“It was hot. The tunic is decorous enough,” she said, absently tugging at the hem.
“I wonder if you really know what you want,” he said.
“I want to be left alone.”
“Then why do you seek my friendship?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” he told her, “but I’m not sure that you do.”
“You are very serious today, O Lord of the Forest. I can’t think why. We are all being paid. We have our pardons, and the quarters are a sight better than Skultik.”
“Where have they placed you?” he asked.
“The young officer—Pinar?—insisted that I have a room in the main barracks. He wouldn’t hear of me sharing with the rest of the men. It was quite touching, really. He even kissed my hand!”
“He’s all right,” said Bowman. “Let’s have a drink.” He led her into the Eldibar mess hall and on through the officers’ section at the rear, ordering a bottle of white wine. Seated by the window, he drank in silence for a while, watching the men train.
“Why did you agree to this?” she asked him suddenly. “And don’t give me any of that rubbish about pardons. You don’t give a damn about that or about the money.”
“Still trying to read me? It can’t be done,” he said, sipping his wine. Then he turned and called out for bread and cheese. She waited until the serving soldier had left.
“Come on, tell me!”
“Sometimes, my dear, as you will no doubt find when you are a little older, there are no simple reasons for a man’s actions. Impulse. An act spurred by the moment. Who knows why I agreed to come here? I certainly do not!”
“You’re lying again. You just won’t say. Is it that old man, Druss?”
“Why are you so interested? In fact, why are you here?”
“Why not? It should be exciting and not terribly dangerous. We are leaving, aren’t we, when the third wall goes?”
“Of course. That was the agreement,” he said.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” she said, smiling.
“I don’t trust anybody. You know, sometimes you do act just like every other woman I have known.”
“Is that a compliment, O Master of the Green Wood?”
“I think not.”
“Then what does it mean? After all, I am a woman. How do you expect me to act?”
“There you go again. Let’s get back to trust. What made you ask?”
“You won’t say why you came, and then you lie about leaving. Do you think I’m a complete fool? You have no intention of quitting this doomed pile of rock. You will stay to the end.”
“And where do you come by this remarkable intelligence?” he asked.
“It’s written all over your face. But don’t worry; I won’t let on to Jorak or any of the others. But don’t count on me to stay. I have no intention of dying here.”
“Caessa, my little dove, you only prove how little you know me. Anyway, for what it’s worth—”
Bowman ceased his explanation as the tall figure of Hogun entered the doorway and the gan threaded his way through the tables toward them. It was Caessa’s first sight of the legion general, and she was impressed. He moved with grace, one hand resting on his sword hilt. His eyes were clear, his jaw strong, and his features fair—handsome almost. She disliked him instantly. Her view was strengthened when he pulled up a chair, reversed it, and sat facing Bowman, ignoring her totally.
“Bowman, we must talk,” he said.
“Go ahead. First, let me introduce Caessa. Caessa, my dear, this is Gan Hogun of the legion.” He turned and nodded once in her direction.
“Do you mind if we talk alone?” he asked Bowman. Caessa’s green eyes blazed with anger, but she kept silent and stood, desperate for a parting remark that would sting the man.
“I will see you later,” said Bowman as she opened her mouth. “Get yourself some food now.” As she turned on her heel and left the room, Bowman watched her, delighting in the feline grace of her walk.
“You’ve upset her,” he said.
“Me? I didn’t even speak to her,” said Hogun, removing his black and silver helm and placing it on the table. “Anyway, that’s immaterial. I want you to speak to your men.”
“What about?”
“They spend a lot of their time loafing around and jeering at the soldiers as they train. It’s not good for morale.”
“Why shouldn’t they? They are civilian volunteers. It will all stop when the fighting starts.”
“The point is, Bowman, that the fighting may start before the Nadir arrive. I have just stopped one of my men from gutting that black-bearded giant, Jorak. Much more of this and we will have murder on our hands.”
“I’ll talk to them,” said Bowman. “Calm yourself and have a drink. What did you think of my lady archer?”
“I really didn’t look too closely. She seemed pretty.”
“I think it must be true what they say about the cavalry,” said Bowman. “You are all in love with your horses! Great gods, man, she’s more than merely pretty!”
“Talk to your men now. I will feel a lot better then. Tensions are rising pretty badly, and the Nadir are only two days away.”
“I said I would. Now, have a drink and relax. You’re getting as edgy as your men, and that can’t be good for morale.”
Hogun grinned suddenly. “You’re right. It’s always like this before a fight. Druss is like a bear with a sore head.”
“I hear you lost the open swords to the fat one,” said Bowman, grinning. “Tut, tut, old horse! This is no time to be currying favor with the hierarchy.”
“I didn’t let him win; he’s a fine swordsman. Don’t judge him too harshly, my friend; he may yet surprise you. He certainly surprised me. What did you mean when you said I upset the girl?”
Bowman smiled, then laughed loudly. He shook his head and poured another glass of wine.
“My dear Hogun, when a woman is beautiful, she comes to expect a certain—how shall I say?—a certain reverence from men. You should have had the good grace to be thunderstruck by her beauty. Stunned into silence or, better still, into a babbling fool. Then she would have merely ignored you and answered your devotion with arrogant disdain. Now you have slighted her, and she will hate you. Worse than this, she will do all in her power to win your heart.”
“I don’t think that makes a great deal of sense. Why should she try to win my heart if she hates me?”
“So that she can be in a position to treat you with disdain. Do you know nothing about women?”
“I know enough,” said Hogun. “I also know that I don’t have time for this foolishness. Should I apologize to her, do you think?”
“And let her know you know how slighted she was? My dear boy, your education has been sadly lacking!”
18
Druss welcomed the arrival of the Dros Purdol riders, not so much for their numbers, more for the fact that their arrival proved that the Dros had not been forgotten by the outside world.
Yet still, Druss knew, the defenders would be badly stretched. The first battle on Eldibar, Wall One, would either raise the men or destroy them. The Delnoch fighting edge was sharp enough, but spirit was a different thing. One could fashion the finest steel into a sword blade of passing excellence, but occasionally the move from fire to water would cause it to crack where blades of lesser metal survived. An army was like that, Druss knew. He had seen highly trained men panic and run, and farmers stand their ground, armed with picks and hoes.
Bowman and his archers practiced daily now on Kania, Wall Three, which had the longest stretch of ground between the mountains. They were superb. The six hundred archers could send three thousand arrows arching through the air every ten heartbeats. The first charge would bring the Nadir into range for nearly two minutes before the siege ladders could reach the walls. The attacking warriors would suffer terrible losses over the open ground. It would be bloody carnage. But would it be enough?
They were about to see the greatest army ever assembled, a horde that within twenty years had built an empire stretching across a dozen lands and five score cities. Ulric was on the verge of creating the largest empire in known history, a mighty achievement for a man not yet out of his forties.
Druss walked the Eldibar battlements, chatting to individual soldiers, joking with them, laughing with them. Their hatred of him had vanished like dawn mist during these last days. They saw him now for what he was: an iron old man, a warrior from the past, a living echo of ancient glories.
They remembered then that he had chosen to stand with them. And they knew why. This was the only place in all the world for the last of the old heroes: Druss the Legend, standing with the last hopes of the Drenai on the battlements of the greatest fortress ever built, waiting for the largest army in the world. Where else would he be?
Slowly the crowds gathered about him as more men made their way to Eldibar. Before long Druss was threading his way through massed ranks on the battlements, while even more soldiers gathered on the open ground behind them. He climbed to the crenellated battlement wall and turned to face them. His voice boomed out, silencing the chatter.
“Look about you!” he called, the sun glinting from the silver shoulder guards on his black leather jerkin, his white beard glistening. “Look about you now. The men you see are your comrades—your brothers. They will live with you and die for you. They will protect you and bleed for you. Never in your lives will you know such comradeship again. And if you live to be as old as I am, you will always remember this day and the days to follow. You will remember them with a clearness you would never have believed. Each day will be like crystal, shining in your minds.
“Yes, there will be blood and havoc, torture and pain, and you will remember that, too. But above all will be the sweet taste of life. And there is nothing like it, my lads.
“You can believe this old man when he says it. You may think life is sweet now, but when death is a heartbeat away, then life becomes unbearably desirable. And when you survive, everything you do will be enhanced and filled with greater joy: the sunlight, the breeze, a good wine, a woman’s lips, a child’s laughter.
“Life is nothing unless death has been faced down.
“In times to come, men will say, ‘I wish I had been there with them.’ By then the cause won’t matter.
“You are standing at a frozen moment in history. The world will be changed when this battle is over. Either the Drenai will rise again or a new empire will dawn.
“You are now men of history.” Druss was sweating now and strangely tired, but he knew he had to go on. He was desperate to remember Sieben’s saga of the Elder days and the stirring words of an Elder general. But he could not. He breathed in deeply, tasting the sweet mountain air.
“Some of you are probably thinking that you may panic and run. You won’t! Others are worried about dying. Some of you will. But all men die. No one ever gets out of this life alive.
“I fought at Skeln Pass when everyone said we were finished. They said the odds were too great, but I said be damned to them! For I am Druss, and I have never been beaten, not by Nadir, Sathuli, Ventrian, Vagrian, or Drenai.
“By all the gods and demons of this world, I will tell you now—I do not intend to be beaten here, either!” Druss was bellowing at the top of his voice as he dragged Snaga into the air. The ax blade caught the sun and the chant began.
“Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!” The men on other battlements could not hear Druss’s words, but they heard the chant and took it up. Dros Delnoch echoed to the sound, a vast cacophony of noise that crashed and reverberated through the peaks, scattering flocks of birds, which took to the skies in fluttering panic. At last Druss raised his arms for silence and gradually the chant subsided, though more men were running from Wall Two to hear his words. By then almost five thousand men were gathered about him.
“We are the knights of Dros Delnoch, the siege city. We will build a new legend here to dwarf Skeln Pass. And we will bring death to the Nadir in their thousands. Aye, in their hundreds of thousands. Who are we?”
“Knights of Dros Delnoch!” thundered the men.
“And what do we bring?”
“Death to the Nadir!”
Druss was about to continue when he saw men’s heads turn to face down into the valley. Columns of dust in the distance created clouds that rose to challenge the sky like a gathering storm. Like the father of all storms. And then, through the dust could be seen the glinting spears of the Nadir, filling the valley from all sides, sweeping forward, a vast dark blanket of fighting men with more following. Wave after wave of them came into sight. Vast siege towers pulled by hundreds of horses, giant catapults, leather-covered battering rams, thousands of carts and hundreds of thousands of horses, vast herds of cattle, and more men than the mind could total.
Not one heart among the watchers failed to miss a beat at the sight. Despair was tangible, and Druss cursed softly. He had nothing more to say. And he felt he had lost them. He turned to face the Nadir horsemen bearing the horsehair banners of their tribes. By now their faces could be seen, grim and terrible. Druss raised Snaga into the air and stood, legs spread, a picture of defiance. Angry now, he stared at the Nadir outriders.
As they saw him, they pulled up their horses and stared back. Suddenly the riders parted to allow a herald through. Galloping his steppe pony forward, he rode toward the gates, swerving as he came beneath the wall where Druss stood. He dragged on the reins, and the horse skidded to a stop, rearing and snorting.
“I bring this command from the Lord Ulric,” he shouted. “Let the gates be opened and he will spare all within save the white-bearded one who insulted him.”
“Oh, it’s you again, lardbelly,” said Druss. “Did you give him my message as I said it?”
“I gave it, Deathwalker. As you said it.”
“And he laughed, did he not?”
“He laughed. And swore to have your head. And my Lord Ulric is a man who always fulfills his desires.”
“Then we are two of a kind. And it is my desire that he should dance a jig on the end of a chain, like a performing bear. And I will have it so, even if I have to walk into your camp and chain him myself.”
“Your words are like ice on the fire, old man—noisy and without worth,” said the herald. “We know your strength. You have maybe eleven thousand men. Mostly farmers. We know all there is to know. Look at the Nadir army! How can you hold? What is the point? Surrender yourself. Throw yourself on the mercy of my lord.”
“Laddie, I have seen the size of your army, and it does not impress me. I have a mind to send half my men back to their farms. What are you? A bunch of potbellied, bowlegged northerners. I hear what you say. But don’t tell me what you can do. Show me! And that’s enough of talk. From now on this will talk for me.” He shook Snaga before him, sunlight flashing from the blade.
Along the line of defenders Gilad nudged Bregan. “Druss the Legend!” he chanted, and Bregan joined him with a dozen others. Once more the sound began to swell as the herald wheeled his mount and raced away. The noise thundered after him:
“Druss the Legend! Druss the Legend!”
Druss watched silently as the massive siege engines inched toward the wall, vast wooden towers sixty feet high and twenty feet wide, ballistae by the hundred, ungainly catapults on huge wooden wheels. Countless numbers of men heaved and strained at thousands of ropes, dragging into place the machines that had conquered Gulgothir.
The old warrior studied the scene below, seeking out the legendary warmaster Khitan. It did not take long to find him. He was the still center of the whirlpool of activity below, the calm amid the storm. Where he moved, work ceased as his instructions were given, then began again with renewed intensity.
Khitan glanced up at the towering battlements. He could not see Deathwalker but felt his presence and grinned.
“You cannot stop my work with one ax,” he whispered.
Idly he scratched the scarred stump at the end of his arm. Strange how after all these years he could still feel his fingers. The gods had been kind that day when the Gulgothir tax gatherers had sacked his village. He had been barely twelve years old, and they had slain his family. In an effort to protect his mother, he had run forward with his father’s dagger. A slashing sword had sent his hand flying through the air to land beside the body of his brother. The same sword had lanced into his chest.
To this day he could not explain why he had not died along with the other villagers, or indeed why Ulric had spent so long trying to save him. Ulric’s raiders had surprised the killers and routed them, taking two prisoners. Then a warrior checking the bodies had found Khitan, barely alive. They had taken him into the steppes, laying him in Ulric’s tent. There they had sealed the weeping stump with boiling tar and dressed the wound in his side with tree moss. For almost a month he had remained semiconscious, delirious with fever. He had one memory of that terrible time, a memory he would carry to the day he died.
His eyes had opened to see above him a face, strong and compelling. The eyes were violet, and he felt their power.
“You will not die, little one. Hear me?” The voice was gentle, but as he sank once more into the nightmares and delirium, he knew that the words were not a promise. They were a command.
And Ulric’s commands were to be obeyed.
Since that day Khitan had spent every conscious moment serving the Nadir lord. Useless in combat, he had learned to use his mind, creating the means by which his lord could build an empire.
Twenty years of warfare and plunder. Twenty years of savage joy.
With his small entourage of assistants Khitan threaded his way through the milling warriors and entered the first of the twenty siege towers. They were his special pride. In concept they had been startlingly simple. Create a wooden box, three-sided and twelve feet high. Place wooden steps inside against the walls leading to the roof. Now take a second box and place it atop the first. Secure it with iron pins. Add a third and you have a tower. It was relatively easy to assemble and dismantle, and the component parts could be stacked on wagons and carried wherever the general needed them.