“When you first came to the temple, you were weak and lonely and several years the youngest. But you learned the more swiftly. And you were chosen as the voice. Did you only acquire the disciplines and forgo the philosophy?”
“It would appear so,” answered Serbitar.
“You are wrong again. For in wisdom there is suffering. You are pained not because you disbelieve but because you believe. Let us return to basics. Why do we travel to a distant war?”
“To die.”
“Why do we choose this method? Why not simply allow ourselves to starve?”
“Because in war a man’s will to live is strongest. He will fight hard to stay alive. He will learn again to love life.”
“And what will that force us to face?”
“Our doubts,” whispered Serbitar.
“But you never thought that such doubt would come to you, so sure were you of your godlike powers?”
“Yes, I was sure. Now I am not. Is this such a great sin?”
“You know it is not. Why am I alive, my boy? Why did I not die with Magnar’s Thirty two decades ago?”
“You were the one chosen to found the new temple.”
“Why was I chosen?”
“You were the most perfect. It has to be so.”
“Then why was I not the leader?”
“I do not understand you.”
“How is the leader chosen?”
“I know not. You have never said.”
“Then guess, Serbitar.”
“Because he is the best choice. The most …”
“Perfect?”
“I would have said so, but I see where you are leading. If you were the most perfect, why did Magnar lead? Well, why did he?”
“You have seen the future; you should have seen and heard this conversation. You tell me.”
“You know that I did not,” said Serbitar. “There was no time for study of the minutiae.”
“Oh, Serbitar, still you will not understand! What you saw and chose to examine was the minutiae, the meaningless and the trivial. What does it mean to the history of this planet that this Dros falls? How many other castles have fallen throughout the ages? Of what cosmic importance was their failure? How vital are our deaths?”
“Tell me then, my lord abbot, how is the leader chosen?”
“Have you not guessed it, my son?”
“I believe so,”
“Then speak.”
“He is the least perfect of the acolytes,” said Serbitar softly, his green eyes searching Vintar’s face and begging denial.
“He is the least perfect,” echoed Vintar sadly.
“But why?” asked Serbitar.
“So that his task will be the more difficult, the more demanding. To give him the chance to rise and match the position he holds.”
“And I have failed?”
“Not yet, Serbitar. Not yet.”
24
Day by day more people left the siege city, piling their possessions onto carts, wagons, or the backs of mules and forming convoys that snaked their way inland toward the relative security of the Skoda mountains and the capital beyond.
With each departure fresh problems faced the defenders. Fighting men had to be seconded to other duties, such as latrine clearance, stores supply, and food preparation. Now the drain on resources came on two fronts.
Druss was furious and insisted that the gates be closed, the evacuation stopped. Rek pointed out that even more soldiers would then be needed to police the south road.
Then the first disaster of the campaign struck the defenders.
On the high day of summer—ten weeks after the battle began—Musif fell and chaos reigned. The Nadir breached the wall at the center, driving a wedge into the killing ground beyond. The men, threatened with encirclement, fell back and raced for the fire gullies. Running skirmishes began as discipline fled, and two gully bridges collapsed as warriors milled upon them.
On Kania, Wall Three, Rek waited as long as he dared before ordering the gullies lit with flame arrows. Druss, Orrin, and Hogun scrambled to safety just as the blaze took. But beyond the gully more than eight hundred Drenai warriors battled on hopelessly in tight shield rings that grew smaller moment by moment. Many on Kania turned away, unable to bear the sight of their friends’ futile battles. Rek stood with fists clenched and watched in despair. The fighting did not last long. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Drenai were engulfed, and the battle song of victory was sung by thousands of tribesmen.
They gathered before the flames chanting, waving blood-stained swords and axes in the air. Few on the walls understood the words, but understanding was unnecessary. The message was primal, the meaning clear. It struck the heart and soul with blistering clarity.
“What do they sing?” Rek asked Druss as the old man recovered his breath following the long rope climb to the ramparts.
“It’s their glory chant:
Nadir we,
Youth-born,
bloodletters
ax wielders,
victors still.”
Beyond the fire tribesmen burst into the field hospital, slaying men in their beds and dragging others out into the sunlight, where they could be seen by their comrades on the wall. Then they were peppered with arrows or slowly dismembered. One was even nailed to the window shutters of the barracks, to hang screaming for two hours before being disemboweled and beheaded.
The Drenai dead, stripped of their weapons and armor, were hurled into the fire gullies, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air and stung the eyes.
The evacuation at the south gates became a flood as the city emptied. Soldiers joined in, discarding their weapons and mingling with the crowds. No effort was made to stop them, on Rek’s direct order.
In a little house near the Street of Millers Maerie tried to comfort the small child sobbing in her arms. The noise in the street outside frightened her as families loaded their possessions onto carts and wagons tethered with oxen or milk cows. It was pandemonium.
Maerie cuddled the child, crooning a lullaby tune and kissing the tight curls on his head.
“I must go back to the wall,” said her husband, a tall young man with dark hair and wide, gentle blue eyes. How tired he looked, hollow-eyed and gaunt.
“Don’t go, Carin,” she said as he strapped his sword belt about his waist.
“Don’t go? I must.”
“Let us leave Delnoch. We have friends in Purdol, and you could find work there.”
He was not an intuitive man, and he missed the note of desperation in her voice, failed to sense the rising panic behind her eyes.
“Don’t let these fools frighten you, Maerie. Druss is still with us, and we will hold Kania. I promise you.”
The sobbing child clutched his mother’s dress, soothed by the gentle strength of his father’s voice. Too young to understand the words yet, he was comforted by the pitch and tone. The noise outside receded from him, and he slept on his mother’s shoulder. But Maerie was older and wiser than the child, and to her the words were just words.
“Listen to me, Carin. I want to leave. Today!”
“I can’t talk now. I must go back. I will see you later. It will be all right.” Leaning forward, he kissed her, then stepped into the chaos of the street.
She looked around her, remembering: the chest by the door, a gift from Carin’s parents. The chairs made by her uncle, Damus, fashioned with care like all his work. They had brought the chairs and chest with them two years before.
Good years?
Carin was kind, thoughtful, loving. There was so much goodness to him. Easing the child into his cot, she wandered to the small bedroom, shutting the window against the noise. Soon the Nadir would come. The door would be smashed in, and filthy tribesmen would come for her, tearing at her clothing …
She shut her eyes.
Druss was still here, he had said.
Stupid Carin! Kind, loving, thoughtful, stupid Carin! Carin the miller.
 
; She had never been truly happy with him, though without this war she might never have realized it. She had been so close to contentment. Then he had joined the defenders, coming home so proudly in that ludicrous breastplate and oversized helm.
Stupid Carin. Kind Carin.
The door opened, and she turned to see her friend Delis, her blond hair covered in a travel shawl and a heavy cloak over her shoulders.
“Are you coming?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Carin coming with you?”
“No.”
Swiftly she gathered her belongings, pushing them into a canvas bag issued to Carin. Delis carried the bag to the wagon outside while Maerie lifted her son from his cot, wrapping him in a second blanket. Stooping, she pulled open the small chest, pushing aside the linen and pulling clear the small bag of silver that Carin had hidden there.
She did not bother to close the door.
In the keep Druss raged at Rek, swearing to kill any deserter he recognized.
“It’s too late for that,” said Rek.
“Damn you, boy!” muttered Druss. “We have fewer than three thousand men. How long do you think we will hold if we allow desertions?”
“How long if we don’t?” snapped Rek. “We are finished, anyway! Serbitar says Kania can be held for maybe two days, Sumitos for perhaps three, Valteri the same, and Geddon less. Ten days in all. Ten miserable days!” The young earl leaned on the balcony rail above the gates and watched the convoys start south. “Look at them, Druss! Farmers, bakers, tradesmen. What right have we to ask them to die? What will it matter to them if we fail? The Nadir will not kill every baker in Drenan; it will just mean a change of masters.”
“You give up too easily,” snarled Druss.
“I’m a realist. And don’t give me any Skeln Pass lectures. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You might as well,” said Druss, slumping into a leather chair. “You have already lost hope.”
Rek turned from the window, eyes blazing. “What is it with you warriors? It is understandable that you talk in clichés but unforgivable if you think in them. Lost hope, indeed! I never had any hope. This enterprise was doomed from the start, but we do what we can and what we must. So a young farmer with a wife and children decides to go home. Good! He shows a sense which men like you and I will never understand. They will sing songs about us, but he will ensure that there are people to sing them. He plants. We destroy.
“Anyway, he has played his part and fought like a man. It is criminal that he should feel the need to flee in shame.”
“Why not give them all the chance to go home?” asked Druss. “Then you and I could stand on the walls and invite the Nadir to come at us one at a time like sportsmen.”
Suddenly Rek smiled, tension and anger flowing from him. “I won’t argue with you, Druss,” he said softly. “You are a man I admire above all others. But in this I think you are wrong. Help yourself to wine. I shall be back soon.”
Less than an hour later the earl’s message was being read to all sections.
Bregan brought the news to Gilad as he ate in the shade offered by the field hospital under the towering cliff face of West Kania.
“We can go home,” said Bregan, his face flushed. “We can be there by harvest supper!”
“I don’t understand,” said Gilad. “Have we surrendered?”
“No. The earl says that any who wish to leave can now do so. He says that we can leave with pride, that we have fought like men—and as men, we must be given the right to go home.”
“Are we going to surrender?” asked Gilad, puzzled.
“I don’t think so,” said Bregan.
“Then I shall not go.”
“But the earl says it’s all right!”
“I don’t care what he says.”
“I don’t understand this, Gil. Lots of the others are going. And it is true that we’ve played our part. Haven’t we? I mean, we’ve done our best.”
“I suppose so.” Gilad rubbed his tired eyes and turned to watch the smoke from the fire gully drift lazily skyward. “They did their best, too,” he whispered.
“Who did?”
“Those who died. Those who are still going to die.”
“But the earl says it’s all right. He says that we can leave with our heads held high. Proud.”
“Is that what he says?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my head wouldn’t be high.”
“I don’t understand you, I really don’t. You have said all along that we can’t hold this fortress. Now we have a chance to leave. Why can’t you just accept it and come with us?”
“Because I’m a fool. Give my love to everyone back there.”
“You know I won’t go unless you come, too.”
“Don’t you start being a fool, Breg! You’ve got everything to live for. Just picture little Legan toddling toward you and all the stories you will be able to tell. Go on. Go!”
“No. I don’t know why you’re staying, but I shall stay, too.”
“That you must not do,” said Gilad gently. “I want you to go back, I really do. After all, if you don’t, there will be no one to tell them what a hero I am. Seriously, Breg, I would feel so much better if I knew that you were away from all this. The earl’s right. Men like you have played their part. Magnificently.
“And as for me … well, I just want to stay here. I’ve learned so much about myself and about other men. I’m not needed anywhere but here. I’m not necessary. I will never be a farmer, and I have neither the money to be a businessman nor the breeding to be a prince. I’m a misfit. This is where I belong, with all the other misfits. Please, Bregan. Please go!”
There were tears in Bregan’s eyes, and the two men embraced. Then the curly-haired young farmer rose. “I hope everything works out for you, Gil. I’ll tell them all—I promise I will. Good luck!”
“And to you, farmer. Take your ax. They can hang it in the village hall.”
Gilad watched him walk back toward the postern gates and the keep beyond. Bregan turned once and waved. Then he was gone.
Altogether 650 men chose to leave.
Two thousand forty remained. Added to these were Bowman, Caessa, and fifty archers. The other outlaws, having fulfilled their promise, returned to Skultik.
“Too damned few now,” muttered Druss as the meeting ended.
“I never liked crowds, anyway,” said Bowman lightly.
Hogun, Orrin, Rek, and Serbitar remained in their seats as Druss and Bowman wandered out into the night.
“Don’t despair, old horse,” said Bowman, slapping Druss on the back. “Things could be worse, you know.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, we could be out of wine.”
“We are out of wine.”
“We are? That’s terrible. I would never have stayed had I known. Luckily, however, I do just happen to have a couple of flagons of Lentrian red stored in my new quarters. So at least we can enjoy tonight. We might even be able to save some for tomorrow.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Druss. “Maybe we could bottle it and lay it down for a couple of months to age a little. Lentrian red, my foot! That stuff of yours is brewed in Skultik from soap, potatoes, and rats’ entrails. You would get more taste from a Nadir slop bucket.”
“You have the advantage of me there, old horse, since I have never tasted a Nadir slop bucket. But my brew does hit the spot rather.”
“I think I’d rather suck a Nadir’s armpit,” muttered Druss.
“Fine, I’ll drink it all myself,” snapped Bowman.
“No need to get touchy, boy. I’m with you. I have always believed that friends should suffer together.”
The artery writhed under Virae’s fingers like a snake, spewing blood into the cavity of the stomach.
“Tighter!” ordered Calvar Syn, his own hands deep in the wound, pushing aside blue slimy entrails as he sought frantically to stem the bleeding within. It was useless; he knew it
was useless, but he owed it to the man beneath him to use every ounce of his skill. Despite all his efforts he could feel the life oozing between his fingers. Another stitch, another small Pyrrhic victory.
The man died as the eleventh stitch sealed the stomach wall.
“He’s dead?” asked Virae. Calvar nodded, straightening his back. “But the blood is still flowing,” she said.
“It will do so for a few moments.”
“I really thought he would live,” she whispered. Calvar wiped his bloody hands on a linen cloth and walked around beside her. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him.
“His chances were one in a thousand even if I had stopped the bleeding. The lance cut his spleen, and gangrene was almost certain.”
Her eyes were red, her face gray. She blinked and her body shook, but there were no tears as she looked down at the dead face.
“I thought he had a beard,” she said, confused.
“That was the one before.”
“Oh, yes. He died, too.”
“You should rest.” Putting his arms around her, he led her from the room and out into the ward, past the stacked rows of triple-tiered bunk beds. Orderlies moved quietly among the rows. Everywhere the smell of death and the sweet, nauseous odor of putrefaction were mixed with the antiseptic bitterness of Lorassium juice and hot water scented with lemon mint.
Perhaps it was the unwelcome perfume, but she was surprised to find that the well was not dry and tears could still flow.
He led her to a back room, filled a basin with warm water, and washed the blood from her hands and face, dabbing her gently as if she were a child.
“He told me that I love war,” she said. “But it’s not true. Maybe it was then. I don’t know anymore.”
“Only a fool loves war,” said Calvar, “or a man who has never seen it. The trouble is that the survivors forget about the horrors and remember only the battle lust. They pass on that memory, and other men hunger for it. Put on your cloak and get some air. Then you will feel better.”
“I don’t think I can come back tomorrow, Calvar. I will stay with Rek at the wall.”