”

“Rowena!” shouted Druss, storming to his feet. The priest jerked and awoke. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not find her.”

“I spoke to her,” said Druss, hauling the man to his feet. “Get her again!”

“I cannot. There was no one. Nothing happened!”

“Druss! Let him go!” shouted Sieben, grabbing Druss’s arm. The axeman released his hold on the priest’s robes and walked from the room.

“I don’t understand,” whispered the man. There was nothing!”

“You spoke with the voice of a woman,” Sieben told him. “Druss recognised it.”

“It is most peculiar, my son. Whenever I commune with the dead I know their words. But it was as if I slept.”

“Do not concern yourself,” said Sieben, fishing in his money-pouch for a silver coin.

“I take no money,” said the man, with a shy smile. “But I am perplexed and I will think on what just happened.”

“I’m sure he will too,” said Sieben.

He found Druss standing by the altar, reaching out to the shimmering golden horn, his huge fingers trying to close around it. The axeman’s face was set in concentration, the muscles of his jaw showing through the dark beard.

“What are you doing?” asked Sieben, his voice gentle.

“He said it could bring back the dead.”

“No, my friend. He said that was the legend. There is a difference. Come away. We’ll find a tavern somewhere in this city, and we’ll drink.”

Druss slammed his hand down on to the altar, the golden horn apparently growing through the skin of his fist. “I don’t need to drink! Gods, I need to fight!” Snatching up the axe, the big man strode from the temple.

The priest appeared alongside Sieben. “I fear that, despite my good intentions, the result of my labour was not as I had hoped,” he said.

“He’ll survive, Father.” Sieben turned to the priest. “Tell me, what do you know of demon possession?”

“Too much - and too little. You think you are possessed?”

“No, not I. Druss.”

The priest shook his head. “Had he been so… afflicted… I would have sensed it when I touched his hand. No, your friend is his own man.”

Sieben sat down on a bench seat and told the priest what he had seen on the deck of the corsair trireme. The priest listened in silence. “How did he come by the axe?” he asked.

“Family heirloom, I understand.”

“If there is a demonic presence, my son, I believe you will find it hidden within the weapon. Many of the ancient blades were crafted with spells, in order to give the wielder greater strength or cunning. Some even had the power to heal wounds, so it is said. Look to the axe.”

“What if it is just the axe? Surely that will only help him in times of combat?”

“Would that were true,” said the priest, shaking his head. “But evil does not exist in order to serve, but to rule. If the axe is possessed it will have a history - a dark history. Ask him of its past. And when you hear it, and of the men who wielded it, you will understand my words.”

Sieben thanked the man and left the temple. There was no sign of Druss, and the poet had no wish to venture near the walls. He strolled through the near deserted city until he heard the sound of music coming from a courtyard nearby. He approached a wrought-iron gate and saw three women sitting in a garden. One of them was playing a lyre, the others were singing a gentle love song as Sieben stepped into the gateway.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, offering them his most dazzling smile. The music ceased and the three all gazed at him. They were young and pretty - the oldest, he calculated, around seventeen. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, full-lipped and slender. The other two were smaller, their hair blonde, their eyes blue. They were dressed in shimmering gowns of satin, the dark-haired beauty in blue and the others in white.

“Have you come to see our brother, sir?” asked the dark-haired girl, rising from her seat and placing the lyre upon it.

“No, I was drawn here by the beauty of your playing and the sweet voices which accompanied it. I am a stranger here, and a lover of all things beautiful, and I can only thank the fates for the vision I find here.” The younger girls laughed, but the older sister merely smiled.

“Pretty words, sir, well phrased, and I don’t doubt well rehearsed. They have the smooth edges of weapons that have seen great use.”

Sieben bowed. “Indeed, my lady, it has been my pleasure and my privilege to observe beauty wherever I can find it; to pay homage to it; to bend the knee before it. But it makes my words no less sincere.”

She gave a full smile, then laughed aloud. “I think you are a rascal, sir, and a libertine, and in more interesting times I would summon a servant to see you from the premises. However, since we are at war and that makes for the dullest entertainment, I shall welcome you - but only for so long as you are entertaining.”

“Sweet lady, I think I can promise you entertainment enough, both in word and deed.” He was delighted that she did not blush at his words, though the younger sisters reddened.

“Such fine promises, sir. But then perhaps you would feel less secure in your boasting were you aware of the quality of entertainment I have enjoyed in the past.”

Now it was Sieben’s turn to laugh. “Should you tell me that Azhral, the Prince of Heaven, came to your chambers and transported you to the Palace of Infinite Variety, then truly I might be mildly concerned.”

“Such a book should not be mentioned in polite company,” she chided.

He stepped closer and took her hand, raising it to his lips and turning it to kiss her palm. “Not so,” he said softly, “the book has great merit, for it shines like a lantern in the hidden places. It parts the veils and leads us to the paths of pleasure. I recommend the sixteenth chapter for all new lovers.”

“My name is Asha,” she said, “and your deeds will need to be as fine as your words, for I react badly to disappointment.”

“You were dreaming, Pahtai,” said Pudri as Rowena opened her eyes and found herself sitting in the sunshine beside the lake.

“I don’t know what happened,” she told the little eunuch. “It was as if my soul was dragged from my body. There was a room, and Druss was sitting opposite me.”

“Sadness gives birth to many visions of hope,” quoted Pudri.

“No, it was real, but the hold loosened and I came back before I could tell him where I was.”

He patted her hand. “Perhaps it will happen again,” he said reassuringly, “but for now you must compose yourself. The master is entertaining the great Satrap, Shabag. He is being sent to command the forces around Capalis and it is very important that you give him good omens.”

“I can offer only the truth.”

“There are many truths, Pahtai. A man may have only days to live, yet in that time will find great love. The seeress who tells him he is about to die will cause him great sorrow - but it will be the truth. The prophet who says that love is only a few hours away will also be telling the truth, but will create great joy in the doomed man.”

Rowena smiled. “You are very wise, Pudri.”

He shrugged and smiled. “I am old, Rowena.”

“That is the first time you have used my name.”

He chuckled. “It is a good name, but so is Pahtai; it means gentle dove. Now we must go to the shrine. Shall I tell you something of Shabag? Would it help your talent?”

She sighed. “No. Tell me nothing. I will see what there is to see - and I will remember your advice.”

Arm in arm they strolled into the palace, along the richly carpeted corridors, past the beautifully carved staircase that led to the upper apartments. Statues and busts of marble were set into recesses every ten feet on both sides of the corridor, and the ceiling above them was embellished with scenes from Ventrian literature, the architraves covered with gold leaf.

As they approached the shrine room a tall warrior stepped out from a side door. Rowena gasped, for at first she took the man to be Druss. He had the same breadth of shoulder and jutting jaw, and his eyes beneath thick brows were startlingly blue. Seeing her, he smiled and bowed.

“This is Michanek, Pahtai. He is the champion of the Naashanite Emperor - a great swordsman and a respected officer.” Pudri bowed to the warrior. “This is the Lady Rowena, a guest of the Lord Kabuchek.”

“I have heard of you, lady,” said Michanek, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. His voice was low and vibrant. “You saved the merchant from the sharks, no mean feat. But now I have seen you I can understand how even a shark would wish to do nothing to mar your beauty.” Keeping hold of her hand he smiled and moved in close. “Can you tell me my fortune, lady?”

Her throat was dry, but she met his gaze. “You will… you will achieve your greatest ambition, and realise your greatest hope.”

His eyes showed his cynicism. “Is that it, lady? Surely any street charlatan could say the same. How will I die?”

“Not fifty feet from where we stand,” she said. “Out in the courtyard. I see soldiers with black cloaks and helms, storming the walls. You will gather your men for a last stand outside these walls. Beside you will be… your strongest brother and a second cousin.”

“And when will this be?”

“One year after you are wed. To the day.”

“And what is the name of the lady I shall marry?”

“I will not say,” she told him.

“We must go, Lord,” said Pudri swiftly. “The Lords Kabuchek and Shabag await.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Rowena. I hope we will meet again.”

Rowena did not reply, but followed Pudri into the shrine room.

At dusk the enemy drew back, and Druss was surprised to see the Ventrian warriors leaving the walls and strolling back through the city streets. “Where is everyone going?” he asked the warrior beside him. The man had removed his helm and was wiping his sweat-streaked face with a cloth.

“To eat and rest,” the warrior answered.

Druss scanned the walls. Only a handful of men remained, and these were sitting with their backs to the ramparts. “What if there is another attack?” asked the axeman.

“There won’t be. That was the fourth.”

“Fourth?” queried Druss, surprised.

The warrior, a middle-aged man with a round face and keen blue eyes, grinned at the Drenai. “I take it that you are no student of strategy. Your first siege, is it?” Druss nodded. “Well, the rules of engagement are precise. There will be a maximum of four attacks during any twenty-four-hour period.”

“Why only four?”

The man shrugged. “It’s a long time since I studied the manual, but, as I recall, it is a question of morale. When Zhan Tsu wrote The Art of War he explained that after four attacks the spirit of the attackers can give way to despair.”

“There won’t be very much despair among them if they attack now - or after night falls,” Druss pointed out.

“They won’t attack,” said his comrade slowly, as if speaking to a child. “If a night attack was planned there would have only been three assaults during the day.”

Druss was nonplussed. “And these rules were written in a book?”

“Yes, a fine work by a Chiatze general.”

“And you will leave these walls virtually unmanned during the night because of a book?”

The man laughed. “Not the book, the rules of engagement. Come with me to the barracks and I’ll explain a little more.”

As they strolled the warrior, Oliquar, told Druss that he had served in the Ventrian army for more than twenty years. “I was even an officer once, during the Opal Campaign. Damn near wiped out we were, so I got to command a troop of forty men. It didn’t last. The General offered me a commission, but I couldn’t afford the armour, so that was it. Back to the rankers. But it’s not a bad life. Comradeship, two good meals a day.”

“Why couldn’t you afford the armour? Don’t they pay officers?”

“Of course, but only a disha a day. That’s half of what I earn now.”

“The officers receive less than the rankers? That’s stupid.”

Oliquar shook his head. “Of course it isn’t. That way only the rich can afford to be officers, which means that only noblemen - or the sons of merchants, who desire to be noblemen - can command. In this way the noble families retain power. Where are you from, young man?”

“I am Drenai.”

“Ah, yes. I have never been there of course, but I understand the mountains of Skeln are exceptionally beautiful. Green and lush, like the Saurab. I miss the mountains.”

Druss sat with Oliquar in the Western Barracks and ate a meal of beef and wild onions before setting off back to the empty tavern. It was a calm night, with no clouds, and the moon turned the white, ghostly buildings to a muted silver.

Sieben was not in their room and Druss sat by the window, staring out over the harbour, watching the moonlit waves and the water which looked like molten iron.

He had fought in three of the four attacks - the enemy, red-cloaked, with helms boasting white horsehair plumes, running forward carrying ladders which they leaned against the walls. Rocks had been hurled down upon them, arrows peppered them. Yet on they came. The first to reach the walls were speared, or struck with swords, but a few doughty fighters made their way to the battlements, where they were cut down by the defenders. Half-way through the second attack a dull, booming sound, like controlled thunder, was heard on the walls.

“Battering-ram,” said the soldier beside him. “They won’t have much luck, those gates are reinforced with iron and brass.”

Druss leaned back in his chair and stared down at Snaga. In the main, he had used the axe to push back ladders, sliding them along the wall, sending attackers tumbling to the rocky ground below. Only twice had the weapon drawn blood. Reaching out Druss stroked the black haft, remembering the victims - a tall, beardless warrior and a swarthy, pot-bellied man in an iron helm. The first had died when Snaga crunched through his wooden breastplate, the second when the silver blades had sheared his iron helm in two. Druss ran his thumb along the blades. Not a mark, or a nick.

Sieben arrived at the room just before midnight. His eyes were red-rimmed and he yawned constantly. “What happened to you?” asked Druss.

The poet smiled. “I made new friends.” Pulling off his boots he settled back on one of the narrow beds.

Druss sniffed the air. “Smells like you were rolling in a flowerbed.”

“A bed of flowers,” said Sieben, with a smile. “Yes, almost exactly how I would describe it.”

Druss frowned. “Well, never mind that, do you know anything about rules of engagement?”

“I know everything about my rules of engagement, but I take it you are talking about Ventrian warfare?” Swinging his legs from the bed, he sat up. “I’m tired, Druss, so let’s make this conversation brief. I have a meeting in the morning and I need to build up my strength.”

Druss ignored the exaggerated yawn with which Sieben accompanied his words. “I saw hundreds of men wounded today, and scores killed. Yet now, with only a few men on the walls, the enemy sits back and waits for sunrise. Why? Does no one want to win?”

“Someone will win,” answered Sieben. “But this is a civilised land. They have practised warfare for thousands of years. The siege will go on for a few weeks, or a few months, and every day the combatants will count their losses. At some point, if there is no breakthrough, either one or the other will offer terms to the enemy.”

“What do you mean, terms?”

“If the besiegers decide they cannot win, they will withdraw. If the men here decide all is lost, they will desert to the enemy.”

“What about Gorben?”

Sieben shrugged. “His own troops might kill him, or hand him over to the Naashanites.”

“Gods, is there no honour among these Ventrians?”

“Of course there is, but most of the men here are mercenaries from many eastern tribes. They are loyal to whoever pays them the most.”

“If the rules of war here are so civilised,” said Druss, “why have the inhabitants of the city fled? Why not just wait until the fighting is over, and serve whoever wins?”

“They would, at best, be enslaved; at worst, slaughtered. It may be a civilised land, Druss, but it is also a harsh one.”

“Can Gorben win?”

“Not as matters stand, but he may be lucky. Often Ventrian sieges are settled by single combat between champions, though such an event would take place only if both factions were of equal strength, and both had champions they believed were invincible. That won’t happen here, because Gorben is heavily outnumbered. However, now that he has the gold Bodasen brought he will send spies in to the enemy camp to bribe the soldiers to desert to his cause. It’s unlikely to work, but it might. Who knows?”

“Where did you learn all this?” asked Druss.

“I have just spent an informative afternoon with the Princess Asha - Gorben’s sister.”

“What?” stormed Druss. “What is it with you? Did you learn nothing from what happened in Mashrapur? One day! And already you are rutting!”

“I do not rut,” snapped Sieben. “I make love. And what I do is none of your concern.”

“That’s true,” admitted Druss, “and when they take you for disembowelling, or impaling, I shall remind you of that.”

“Ah, Druss!” said Sieben, settling back on the bed. “There are some things worth dying for. And she is very beautiful. By the gods, a man could do worse than marry her.”

Druss stood and turned away to the window. Sieben was instantly contrite. “I am sorry, my friend. I wasn’t thinking.” He approached Druss and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry about what happened with the priest.”

“It was her voice,” said Druss, swallowing hard and fighting to keep his emotions in check. “She said she was waiting for me. I thought that if I went to the wall I might be killed, and then I’d be with her again. But no one came with the skill or the heart. No one ever will… and I don’t have the courage to do the deed myself.”

“That would not be courage, Druss. And Rowena would not want it. She’d want you to be happy, to marry again.”

“Never!”

“You are not yet twenty, my friend. There are other women.”

“None like her. But she’s gone, and I’ll speak no more of her. I’ll carry her here,” he said, touching his chest, “and I’ll not forget her. Now go back to what you were saying about Eastern warfare.”

Sieben lifted a clay goblet from a shelf by the window, blew the dust from it, and filled it with water which he drained at a single swallow. “Gods, that tastes foul! All right… Eastern warfare. What is it you wish to know now?”

“Well,” said Druss, slowly, “I know that the enemy can attack four times in a day. But why did they only attack one wall? They have the numbers to surround the city and attack in many places at once.”

“They will, Druss, but not in the first month. This is the testing time. Untried new soldiers are judged on their courage during the first few weeks; then they will bring up the siege-engines. That should be the second month. After that perhaps ballistae, hurling huge rocks over the walls. If at the end of the month there has been no success, they will call in the engineers and they will burrow under the walls, seeking to bring them down.”

“And what rules over the besieged?” asked the axeman.

“I don’t understand you?”

“Well, suppose we were to attack them. Could we only do it four times? Can we attack at night? What are the rules?”

“It is not a question of rules, Druss, it’s more a matter for common sense. Gorben is outnumbered by around twenty to one; if he attacked, he’d be wiped out.”

Druss nodded, and lapsed into silence. Finally he spoke. “I’ll ask Oliquar for his book. You can read it to me, then I’ll understand.”

“Can we sleep now?” asked Sieben.

Druss nodded and took up his axe. He did not remove his boots or jerkin and stretched out on the second bed with Snaga beside him.

“You don’t need an axe in bed in order to sleep.”

“It comforts me,” answered Druss, closing his eyes.

“Where did you get it?”

“It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Was he a great hero?” asked Sieben, hopefully.

“No, he was a madman, and a terrible killer.”

“That’s nice,” said Sieben, settling down on his own bed. “It’s good to know you have a family trade to fall back on if times get hard.”