Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.
The script was writ large, and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.
My Dearest Comrade,
Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar—you remember the Abbot of Swords?—to request the Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.
I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.
Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn’s nephew and a martinet. He is despised, and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.
I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.
It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favor.
Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.
Your comrade in arms.
Earl Delnar
Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.
“An old man with a swollen knee and an arthritic back. If you’ve pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere.”
A silvered mirror stood next to a washbasin on an oak chest, and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of gray hair. His thoughts were somber as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.
At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.
“They say Ulric has a million men,” said one tall youngster. “And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!”
“Do you know why he did it?” Druss asked, breaking into the conversation. The men looked at one another, then back at Druss.
“Of course I know. He’s a bloodthirsty savage, that’s why.”
“Not at all,” said Druss. “Join me in a drink?” He called the innkeeper and ordered more ale. “He did it so that men like you could spread the word to other cities. Wait! Mistake me not,” said Druss as the man’s anger flushed his face. “I do not criticize you for telling the story. It is natural for these tales to be passed on. But Ulric is a canny soldier. Assume he took the city and treated the defenders heroically. Other cities would defend just as hard. But this way he sends fear ahead of him. And fear is a great ally.”
“You talk like an admirer,” said another man, shorter, with a curling blond mustache.
“But I am,” said Druss, smiling. “Ulric is one of the greatest generals of the age. Who else in a thousand years has united the Nadir? And with such simplicity. It is the Nadir way to fight anyone not of their tribe. With a thousand tribes thinking this way, they could never become a nation. Ulric took his own tribe, the Wolfshead, and changed the style of Nadir war. To each tribe he conquered, he offered a choice: join him or die. Many chose to die, but many more chose to live. And his army grew. Each tribe keeps its own customs, and they are honored. You cannot take such a man lightly.”
“The man is a treacherous cur,” offered a man from another group of speakers. “He signed a treaty with us. Now he is to break it.”
“I am not defending his morals,” said Druss equably. “Merely pointing out that he’s a good general. His troops worship him.”
“Well, I don’t like the way you speak, old man,” said the tallest of the listeners.
“No?” said Druss. “Are you a soldier, then?”
The man hesitated, glanced at his companions, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Forget it.”
“Are you a deserter, then?”
“I said to forget it, old man,” stormed the youngster.
“Are you all deserters?” asked Druss, leaning back against the bar and scanning the thirty or so men gathered there.
“No, not all,” said one young man emerging from the throng. He was tall and slim, dark hair braided beneath a helm of bronze. “But you cannot blame those who are.”
“Don’t bother with it, Pinar,” said one. “We have talked it over.”
“I know. Interminably,” said Pinar. “But it doesn’t change the situation. The gan is a pig. Worse, he is incompetent. But in leaving, you are just making sure your comrades have no chance at all.”
“They haven’t any chance, anyway,” said the short one with the blond mustache. “If they had any sense, they would leave with us.”
“Dorian, you are being selfish,” said Pinar gently. “When the fighting starts, Gan Orrin will have to forget his idiot rules. We will all be too busy to worry about them.”
“Well, I’ve had enough of it already,” said Dorian. “Shining armor. Dawn parades. Forced marches. Midnight inspections. Penalties for sloppy salutes, uncombed crests, talking after lights-out. The man’s mad.”
“If you’re caught, you will be hung,” said Pinar.
“He doesn’t dare to send anyone after us. They would desert, too. I came to Dros Delnoch to fight the Nadir. I left a farm, a wife, and two daughters. I didn’t come here for all that shining armor garbage.”
“Then go, my friend,” said Pinar. “I hope you do not live to regret it.”
“I do regret it already. But my mind is set,” said Dorian. “I am heading south to join Woundweaver. Now, there’s a soldier!”
“Is Earl Delnar still alive?” asked Druss. The young warrior nodded absently. “How many men still hold their positions?”
“What?” said Pinar, realizing that Druss was speaking to him.
“How many men have you at Delnoch?”
“What concern is it of yours?”
“It’s where I am heading.”
“Why?”
“Because I have been asked, young laddie,” said Druss. “And in more years than I care to remember, I have never turned down a request from a friend.”
“This friend asked you to join us at Dros Delnoch? Is he mad? We need soldiers, archers, pikemen, warriors. I haven’t time to be respectful, old man. But you should go home; we have no need of graybeards.”
Druss smiled grimly. “You are a blunt speaker, boy. But your brains are in your breeches. I have handled an ax for twice your lifetime. My enemies are all dead, or wished they were.” His eyes blazed, and he stepped closer toward the younger man. “When your life has been spent in one war after another for forty-five years, you have to be pretty handy to survive. Now you, laddie—your lips scarcely dry from your mother’s milk—are just a beardless boy to me. Your sword looks pretty there at your side. But if I chose, I could kill you without breaking a sweat.”
A silence had fallen on the room, and the watchers noted the bright sheen on Pinar’s brow.
“Who invited you to Dros Delnoch?” he said at last.
“Earl Delnar.”
“I see. Well, the earl has been ill, sir. Now you may or may not be a mighty warrior still. And I most certainly am a beardless boy to you. But let me tell you this: Gan Orrin commands at Dros Delnoch, and he will not allow you to stay, Earl Delnar or no. I am sure your heart is in the right place, and I am sorry if I sounded disrespectful. But you are too old for a war.”
“The judgment of youth!” said Druss. “It is seldom of value. All r
ight, much as it goes against the grain, I can see I still have to prove myself. Set me a task, boy!”
“I don’t understand you,” said Pinar.
“Set me a task. Something no man here can do. And we will see how ‘the old man’ fares.”
“I have no time for these games. I must return to the Dros.” He turned to go, but Druss’s words hit him like a blow, chilling his blood.
“You don’t understand, boy. If you do not set me that task, I will have to kill you. For I will not be shamed.”
The young man turned again. “As you say. Very well, shall we adjourn to the marketplace?”
The inn emptied, the crowd forming a circle about the two men in the deserted village square. The sun beat down, and Druss sucked in a deep breath, glorying in the warmth of spring.
“It will be pointless giving you a test of strength,” said Pinar, “for you are built like a bull. But war, as you know, is a test of stamina. Do you wrestle?”
“I have been known to,” said Druss, doffing his jerkin.
“Good! Then you may test your skill, one at a time, against three men of my choice. Do you agree?”
“All too simple against these soft, fat runners,” said Druss. An angry murmur arose from the crowd, but Pinar silenced them with a raised hand.
“Dorian. Hagir. Somin. Will you give old father here a trial?”
The men were the first three Druss had met at the bar. Dorian removed his cloak and tied his shoulder-length hair behind his neck with a leather thong. Druss, unnoticed, tested his knee: it was not strong.
“Are you ready?” asked Pinar.
Both men nodded, and immediately Dorian rushed the older man. Druss lashed out, grabbing the other’s throat, then stooped to push his right hand between the man’s legs and lifted. With a grunt and a heave, he hurled him ten feet through the air to land like a sack on the hard-packed earth. Dorian half rose, then sat back, shaking his head. The crowd hooted with laughter.
“Who’s next?” asked Druss.
Pinar nodded to another youngster; then, observing the fear on the lad’s face, he stepped forward. “You have made your point, graybeard. You are strong, and I am at fault. But Gan Orrin will not allow you to fight.”
“Laddie, he will not stop me. If he tries, I will tie him to a fast horse and send him back to his uncle.” All eyes turned as a hoarse cry split the air.
“You old bastard!” Dorian had gathered up his longsword and was advancing toward Druss, who stood with arms folded, waiting.
“No,” said Pinar. “Put up your blade, Dorian.”
“Back off or draw your sword,” Dorian told him. “I have had enough of these games. You think you are a warrior, old man? Then let us see you use that ax. Because if you don’t, I will put some air in your belly.”
“Boy,” said Druss, his eyes cold, “think well about this venture. For make no mistake, you cannot stand before me and live. No man ever has.” The words were spoken softly, yet no one disbelieved the old man.
Except Dorian.
“Well, we shall see. Draw your blade!”
Druss slipped Snaga from its sheath, his broad hand curling around its black haft. Dorian attacked!
And died.
He lay on the ground, head half-severed from his neck. Druss hammered Snaga deep into the earth, cleansing the blade of blood, while Pinar stood in stunned silence. Dorian had not been a great swordsman, but he certainly had been skilled. Yet the old man had batted aside the slashing sword and in one flowing motion had returned the attack—all without moving his feet. Pinar looked down at the body of his former companion. You should have stayed at the Dros, he thought.
“I did not want that to happen,” said Druss, “but I gave him fair warning. The choice was his.”
“Yes,” said Pinar. “My apologies for speaking the way I did. You will be a great help to us, I think. Excuse me. I must help them to remove the body. Will you join me for a drink?”
“I will see you in the long bar,” said Druss.
The tall dark-haired youngster whom Druss had been scheduled to wrestle approached him as he walked through the crowd.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I am sorry about Dorian. He’s hot-tempered. Always has been.”
“Not anymore,” said Druss.
“There will be no blood feud,” said the man.
“Good. A man with a wife and daughters has no place losing his temper. The man was a fool. Are you a friend of the family?”
“Yes. My name is Hagir. Our farms are close. We are … were … neighbors.”
“Then, Hagir, when you get home, I hope you will see that his wife is cared for.”
“I am not going home. I’m going back to the Dros.”
“What changed your mind?”
“With respect, you did, sir. I think I know who you are.”
“Make your own decisions; don’t place them on my shoulders. I want good soldiers at Dros Delnoch, but also I want men who will stand.”
“I didn’t leave because I was frightened. I was just fed up with the crazy rules. But if men like you are prepared to be there, I will stick it out.”
“Good. Join me for a drink later. Now I am going to have a hot bath.”
Druss pushed his way past the men in the doorway and went inside.
“Are you really going back, Hagir?” asked one of the men.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“But why?” urged another. “Nothing has changed. Except that we shall all be on report and probably flogged.”
“It’s him—he’s going there. The Captain of the Ax.”
“Druss! That was Druss?”
“Yes, I am sure of it.”
“How sickening!” said the other.
“What do you mean, Somin?” asked Hagir.
“Dorian—Druss was Dorian’s hero. Don’t you remember him talking about him? Druss this and Druss that. It is one reason he joined up—to be like Druss and maybe even to meet him.”
“Well, he met him,” said Hagir somberly.
Druss, dark-haired Pinar, tall Hagir, and blunt-featured Somin sat at a corner table in the long room of the inn. Around them a crowd gathered, drawn by the legend of the grizzled old man.
“Just over nine thousand, you say. How many archers?”
Dun Pinar waved a hand. “No more than six hundred, Druss. The rest are remnants of cavalry lancers, infantrymen, pikemen, and engineers. The bulk of the complement is made up of volunteer farmers from the Sentran Plain. They’re plucky enough.”
“If I remember aright,” said Druss, “the first wall is four hundred paces long and twenty wide. You will need a thousand archers on it. And I don’t just mean a thousand bows. We need men who can pick a target from a hundred paces.”
“We just haven’t got them,” said Pinar. “On the credit side, we do have almost a thousand legion riders.”
“Some good news at least. Who leads them?”
“Gan Hogun.”
“The same Hogun who routed the Sathuli at Corteswain?”
“Yes,” said Pinar, pride in his voice. “A skilled soldier, strong on discipline and yet worshiped by his men. He’s not very popular with Gan Orrin.”
“He wouldn’t be,” said Druss. “But that’s a matter we shall settle at Delnoch. What of supplies?”
“There we have a few problems. There is enough food for a year, and we discovered three more wells, one as far back as the keep. We have close to six hundred thousand arrows, a multitude of javelins, and several hundred spare mail shirts.
“But the biggest problem is the town itself. It has spread from Wall Three down to Wall Six, hundreds of buildings from wall to wall. There is no killing ground, Druss. Once over Wall Six, the enemy has cover all the way to the keep.”
“We will tackle that, too, when I arrive. Are there still outlaws in Skultik?”
“Of course. When have there not been?” answered Pinar.
“How many?”
“Impossible to say. F
ive or six hundred, perhaps.”
“Do they have a known leader?”
“Again, hard to say,” said Pinar. “According to rumor, there is a young nobleman who heads the largest band. But you know how these rumors grow. Every outlaw leader is an ex-nobleman or a prince. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking they are archers,” said Druss.
“But you cannot enter Skultik now, Druss. Anything could happen. They could kill you.”
“True. All things could happen. My heart could give out, my liver fail. Disease could strike me. A man cannot spend his life worrying about the unexpected. I need archers. In Skultik there are archers. It’s that simple, boy.”
“But it’s not that simple. Send someone else. You are too valuable to lose like this,” Pinar told him, gripping the old man’s arm.
“I’m too long in the tooth to change my ways now. Direct action pays off, Pinar. Believe me. And there’s more to it, which I will tell you about some other time.
“Now,” he said, leaning back and addressing the crowd, “you know who I am and where I am heading. I will speak plainly to you; many of you are runners, some are frightened, others are demoralized. Understand this: When Ulric takes Dros Delnoch, the Drenai lands will become Nadir lands. The farms you are running to will be Nadir farms. Your wives will become Nadir women. There are some things no man can run from. I know.
“At Dros Delnoch you risk death. But all men die.
“Even Druss. Even Karnak the One-Eyed. Even the Earl of Bronze.
“A man needs many things in his life to make it bearable. A good woman. Sons and daughters. Comradeship. Warmth. Food and shelter. But above all these things he needs to be able to know that he is a man.
“And what is a man? He is someone who rises when life has knocked him down. He is someone who raises his fist to heaven when a storm has ruined his crop—and then plants again. And again. A man remains unbroken by the savage twists of fate.