Now he knew fear and gained the knowledge of evil.
His enemy flew at him, curving black talons slashing the sky. Temple met him head on, curling his arms around its back. Sharp teeth tore at his face, talons ripping his shoulders. His own huge fists locked together at the creature’s spine, drawing it in upon itself.
Below on Musif, Wall Two, three thousand men took up their positions. Despite all arguments, Druss had refused to surrender Wall One without a fight and waited there with six thousand men. Orrin had raged at him that such action was stupidity; the width of the wall made for an impossible task. Druss was obstinate even when Hogun backed Orrin.
“Trust me,” Druss urged them. But he lacked the words to convince them. He tried to explain that the men needed a small victory on the first day in order to hone that final edge to their morale.
“But the risk, Druss!” said Orrin. “We could lose on the first day. Can’t you see that?”
“You are the gan,” snarled Druss then. “You can overrule me if you wish.”
“But I will not, Druss. I will stand beside you on Eldibar.”
“And I,” said Hogun.
“You will see that I am right,” said Druss. “I promise you.”
Both men nodded, smiling to mask their despair.
Now the duty culs were queuing by the wells, gathering the water buckets and making their way along the battlements, stepping over the legs and bodies of men still sleeping.
On Wall One Druss dipped a copper dish into a bucket and drank deeply. He was not sure that the Nadir would attack that day. His instincts told him Ulric would allow another full day of murderous tension, the sight of his army preparing for battle draining the defenders of courage and sapping them of hope. Even so Druss had little choice. The move was Ulric’s: The Drenai would have to wait.
Above them Temple suffered the fury of the beast, his shoulders and back shredded, his strength fading. The horned creature was also weakening. Death faced them both.
Temple did not want to die, not after such a short bittersweet taste of life. He wanted to see at close hand all those things he had glimpsed from afar, the colored lights of expanding stars, the silence at the center of distant suns.
His grip tightened. There would be no joy in the lights, no thrill amid the silence if this thing was left alive behind him. Suddenly the creature screamed, a high terrible sound, eerie and chilling. Its back snapped, and it faded like mist.
Semiconscious within Temple’s soul, Vintar cried out.
Temple looked down, watching the men, tiny frail creatures, preparing to break their fast with dark bread and water. Vintar cried out again, and Temple’s brow furrowed.
He pointed his finger at the wall.
Men began to scream, hurling water cups and buckets from the Musif battlements. In each vessel black worms wriggled and swam. Now more men surged to their feet, milling and shouting.
“What the devil’s happening up there?” said Druss as the noise flowed down to him. He glanced down at the Nadir and saw that men were streaming back from the siege engines toward the tent city. “I don’t know what’s going on,” said Druss. “But even the Nadir are leaving. I’m going back to Musif.”
In the city of tents Ulric was no less angry as he shouldered his way through to the wide tent of Nosta Khan. His mind was icy calm as he confronted the sentry outside.
The news was spreading through the army like a steppe gorse fire: As dawn had broken, the tents of Nosta Khan’s sixty acolytes had been filled with soul-searing screams. Guards had rushed in to find men writhing broken-backed on the dirt floors, their bodies bent like overstrung bows.
Ulric knew that Nosta Khan had marshaled his followers, drawing on their combined power to thwart the white templars, but he had never truly understood the appalling dangers.
“Well?” he asked the sentry.
“Nosta Khan is alive,” the man told him.
Ulric lifted the flap and stepped into the stench of Nosta Khan’s home. The old man lay on a narrow pallet bed, his face gray with exhaustion, his skin bathed in sweat. Ulric pulled up a stool and sat beside him.
“My acolytes?” whispered Nosta Khan.
“All dead.”
“They were too strong, Ulric,” said the old man. “I have failed you.”
“Men have failed me before,” said Ulric. “It matters not.”
“It matters to me!” shouted the shaman, wincing as the effort stretched his back.
“Pride,” said Ulric. “You have lost nothing; you have merely been beaten by a stronger enemy. It will avail them little, for my army will still take the Dros. They cannot hold. Rest yourself—and take no risks, shaman. I order it!”
“I will obey.”
“I know that. I do not wish you to die. Will they come for you?”
“No. The white templars are filled with notions of honor. If I rest, they will leave me be.”
“Then rest. And when you are strong, we will make them pay for your hurt.”
Nosta Khan grinned. “Aye.”
Far to the south Temple soared toward the stars. Vintar could not stop him and fought to stay calm as Temple’s panic washed over him, seeking to dislodge him. With the death of the enemy, Vintar had tried to summon the Thirty from within the new mind of the colossus. In that moment Temple looked inside himself and discovered Vintar.
Vintar had tried to explain his presence and the need for Temple to relinquish his individuality. Temple absorbed the truth and fled from it like a comet, seeking the heavens.
The abbot again tried to summon Serbitar, seeking the niche in which he had placed him in the halls of his subconscious. The spark of life that was the albino blossomed under the abbot’s probing, and Temple shuddered, feeling as if part of himself had been cut free. He slowed in his flight.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked Vintar.
“Because I must.”
“I will die!”
“No. You will live in all of us.”
“Why must you kill me?”
“I am truly sorry,” said Vintar gently. With Serbitar’s aid he sought Arbedark and Menahem. Temple shrank, and Vintar closed his heart with grief to the overwhelming despair. The four warriors summoned the other members of the Thirty and with heavy hearts returned to the hollows.
Rek hurried across to Vintar as the abbot opened his eyes and moved.
“Were you in time?” he asked.
“Yes,” muttered Vintar wearily. “Let me rest now.”
It was an hour short of dusk when Rek, Virae, and the Thirty rode under the great portcullis gate set beneath the Delnoch keep. Their horses were weary, lather-covered, and wet-flanked. Men rushed to greet Virae, soldiers doffing helms and citizens asking for news from Drenan. Rek stayed in the background until they were inside the keep. A young officer escorted the Thirty to the barracks while Rek and Virae made their way to the topmost rooms. Rek was exhausted.
Stripping off his clothes, he bathed himself with cold water and then shaved, removing the four-day stubble and cursing as the keen razor—a gift from Horeb—nicked his skin. He shook most of the dust from his garments and dressed once more. Virae had gone to her own rooms, and he had no idea where they were. Strapping on his sword belt, he made his way back to the main hall, stopping twice to ask servants the way. Once there, he sat alone, gazing at the marble statues of ancient heroes. He felt lost: insignificant and overpowered.
As soon as they had arrived, they had heard the news that the Nadir horde was before the walls. There was a tangible air of panic among the townsfolk, and they had seen refugees leaving by the score with carts piled high, a long, sorrowful convoy heading south.
Rek was unsure whether tiredness or hunger was predominant in him at that moment. He heaved himself to his feet, swayed slightly, then cursed loudly. Near the door was a full-length oval mirror. As he stood before it, the man who stared back at him appeared tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful. His gray-blue eyes were purposeful
, his chin strong, his body lean. The blue cape, though travel-worn, still hung well, and the thigh-length doeskin boots gave him the look of a cavalry officer.
As Rek gazed at the Earl of Dros Delnoch, he saw himself as others would see him. They were not to know of his inner doubts and would see only the image he had created.
So be it.
He left the hall and stopped the first soldier he met to ask him where Druss was to be found. Wall One, the soldier said, and described the location of the postern gates. The tall young earl set out for Eldibar as the sun sank; going through the town, he stopped to buy a small loaf of honey cake, which he ate as he walked. It was growing darker as he reached the postern gate of Wall Two, but a sentry showed him the way through and at last he entered the killing ground behind Wall One. Clouds obscured the moon, and he almost fell into the fire pit that stretched across the pass. A young soldier hailed him and showed him the first wooden bridge across it.
“One of Bowman’s archers, are you?” asked the soldier, not recognizing the tall stranger.
“No. Where is Druss?”
“I have no idea. He could be on the battlements, or you might try the mess hall. Messenger, are you?”
“No. Which is the mess hall?”
“See the lights over there? That’s the hospital. Past there is the storeroom; keep walking until you hit the smell of the latrines, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble. Recruit, are you?”
“Yes,” said Rek. “Something like that.”
“Well, I’d better come with you.”
“There is no need.”
“Yes, there is,” said the man, and Rek felt something sharp in the small of his back. “This is a Ventrian dagger, and I suggest you just walk along with me for a short way.”
“What’s the point of all this?”
“First, someone tried to kill Druss the other day, and second, I don’t know you,” said the man. “So walk on and we will find him together.”
The two men moved on toward the mess hall. Now that they were closer, they could hear the sounds from the buildings ahead. A sentry hailed them from the battlements; the soldier answered, then asked for Druss.
“He’s on the wall near the gate tower,” came the answer.
“This way,” said the soldier, and Rek climbed the short steps to the battlement walls. Then he stopped dead. On the plain thousands of torches and small fires illuminated the Nadir army. Siege towers straddled the pass like wooden giants from mountain wall to mountain wall. The whole valley was lit as far as the eye could see; it was like a view of the second level of hell itself.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” said the soldier.
“I don’t think it will look any better by daylight,” said Rek.
“You are not wrong,” agreed the other. “Let’s move.”
Ahead of them Druss was seated on the battlements, talking to a small group of soldiers. He was telling a wonderfully embroidered tall story that Rek had heard before. The punch line evoked the desired effect, and the night silence was broken by the sound of laughter.
Druss laughed heartily with the men, then noticed the newcomers. He turned and studied the tall man in the blue cape.
“Well?” he asked the soldier.
“He was looking for you, Captain, so I brought him along.”
“To be more precise,” said Rek, “he thought I might be an assassin. Hence the dagger behind me.”
Druss raised an eyebrow. “Well, are you an assassin?”
“Not recently. Can we talk?”
“We appear to be doing just that.”
“Privately.”
“You start talking and I will decide how private it is to be,” said Druss.
“My name is Regnak. I have just arrived with warriors from the temple of the Thirty and Virae, the daughter of Delnar.”
“We will talk privately,” decided Druss. The men wandered away out of earshot.
“So speak,” said Druss, his cold gray eyes fixed on Rek’s face.
Rek seated himself on the battlement wall and stared out over the glowing valley.
“A little on the large side, isn’t it?”
“Scare you, does it?”
“To the soles of my boots. However, you’re obviously in no mood to make this an easy meeting, so I will simply spell out my position. For better or worse, I am the earl. I’m not a fool, nor yet a general, though often the two are synonymous. As yet I will make no changes. But bear this in mind … I will take a backseat to no man when decisions are needed.”
“You think that bedding an earl’s daughter gives you that right?” asked Druss.
“You know it does! But that’s not the point. I have fought before, and my understanding of strategy is as sound as that of any man here. Added to that, I have the Thirty, and their knowledge is second to none. But even more important, if I have to die at this forsaken place, it will not be as a bystander. I shall control my own fate.”
“You seek to take a lot on yourself, laddie.”
“No more than I can handle.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” said Rek frankly.
“I didn’t think you did,” said Druss with a grin. “What the hell made you come here?”
“I think fate has a sense of humor.”
“She always had in my day. But you look like a sensible young fellow. You should have taken the girl to Lentria and set up home there.”
“Druss, nobody takes Virae anywhere she does not want to go. She has been reared on war and talk of war; she can cite all your legends and the facts behind every campaign you ever fought. She’s an Amazon, and this is where she wants to be.”
“How did you meet?”
Rek told him about the ride from Drenan, through Skultik, the death of Reinard, the temple of the Thirty, the shipboard wedding, and the battle with the Sathuli. The old man listened to the straightforward story without comment.
“And here we are,” concluded Rek.
“So you’re baresark,” said Druss.
“I didn’t say that!” retorted Rek.
“But you did, laddie—by not saying it. It doesn’t matter. I have fought beside many such. I am only surprised the Sathuli let you go; they’re not known for being an honorable race.”
“I think their leader—Joachim—is an exception. Listen, Druss, I would be obliged if you could keep quiet about the baresark side.”
Druss laughed. “Don’t be a fool, boy! How long do you think it will stay a secret once the Nadir are on the walls? You stick by me and I will see that you don’t swat anyone from our side.”
“That’s good of you, but I think you could be a little more hospitable. I’m as dry as a vulture’s armpit.”
“There is no doubt,” said Druss, “that talking works up more of a thirst than fighting. Come on, we will find Hogun and Orrin. This is the last night before the battle, so it calls for a party.”
20
As the dawn sky lightened on the morning of the third day, the first realities of apocalypse hammered home on the walls of Dros Delnoch. Hundreds of ballistae arms were pulled back by thousands of sweating warriors. Muscles bunching and knotting, the Nadir drew back the giant arms until the wicker baskets at their heads were almost horizontal. Each basket was loaded with a block of jagged granite.
The defenders watched in frozen horror as a Nadir captain raised his arm. The arm swept down, and the air became filled with a deadly rain that crashed and thundered amid and around the defenders. The battlements shook as the boulders fell. By the gate tower, three men were smashed to oblivion as a section of crenellated battlement exploded under the impact of one huge rock. Along the wall men cowered, hurling themselves flat, hands over their heads. The noise was frightening; the silence that followed was terrifying. For as the first thunderous assault ceased and soldiers raised their heads to gaze below, it was only to see the same process being casu
ally repeated. Back and farther back went the massive wooden arms. Up went the captain’s hand. Down it went.
And the rain of death bore down.
Rek, Druss, and Serbitar stood above the gate tower, enduring the first horror of war along with the men. Rek had refused to allow the old warrior to stand alone, though Orrin had warned that for both leaders to stand together was lunacy. Druss had laughed. “You and the lady Virae shall watch from the second wall, my friend. And you will see that no Nadir pebble can lay me low.”
Virae, furious, had insisted that she be allowed to wait on the first wall with the others, but Rek had summarily refused. An argument was swiftly ended by Druss: “Obey your husband, woman!” he thundered. Rek had winced at that, closing his eyes against the expected outburst. Strangely, Virae had merely nodded and retired to Musif, Wall Two, to stand beside Hogun and Orrin.
Now Rek crouched by Druss and gazed left and right along the wall. Swords and spears in hand, the men of Dros Delnoch waited grimly for the deadly storm to cease.
During the second reloading Druss ordered half the men back to stand beneath the second wall, out of range of the catapults. There they joined Bowman’s archers.
For three hours the assault continued, pulverizing sections of the wall, butchering men, and obliterating one overhanging tower, which collapsed under the titanic impact and crumbled slowly into the valley below. Most of the men leapt to safety, and only four were carried screaming over the edge to be broken on the rocks below.
Stretcher-bearers braved the barrage to carry wounded men back to the Eldibar field hospital. Several rocks had hit the building, but it was solidly built and so far none had broken through. Bar Britan, black-bearded and powerful, raced alongside the bearers with sword in hand, urging them on.
“Gods, that’s bravery!” said Rek, nudging Druss and pointing. Druss nodded, noting Rek’s obvious pride at the man’s courage. Rek’s heart went out to Britan as the man ignored the lethal storm.
At least fifty men had been stretchered away. Fewer than Druss had feared. He raised himself to stare over the battlements.
“Soon,” he said. “They are massing behind the siege towers.”