The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

Chapter Four

From the back of the Hall Varsava watched the scene with fascination. Cajivak’s body lay on the dais, blood staining the floor around it. In the Hall itself the warriors stood with their eyes locked to the man sitting slumped on Cajivak’s throne. Varsava glanced up at the gallery where Eskodas waited, an arrow still strung to his bow.

What now, thought Varsava, scanning the Hall. There must be over a hundred killers here. His mouth was dry. At any moment the unnatural calm would vanish. What then? Would they rush the dais? And what of Druss? Would he take up his axe and attack them all?

I don’t want to die here, he thought, wondering what he would do if they did attack Druss. He was close to the rear door - no one would notice if he just slipped away into the night. After all, he owed the man nothing. Varsava had done more than his share, locating Sieben and setting up the rescue attempt. To die now, in a meaningless skirmish, would be nonsense.

Yet he did not move but stood silently, waiting, with all the other men, and watched Druss drain a third goblet of wine. Then the axeman rose and wandered down into the hall, leaving his axe on the dais. Druss moved to the first table and tore a chunk of bread from a fresh-baked loaf. “None of you hungry?” he asked the men.

A tall, slim warrior wearing a crimson shirt stepped forward. “What are your plans?” he asked.

“I’m going to eat,” Druss told him. “Then I’m going to bathe. After that I think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“And then?” The Hall was silent, the warriors milling closer to hear the axeman’s answer.

“One thing at a time, laddie. When you sit in a dungeon, in the dark, with only rats for company, you learn never to make too many plans.”

“Are you seeking to take his place?” persisted the warrior, pointing to the severed head.

Druss laughed. “By the gods, look at him! Would you want to take his place?” Chewing on the bread, Druss returned to the dais and sat. Then he leaned forward and addressed the men. “I am Druss,” he said. “Some of you may remember me from the day I was brought here. Others may know of my service with the Emperor. I have no ill-will towards any of you… but if any man here wishes to die, then let him take up his weapons and approach me. I’ll oblige him.” He stood and hefted the axe. “Anyone?” he challenged. No one moved and Druss nodded. “You are all fighting men,” he said, “but you fight for pay. That is sensible. Your leader is dead - best you finish your meal, and then choose another.”

“Are you putting yourself forward?” asked the man in the crimson shirt.

“Laddie, I’ve had enough of this fortress. And I have other plans.”

Druss turned back to Sieben, and Varsava could not hear their conversation. The warriors gathered together in small groups, discussing the various merits and vices of Cajivak’s under-leaders, and Varsava strolled out of the Hall, confused by what he had seen. Beyond the Hall was a wide antechamber where the bladesman sat on a long couch - his feelings mixed, his heart heavy. Eskodas joined him.

“How did he do it?” asked Varsava. “A hundred killers, and they just accepted his murder of their leader. Incredible!”

Eskodas shrugged and smiled. “That’s Druss.”

Varsava swore softly. “You call that an answer?”

“It depends what you are looking for,” responded the bowman. “Perhaps you should be asking yourself why you are angry. You came here to rescue a friend, and now he is free. What more did you want?”

Varsava laughed, but the sound was dry and harsh. “You want the truth? I half desired to see Druss broken. I wanted confirmation of his stupidity! The great herol He rescued an old man and child - that’s why he’s spent a year or more in this cesspit. You understand? It was meaningless. Meaningless!”

“Not for Druss.”

“What is so special about him?” stormed Varsava. “He’s not blessed with a fine mind, he has no intellect to speak of. Any other man who has just done what he did would be ripped to pieces by that mangy crew. But no, not Druss! Why? He could have become their leader - just like that! They would have accepted it.”

“I can give you no definitive answers,” said Eskodas. “I watched him storm a ship filled with blood-hungry corsairs - they threw down their weapons. It is the nature of the man, I suppose. I had a teacher once, a great bowman, who told me that when we see another man we instinctively judge him as either threat or prey. Because we are hunting, killing animals. Carnivores. We are a deadly breed, Varsava. When we look at Druss we see the ultimate threat - a man who does not understand compromise. He breaks the rules. No, more than that, I think. For him there are no rules. Take what happened back there. An ordinary man might well have killed Cajivak - though I doubt it. But he would not have hurled aside the axe and fought the monster hand to hand. And when he’d slain the leader he would have looked out at all those killers and, in his heart, he would have expected death. They would have sensed it… and they would have killed him. But Druss didn’t sense it; he didn’t care. One at a time, or all at once. He’d have fought them all.”

“And died,” put in Varsava.

“Probably. But that’s not the point. After he killed Cajivak he sat down and called for a drink. A man doesn’t do that if he expects further battles. That left them confused, uncertain - no rules, you see. And when he walked down among them he left the axe behind. He knew he wouldn’t need it - and they knew too. He played them like a harp. But he didn’t do it consciously, it is just the nature of the man.”

“I can’t be like him,” said Varsava sadly, remembering the peacemaker and the terrible death he suffered.

“Few can,” agreed Eskodas. “That’s why he is becoming a legend.”

Laughter echoed from the Hall. “Sieben is entertaining them again,” said Eskodas. “Come on, let’s go and listen. We can get drunk.”

“I don’t want to get drunk. I want to be young again. I want to change the past, wipe a wet rag over the filthy slate.”

“It’s a fresh day tomorrow,” said Eskodas softly.

“What does that mean?”

“The past is dead, bladesman, the future largely unwritten. I was on a ship once with a rich man when we hit a storm, and the ship went down. The rich man gathered as much gold as he could carry. He drowned. I left behind everything I owned. I survived.”

“You think my guilt weighs more than his gold?”

“I think you should leave it behind,” said Eskodas, rising. “Now, come and see Druss - and let’s get drunk.”

“No,” said Varsava sadly. “I don’t want to see him.” He stood and placed his wide leather hat upon his head. “Give him my best wishes, and tell him… tell him…” His voice faded away.

“Tell him what?”

Varsava shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “Tell him goodbye,” he said.

Michanek followed the young officer to the base of the wall, then both men knelt with their ears to the stone. At first Michanek could hear nothing, but then came the sound of scraping, like giant rats beneath the earth, and he swore softly.

“You have done well, Cicarin. They are digging beneath the walls. The question is, from where? Follow me.” The young officer followed the powerfully built champion as Michanek scaled the rampart steps and leaned out over the parapet. Ahead was the main camp of the Ventrian army, their tents pitched on the plain before the city. To the left was a line of low hills with the river beyond them. To the right was a higher section of hills, heavily wooded. “My guess,” said Michanek, “would be that they began their work on the far side of that hill, about half-way up. They would have taken a bearing and know that if they hold to a level course they would come under the walls by around two feet.”

“How serious is it, sir?” asked Cicarin nervously.

Michanek smiled at the young man. “Serious enough. Have you ever been down a mine?”

“No, sir.”

Michanek chuckled. Of course he hadn’t. The boy was the youngest son of a Naashanite Satrap who until this siege had been surrounded by servants, barbers, valets and huntsmen. His clothes would have been laid out each morning, his breakfast brought to him on a silver tray as he lay in bed with satin sheets.

“There are many aspects to soldiering,” he said. “They are mining beneath our walls, removing the foundations. As they dig, they are shoring up the walls and ceiling with very dry timber. They will dig along the line of the wall, then burrow on to the hills by the river, emerging somewhere around… there.” He pointed to the tallest of the low hills.

“I don’t understand,” said Cicarin. “If they are shoring up the tunnel, what harm can it do?”

“That’s an easy question to answer. Once they have two openings there will be a through draught of air; then they will soak the timbers with oil and, when the wind is right, set fire to the tunnel. The wind will drive the flames through, the ceiling will collapse and, if they have done their job well, the walls will come crashing down.”

“Can we do nothing to stop them?”

“Nothing of worth. We could send an armed force to attack the workings, maybe kill a few miners, but they would just bring in more. No. We cannot act, therefore we must react. I want you to assume that this section of wall will fall.” He turned from the parapet and scanned the line of houses behind the wall. There were several alleyways and two major roads leading into the city. “Take fifty men and block the alleys and roads. Also fill in the ground-floor windows of the houses. We must have a secondary line of defence.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, his eyes downcast.

“Keep your spirits up, boy,” advised Michanek. “We’re not dead yet.”

“No, sir. But people are starting to talk openly about the relief army; they say it’s not coming - that we’ve been left behind.”

“Whatever the Emperor’s decision, we will abide by it,” said Michanek sternly. The young man reddened, then saluted and strode away. Michanek watched him, then returned to the battlements.

There was no relief force. The Naashanite army had been crushed in two devastating battles and was fleeing now towards the border. Resha was the last of the occupied cities. The intended conquest of Ventria was now a disaster of the first rank.

But Michanek had his orders. He, and the renegade Ventrian Darishan, were to hold Resha as long as possible, tying down Ventrian troops while the Emperor fled back to the safety of the mountains of Naashan.

Michanek dug into the pouch at his side and pulled clear the small piece of parchment on which the message had been sent. He gazed down at the hasty script.

Hold at all costs, until otherwise ordered. No surrender.

The warrior slowly shredded the message. There were no farewells, no tributes, no words of regret. Such is the gratitude of princes, he thought. He had scribbled his own reply, folding it carefully and inserting it into the tiny metal tube which he then tied to the leg of the pigeon. The bird soared into the air and flew east, bearing Michanek’s last message to the Emperor he had served since a boy:

As you order, so shall it be.

The stitched wound on his side was itching now, a sure sign of healing. Idly he scratched it. You were lucky, he thought. Bodasen almost had you. By the western gate he saw the first of the food convoys wending its way through the Ventrian ranks, and he strode down to meet the wagons.

The first driver waved as he saw him; it was his cousin Shurpac. The man leapt down from the plank seat, throwing the reins to the fat man beside him.

“Well met, cousin,” said Shurpac, throwing his arms around Michanek and kissing both bearded cheeks. Michanek felt cold, the thrill of fear coursing through him as he remembered Rowena’s warning: “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 youngest brother and a second cousin.”

“What’s wrong, Michi? You look as if a ghost has drifted across your grave.”

Michanek forced a smile. “I did not expect to see you here. I heard you were with the Emperor.”

“I was. But these are sad times, cousin; he is a broken man. I heard you were here and was trying to find a way through. Then I heard about the duel. Wonderful. The stuff of legends! Why did you not kill him?”

Michanek shrugged. “He fought well, and bravely. But I pierced his lung and he fell. He was no threat after that, there was no need to make the killing thrust.”

“I’d love to have seen Gorben’s face. He is said to have believed Bodasen unbeatable with the blade.”

“No one is unbeatable, cousin. No one.”

“Nonsense,” announced Shurpac. “You are unbeatable. That’s why I wanted to be here, to fight beside you. I think we’ll show these Ventrians a thing or three. Where is Narin?”

“At the barracks, waiting for the food. We will test it on Ventrian prisoners.”

“You think Gorben may have poisoned it?”

Michanek shrugged. “I don’t know… perhaps. Go on, take them through.”

Shurpac clambered back to his seat, lifted a whip and lightly cracked it over the heads of the four mules. They lurched forward into the traces and the wagon rolled on. Michanek strolled out through the gates and counted the wagons. There were fifty, all filled with flour and dried fruit, oats, cereal, flour and maize. Gorben had promised two hundred. Will you keep your word? wondered Michanek.

As if in answer a lone horseman rode from the enemy camp. The horse was a white stallion of some seventeen hands, a handsome beast built for power and speed. It charged towards Michanek, who held his ground with arms crossed against his chest. At the last moment the rider dragged on the reins. The horse reared, and the rider leapt down. Michanek bowed as he recognised the Ventrian Emperor.

“How is Bodasen?” asked Michanek.

“Alive. I thank you for sparing the last thrust. He means much to me.”

“He’s a good man.”

“So are you,” said Gorben. “Too good to die here for a monarch who has deserted you.”

Michanek laughed. “When I made my oath of allegiance, I do not recall it having a clause that would allow me to break it. You have such clauses in your own oath of fealty?”

Gorben smiled. “No. My people pledge to support me to the death.”

Michanek spread his arms. “Well then, my Lord, what else would you expect this poor Naashanite to do?”

Gorben’s smile faded and he stepped in close. “I had hoped you would surrender, Michanek. I do not seek your death - I owe you a life. You must see now that even with these supplies, you cannot hold out much longer. Why must I send in my Immortals to see you all cut to pieces? Why not merely march out in good order and return home? You may pass unmolested; you have my word.”

“That would be contrary to my orders, my Lord.”

“Might I ask what they are?”

“To hold until ordered otherwise.”

“Your Lord is in full flight. I have captured his baggage train, including his three wives and his daughters. Even now one of his messengers is in my tent, negotiating for their safe return. But he asks nothing for you, his most loyal soldier. Do you not find that galling?”

“Of course,” agreed Michanek, “but it alters nothing.”

Gorben shook his head and turned to his stallion. Taking hold of rein and pommel, he vaulted to the horse’s back. “You are a fine man, Michanek. I wish you could have served me.”

“And you, sir, are a gifted general. It has been a pleasure to thwart you for so long. Give my regards to Bodasen - and if you wish to stake it all on another duel, I will meet whoever you send.”

“If my champion was here I would hold you to that,” said Gorben, with a wide grin. “I would like to see how you would fare against Druss and his axe. Farewell, Michanek. May the gods grant you a splendid afterlife.”

The Ventrian Emperor heeled the stallion into a run and galloped back to the camp.

Pahtai was sitting in the garden when the first vision came to her. She was watching a bee negotiate an entry into a purple bloom when suddenly she saw an image of the man with the axe - only he had no axe, and no beard. He was sitting upon a mountainside overlooking a small village with a half-built stockade wall. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. She was troubled, but with the constant battles upon the walls of Resha, and her fears for Michanek’s safety, she brushed her worries away.

But the second vision was more powerful than the first. She saw a ship, and upon it a tall, thin man. A name filtered through the veils of her mind:

Kabuchek.

He had owned her once, long ago in the days when Pudri said she had a rare Talent, a gift for seeing the future and reading the past. The gift was gone now, and she did not regret it. Amid a terrible civil war it was, perhaps, a blessing not to know what perils the future had to offer.

She told Michanek of her visions and watched as the look of sorrow touched his handsome face. He had taken her into his arms, holding her tight, just as he had throughout her sickness. Michanek had risked catching the plague, yet in her fever dreams she drew great strength from his presence and his devotion. And she had survived, though all the surgeons predicted her death. True her heart was now weak, so they said, and any exertion tired her. But her strength was returning month by month.

The sun was bright above the garden, and Pahtai moved out to gather flowers with which to decorate the main rooms. In her arms she held a flat wicker basket in which was placed a sharp cutting knife. As the sun touched her face she tilted her head, enjoying the warmth upon her skin. In the distance a high-pitched scream suddenly sounded and her eyes turned towards the direction of the noise. Faintly she could hear the clash of-steel on steel, the shouts and cries of warriors in desperate combat.

Will it never end? she thought.

A shadow fell across her and she turned and saw that two men had entered the garden. They were thin, their clothes ragged and filthy.

“Give us food,” demanded one, moving in towards her.

“You must go to the ration centre,” she said, fighting down her fear.

“You don’t live on rations, do you, you Naashanite whore!” said the second man, stepping in close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap ale, and she saw his pale eyes glance towards her breasts. She was wearing a thin tunic of blue silk, and her legs were bare. The first man grabbed her arm, dragging her towards him. She thought of grabbing for the cutting knife, but in that instant found herself staring down at a narrow bed in a small room. Upon it lay a woman and a sickly child; their names flashed into her mind.

“What of Katina?” she said suddenly. The man groaned and fell back, releasing his hold, his eyes wide and stricken with guilt. “Your baby son is dying,” she said softly. “Dying while you drink and attack women. Go to the kitchen, both of you. Ask for Pudri, and tell him that…” she hesitated… “that Pahtai said you could have food. There are some eggs and unleavened bread. Go now, both of you.”

The men backed away from her, then turned and ran for the house. Pahtai, trembling from the shock, sat down on a marble seat.

Pahtai? Rowena… The name rose up from the deepest levels of her memory, and she greeted it like a song of morning after a night of storms.

Rowena. I am Rowena.

A man came walking along the garden path, bowing as he saw her. His hair was silver, and braided, yet his face was young and almost unlined. He bowed again. “Greetings, Pahtai, are you well?”

“I am well, Darishan. But you look tired.”

“Tired of sieges, that’s for sure. May I sit beside you?”

“Of course. Michanek is not here, but you are welcome to wait for him.”

He leaned back and sniffed the air. “I do love roses. Exquisite smell; they remind me of my childhood. You know I used to play with Gorben? We were friends. We used to hide in bushes such as these, and pretend we were being hunted by assassins. Now I am hiding again, but there is not a rose bush large enough to conceal me.”

Rowena said nothing, but she gazed into his handsome face and saw the fear lurking below the surface.

“I saddled the wrong horse, my dear,” he said, with a show of brightness. “I thought the Naashanites would be preferable to watching Gorben’s father destroy the Empire. But all I have done is to train a younger lion in the ways of war and conquest. Do you think I could convince Gorben that I have, in fact, done him a service?” He looked into her face. “No, I suppose I couldn’t. I shall just have to face my death like a Ventrian.”

“Don’t talk of death,” she scolded. “The walls still hold and now we have food.”

Darishan smiled. “Yes. It was a fine duel, but I don’t mind admitting that my heart was in my mouth throughout. Michanek might have slipped, and then where would I have been, with the gates open to Gorben?”

“There is no man alive who could defeat Michanek,” she said.

“So far. But Gorben had another champion once… Druss, I think his name was. Axeman. He was rather deadly, as I recall.”

Rowena shivered. “Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly solicitous. “You’re not getting a fever, are you?” Lifting his hand, he laid his palm on her brow. As he touched her she saw him die, fighting upon the battlements, black-cloaked warriors all around him, swords and knives piercing his flesh.

Closing her eyes, she forced the images back. “You are unwell,” she heard him say, as if from a great distance.

Rowena took a deep breath. “I am a little weak,” she admitted.

“Well, you must be strong for your celebration. Michanek has found three singers and a lyre player - it should be quite an entertainment. And I have a full barrel of the finest Lentrian Red, which I shall have sent over.”

At the thought of the anniversary Rowena brightened. It was almost a year since she had recovered from the plague… A year since Michanek had made her happiness complete. She smiled at Darishan. “You will join us tomorrow? That is good. I know Michanek values your friendship.”

“And I his.” Darishan rose. “He’s a good man, you know, far better than the rest of us. I’m proud to have known him.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed.

“I have to admit, old horse, that life without you was dull,” said Sieben. Druss said nothing, but sat staring into the flames of the small fire, watching them dance and flicker. Snaga was laid beside him, the blades upwards resting against the trunk of a young oak, the haft wedged against a jutting root. On the other side of the fire Eskodas was preparing two rabbits for the spit. “When we have dined,” continued Sieben, “I shall regale you with the further adventures of Druss the Legend.”

“No, you damned well won’t,” grunted Druss.

Eskodas laughed. “You really should hear it, Druss. He has you descending into Hell to rescue the soul of a princess.”

Druss shook his head, but a brief smile showed through the black beard and Sieben was heartened. In the month since Druss had killed Cajivak the axeman had said little. For the first two weeks they had rested at Lania, then they had journeyed across the mountains, heading east. Now, two days from Resha, they were camped on a wooded hillside above a small village. Druss had regained much of his lost weight, and his shoulders almost filled the silver-embossed jerkin he had removed from Cajivak’s body.

Eskodas placed the spitted rabbits across the fire and sat back, wiping grease and blood from his fingers. “A man can starve to death eating rabbit,” he observed. “Not a lot of goodness there. We should have gone down to the village.”

“I like being outside,” said Druss.

“Had I known, I would have come sooner,” said Sieben softly and Druss nodded.

“I know that, poet. But it is in the past now. All that matters is that I find Rowena. She came to me in a dream while I was in that dungeon; she gave me strength. I’ll find her.” He sighed. “Some day.”

“The war is almost over,” said Eskodas. “Once it is won, I think you’ll find her. Gorben will be able to send riders to every city, village and town. Whoever owns her will know that the Emperor wants her returned.”

“That’s true,” said Druss, brightening, “and he did promise to help. I feel better already. The stars are bright, the night is cool. Ah, but it’s good to be alive! All right, poet, tell me how I rescued the princess from Hell. And put in a dragon or two!”

“No,” said Sieben, with a laugh, “you are now in altogether too good a mood. It is only amusing when your face is dark as thunder and your knuckles are clenched white.”

“There is truth in that,” muttered Druss. “I think you only invent these tales to annoy me.”

Eskodas lifted the spit and turned the roasting meat. “I rather liked the tale, Druss. And it had the ring of truth. If the Chaos Spirit did drag your soul into Hell, I’m sure you’d twist his tail for him.”

Conversation ceased as they heard movement from the woods. Sieben drew one of his knives; Eskodas took up his bow and notched a shaft to the string; Druss merely sat silently, waiting. A man appeared. He was wearing long flowing robes of dusty grey, though they shone like silver in the bright moonlight.

“I was waiting for you in the village,” said the priest of Pashtar Sen, sitting down alongside the axeman.

“I prefer it here,” said Druss, his voice cold and unwelcoming.

“I am sorry, my son, for your suffering, and I feel a weight of shame for asking you to take up the burden of the axe. But Cajivak was laying waste to the countryside, and his power would have grown. What you did…”

“I did what I did,” snarled Druss. “Now live up to your side of the bargain.”

“Rowena is in Resha. She… lives… with a soldier named Michanek. He is a Naashanite general, and the Emperor’s champion.”

“Lives with?”

The priest hesitated. “She is married to him,” he said swiftly.

Druss’s eyes narrowed. “That is a lie. They might force her to do many things, but she would never marry another man.”

“Let me tell this in my own way,” pleaded the priest. “As you know I searched long and hard for her, but there was nothing. It was as if she had ceased to exist. When I did find her it was by chance - I saw her in Resha just before the siege and I touched her mind. She had no memory of the lands of the Drenai, none whatever. I followed her home and saw Michanek greet her. Then I entered his mind. He had a friend, a mystic, and he employed him to take away Rowena’s Talent as a seeress. In doing this they also robbed her of her memories. Michanek is now all she has ever known.”

“They tricked her with sorcery. By the gods, I’ll make them pay for that! Resha, eh?” Reaching out Druss curled his hand around the haft of the axe, drawing the weapon to him.

“No, you still don’t understand,” said the priest. “Michanek is a fine man. What he…”

“Enough!” thundered Druss. “Because of you I have spent more than a year in a hole in the ground, with only rats for company. Now get out of my sight - and never, ever cross my path again.”

The priest slowly rose.and backed away from the axeman. He seemed about to speak, but Druss turned his pale eyes upon the man and the priest stumbled away into the darkness.

Sieben and Eskodas said nothing.

High in the cliffs, far to the east, the Naashanite Emperor sat, his woollen cloak wrapped tightly around him. He was fifty-four years of age and looked seventy, his hair white and wispy, his eyes sunken. Beside him sat his staff officer, Anindais; he was unshaven, and the pain of defeat was etched into his face.

Behind them, down the long pass, the rearguard had halted the advancing Ventrians. They were safe… for the moment.

Nazhreen Connitopa, Lord of the Eyries, Prince of the Highlands, Emperor of Naashan, tasted bile in his mouth and his heart was sick with frustration. He had planned the invasion of Ventria for almost eleven years, and the Empire had been his for the taking. Gorben was beaten - everyone knew it, from the lowliest peasant to the highest Satraps in the land. Everyone, that is, except Gorben.

Nazhreen silently cursed the gods for snatching away his prize. The only reason he was still alive was because Michanek was holding Resha and tying down two Ventrian armies. Nazhreen rubbed at his face and saw, in the firelight, that his hands were grubby, the paint on his nails cracked and peeling.

“We must kill Gorben,” said Anindais suddenly, his voice harsh and cold as the winds that hissed through the peaks.

Nazhreen gazed sullenly at his cousin. “And how do we do that?” he countered. “His armies have vanquished ours. His Immortals are even now harrying our rearguard.”

“We should do now what I urged two years ago, cousin. Use the Darklight. Send for the Old Woman.”

“No! I will not use sorcery.”

“Ah, you have so many other choices then, cousin?” The tone was derisive, contempt dripping from every word. Nazhreen swallowed hard. Anindais was a dangerous man, and Nazhreen’s position as a losing Emperor left him exposed.

“Sorcery has a way of rebounding on those who use it,” he said softly. “When you summon demons they require payment in blood.”

Anindais leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering in the firelight. “Once Resha falls, you can expect Gorben to march into Naashan. Then there’ll be blood aplenty. Who will defend you, Nazhreen? Our troops have been cut to pieces, and the best of our men are trapped in Resha and will be butchered. Our only hope is for Gorben to die; then the Ventrians can fight amongst themselves to choose a successor and that will give us time to rebuild, to negotiate. Who else can guarantee his death? The Old Woman has never failed, they say.”

“They say,” mocked the Emperor. “Have you used her yourself then? Is that why your brother died in so timely a fashion?” As soon as the words were spoken he regretted them, for Anindais was not a man to offend, not even in the best of times. And these were certainly not the best of times.

Nazhreen was relieved to see his cousin smile broadly, as Anindais leaned in and placed his arm around the Emperor’s shoulder. “Ah, cousin, you came so close to victory. It was a brave gamble and I honour you for it. But times change, needs change.”

Nazhreen was about to answer when he saw the firelight glint from the dagger blade. There was no time to struggle or to scream, and the blade plunged in between his ribs, cutting through his heart.

There was no pain, only release as he slumped sideways, his head resting on Anindais’ shoulder. The last feeling he experienced was of Anindais stroking his hair.

It was soothing…

Anindais pushed the body from him and stood. A figure shuffled from the shadows, an old woman in a wolfskin cloak. Kneeling by the body, she dipped her skeletal fingers into the blood and licked them. “Ah, the blood of kings,” she said. “Sweeter than wine.”

“Is that enough of a sacrifice?” Anindais asked.

“No - but it will suffice as a beginning,” she said. She shivered. “It is cold here. Not like Mashrapur. I think I shall return there when this is over. I miss my house.”

“How will you kill him?” asked Anindais.

She glanced up at the general. “We shall make it poetic. He is a Ventrian nobleman, and the sign of his house is the Bear. I shall send Kalith.”

Anindais licked his dry lips. “Kalith is just a dark legend, surely?”

“If you want to see him for yourself I can arrange it,” hissed the Old Woman.

Anindais fell back. “No, I believe you.”

“I like you, Anindais,” she said softly. “You do not have a single redeeming virtue - that is rare. So I will give you a gift, and charge nothing for it. Stay by me and you will see the Kalith kill the Ventrian.” She stood and walked to the cliff-face. “Come,” she called and Anindais followed. The Old Woman gestured at the grey rock and the wall became smoke. Taking the general’s hand, she led him through.

A long dark tunnel beckoned and Anindais shrank back. “Not a single redeeming feature,” she repeated, “not even courage. Stay by me, general, and no harm will befall you.”

The walk was not long, but to Anindais it stretched on for an eternity. He knew they were passing through a world that was not his own, and in the distance he could hear screams and cries that were not human. Great bats flew in a sky of dark ash, and not a living plant could be seen. The Old Woman followed a slender path, and took him across a narrow bridge that spanned an awesome chasm. At last she came to a fork in the path, and moved to the left towards a small cave. A three-headed dog guarded the entrance, but it backed away from her and they passed through. Within was a circular room stacked with tomes and scrolls. Two skeletons were hanging from hooks in the ceiling, their joints bound with golden wire. A cadaver lay across a long table, its chest and belly cut open, the heart lying beside the body like a grey stone about the size of a human fist.

The Old Woman lifted the heart and showed it to Anindais. “Here it is,” she said, “the secret of life. Four chambers and a number of valves, arteries and veins. Just a pump. No emotions, no secret storehouse for the soul.” She seemed disappointed. Anindais said nothing. “Blood,” she went on, “is pumped into the lungs to pick up oxygen, then distributed through the atria and the ventricles. Just a pump. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the Kalith.”

She sniffed loudly and threw the heart back towards the table; it hit the cadaver, then fell to the dusty floor. Swiftly she rummaged through the books on a high shelf, pulling one clear and flicking through the yellowed pages. Then she sat at a second desk and laid the book on the table. The left-hand page bore a neat script, the letters tiny. Anindais could not read, but he could see the picture painted on the right-hand page. It showed a huge bear, with claws of steel, its eyes of fire, its fangs dripping venom.

“It is a creature of earth and fire,” said the Old Woman, “and it will take great energy to summon it. That is why I need your assistance.”

“I know no sorcery,” said Anindais.

“You need to know none,” she snapped. “I will say the words, you will repeat them. Follow me.”

She led him further back into the cave, to an altar stone surrounded by gold wire fastened to a series of stalagmites. The stone sat at the centre of a circle of gold, and she bade Anindais step over the wires and approach the altar, upon which was a silver bowl full of water.

“Look into the water,” she said, “and repeat the words I speak.”

“Why do you stay outside the wire?” he asked.

“There is a seat here and my old legs are tired,” she told him. “Now let us begin.”