Fear flashed through their ranks like a plague.
Within minutes they were streaming back across the valley floor.
Druss led the warriors back into position. His jerkin was stained with blood, and his beard spotted with crimson. Opening his shirt, he removed a towel and wiped his sweating face. Doffing his helm of black and silver, he scratched his head.
'Well, lads,' he called out, his deep voice echoing in the crags, 'how does it feel to have earned your pay?'
'They're coming again!' someone shouted.
Druss' voice cut through the rising fear. 'Of course they are,' he bellowed. 'They don't know when they're beaten. Front rank fall back, second rank stand to. Let's spread the glory!'
Druss remained with the front line, Diagoras and Certak alongside him.
By dusk they had beaten off four charges for the loss of only forty men - thirty dead, ten wounded.
The Panthians had lost over eight hundred men.
It was a macabre scene that night as the Drenai sat around small campfires, the dancing flames throwing weird shadows across the wall of corpses in the pass making it seem as if the bodies writhed in the darkness. Delnar ordered the men to gather all the wicker shields they could find and recover as many javelins and spears as were still usable.
Towards midnight many of the veterans were asleep-, but others found the excitement of the day too fresh, and they sat in small groups, talking in low tones.
Delnar walked from group to group, sitting with them, joking and lifting their spirits. Druss slept in the tent of Sieben, high in the mouth of the pass. The poet had watched part of the day's action from his bed, and fallen asleep during the long afternoon.
Diagoras, Orases and Certak sat with half a dozen other men as Delnar approached and joined them.
'How are you feeling?' asked the Earl.
The men smiled. What answer could they give?
'Can I ask a question, sir?' asked Orases.
'Certainly.'
'How is it that Druss has stayed alive so long? I mean, he has no defence to speak of.'
'It's a good point,' said the Earl, doffing his helm and running his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool of the night. "The reason is contained in your question. It is because he has no defence. That terrible axe rarely leaves a man with a non-mortal wound. To kill Druss you have to be prepared to die. No, not just prepared. You would have to attack Druss in the sure knowledge that he will kill you. Now, most men want to live. You understand?'
'Not really, sir,' admitted Orases.
'Do you know the one kind of warrior no one wants to face?' asked Delnar.
'No, sir.'
'The baresark, sometimes called the berserker, a man whose killing frenzy makes him oblivious to pain and uncaring about life. He throws his armour away and attacks the enemy, cutting and killing until he himself is cut to pieces. I saw a baresark once who had lost an arm. As the blood spewed from the stump he aimed it in the faces of his attackers and carried on fighting until he dropped.
'No one wants to fight such a man. Now, Druss is even more formidable than the berserker. He has all the virtues, but his killing frenzy is controlled. He can think clearly. And when you add the man's awesome strength he becomes a veritable machine of destruction.'
'But surely a chance thrust amid the melee,' said Diagoras. 'A sudden slip on a pool of blood. He could die as well as any other man.'
'Yes,' admitted Delnar. 'I do not say that he won't die in such a way; only that the odds are all with Druss. Most of you saw him today. Those who fought alongside him had no time to study his technique, but others of you caught a glimpse of the Legend. He's always balanced, always moving. His eyes are never still. His peripheral vision is incredible. He can sense danger even amid chaos. Today a very brave Panthian warrior hurled himself on the axe, dragging it from Druss's hand. A second warrior followed. Did anyone see it?'
'I did,' said Orases.
'But you didn't really learn from it. The first Panthian died to remove Druss's weapon. The second was to engage him while the others breached the line. Had they come through then, our force might have been split and pushed back into the walls of the mountain. Druss saw that instantly. That's why, although he could have just knocked his attacker senseless and retrieved his axe, he hurled the man back into the breach. Now think on this: In that instant Druss had seen the danger, formulated a plan of action, and carried it out. More even than this. He retrieved the axe and took the battle to the enemy. That's what broke them. Druss had judged exactly the right moment to attack. It's the instinct of the born warrior.'
'But how did he know we would follow him?' asked Diagoras. 'He could have been cut to pieces.'
'Even in this he was confident. That's why he asked you and Certak to stand alongside him. Now that's a compliment. He knew you would respond, and that others who might not follow him would follow you.'
'He has told you this?' asked Certak.
The Earl chuckled. 'No. In a way Druss would be as surprised to hear it as you are. His actions are not reasoned. As I said, they are instinctive. If we live through this you will leam much.'
'Do you think we will?' asked Orases.
'If we are strong,' lied Delnar smoothly, surprised at himself.
*
The Panthians came again at dawn, creeping up through the pass as the Drenai waited, swords drawn. But they did not attack. Under the bewildered eyes of the defenders, they hauled away the bodies of their comrades.
It was a bizarre scene. Delnar ordered the Drenai back twenty paces to make room for the work, and the warriors waited. Delnar sheathed his sword and moved alongside Druss in the front line.
'What do you think?'
'I think they're preparing the ground for chariots,' said Druss.
'Horses will never attack a solid line. They'll pull up short,' the Earl pointed out.
'Take a look yonder,' muttered the axeman.
On the far side of the stream, the Ventrian army had parted, making way for the gleaming bronze chariots of the Tantrians. With their huge wheels bearing sickle blades, serrated and deadly, each chariot was drawn by two horses and manned by a driver and a spear carrier.
For an hour the clearing of bodies continued, while the chariots formed a line in the valley below. As the Panthians withdrew, Delnar ordered forward thirty men carrying the wicker shields retrieved from the battle the day before. The shields were spread in a line across the pass and doused with lantern oil.
Delnar placed his hand on Druss's shoulder. 'Take the line fifty paces forward, beyond the shields. When they attack, break formation left and right and make for the cover of the rocks. Once they are through we will fire the shields. Hopefully that will stop them. The second rank will engage the chariots while your line holds the following infantry.'
'Sounds good,' said Druss.
'If it doesn't work we won't try it again,' said Delnar.
Druss grinned.
Along the line of chariots the drivers were pulling silken hoods over the eyes of the horses. Druss led his two hundred men forward, hurdling the wall of wicker shields, Diagoras, Certak and Archytas beside him.
The thunder of hooves on the valley floor echoed through the crags as two hundred charioteers whipped their horses into the gallop.
With the chariots almost upon them Druss bellowed the order to break ranks. As men raced to the safety of the mountain walls on either side, the enemy thundered on towards the second line. Flaming torches were flung upon the wall of oil-soaked wicker shields. Black smoke billowed instantly, followed by dancing flames. The breeze carried the smoke towards the east, burning the flaring nostrils of the hooded horses. Whinnying their terror, they tried to turn, ignoring the biting whips of the charioteers.
Instantly all was confusion. The second line of chariots tore into the first, horses falling, vehicles overturning, hurling screaming men to the jagged rocks.
And into the milling chaos leapt the Drenai, hurdling the dying f
lames to fall upon the Ventrian spearmen, whose lances were useless at such close quarters.
Gorben, from his vantage point a half-mile away, ordered a legion of infantry into the fray.
Druss and the two hundred Drenai swordsmen re-formed across the pass, locking shields against the new attack, presenting a glittering wall of blades to the silver-armoured infantry.
Crushing the skull of one man and gutting a second, Druss stepped back, casting a lightning glance to left and right.
The line held.
More Drenai fell in this attack than on the previous day, but their numbers were few compared with the losses suffered by the Ventrians.
Only a handful of chariots burst back through the Drenai front line, there to crash and cut a path through their own infantry in their desire to be free of the pass.
Hour upon bloody hour the battle continued, savagely fought by both sides, with no thought of quarter.
The silver-clad Ventrian infantry continued to press their attack, but by dusk their efforts lacked conviction and weight.
Furious, Gorben ordered their general forward into the pass.
'Lead them hard, or you'll beg to be allowed to die,' he promised.
The general's body fell within the hour, and the infantry slunk back across the stream in the gathering gloom of twilight.
*
Ignoring the dancing troupe performing before him, Gorben lay back on the silk-covered couch, conversing in low tones with Bodasen. The Emperor wore full battle-dress, and behind him stood the massively muscled Panthian bodyguard who for the last five years had been Gorben's executioner. He killed with his hands, sometimes by strangling his victims slowly, at other times gouging his thumbs through the eye sockets of the hapless prisoners. All executions were performed before the Emperor, and scarcely a week passed without such a grisly scene.
The Panthian had once killed a man by crushing his skull between his hands, to the applause of Gorben and his courtiers.
Bodasen was sickened by it all, but he was caught within a web of his own making. Through the years, naked ambition had driven him to the heights of power. He now commanded the Immortals and was, under Gorben, the most powerful man in Ventria. But the position was perilous. Gorben's paranoia was such that few of his generals survived for long, and Bodasen had begun to feel the Emperor's eyes upon him.
Tonight he had invited Gorben to his tent, promising him an evening of entertainment, but the king was in a surly, argumentative mood, and Bodasen trod warily.
'You thought the Panthians and the chariots would fail, did you not?' asked Gorben. The question was loaded with menace. If the answer was yes, the Emperor would ask why Bodasen had not stated his view. Was he not the Emperor's military advisor? What was the use of an advisor who gave no advice? If the answer was no, then his military judgement would prove to be lacking.
'We have fought many wars over the years, my lord,' he said. 'In most,of them we have suffered reverses. You have always said "Unless we try we will never know how to succeed".'
'You think we should send in my Immortals?' asked Gorben. Always before the Emperor had called them your Immortals. Bodasen licked his lips and smiled.
'There is no doubt they could clear the pass swiftly. The Drenai are fighting well. They are disciplined. But they know they cannot withstand the Immortals. But that decision is yours alone, my lord. Only you have the divine mastery of tactics. Men like myself are mere reflections of your greatness.'
'Then where are the men who can think for themselves?' snapped the Emperor.
'I must be honest with you, sire,' said Bodasen quickly. 'You will not find such a man.'
'Why?'
'You seek men who can think as rapidly as you yourself, with your own penetrating insight. Such men do not exist. You are supremely gifted, sire. The gods would visit such wisdom on only one man in ten generations.'
'You speak truly,' said Gorben. 'But there is little joy in being a man apart, separated from his fellows by his god-given gifts. I am hated, you know,' he whispered, eyes darting to the sentries beyond the tent entrance.
'There will always be those that are jealous, sire,' said Bodasen.
'Are you jealous of me, Bodasen?'
'Yes, sire.'
Gorben rolled to his side, eyes gleaming. 'Speak on.'
'In all the years I have served and loved you, lord, I have always wished I could be more like you. For then I could have served you better. A man would be a fool not to be jealous of you. But he is insane if he hates you because you are what he never can be.'
'Well said. You are an honest man. One of the few I can trust. Not like Druss, who promised to serve me, and now thwarts my destiny. I want him dead, my general. I want his head brought to me.'
'It shall be done, sire,' said Bodasen.
Gorben leaned back, gazing around him at the tent and its contents. 'Your quarters are almost as lavish as my own,' he said.
'Only because they are filled with gifts from you, sire,' answered Bodasen swiftly.
*
Faces and armour blackened by dirt mixed with oil, Druss and fifty swordsmen silently waded the narrow stream under a moonless sky. Praying the clouds would not part, Druss led the men single-file towards the eastern bank, axe in hand, blackened shield held before him. Once ashore Druss squatted at the centre of the small group, pointing towards two dozing sentries by a dying fire. Diagoras and two others ghosted from the group, approaching the sentries silently, daggers in hand. The men died without a sound. Removing torches hastily constructed from the wicker shields of Panthian warriors, Druss and the soldiers approached the sentries' fire.
Stepping over the bodies, Druss lit his torch and ran towards the nearest tent. His men followed suit, racing from tent to tent, until flames leapt thirty feet into the night sky.
Suddenly all was chaos, as screaming men burst from blazing canopies to fall before the swords of the Drenai. Druss raced ahead, cutting a crimson path through the confused Ventrians, his eyes fixed on the tent ahead, its glowing griffin outlined in the towering flames. Close behind came Certak and a score of warriors bearing torches. Wrenching open the flaps, Druss leapt inside.
'Damn,' he grunted, 'Gorben's not here! Curse it!'
Setting torch to silk, Druss shouted for his men to regroup, then led them back towards the stream. No concerted effort was made to stop them, as Ventrians milled in confusion, many of them half-clothed, others filling helmets with water, forming human chains to battle the fierce inferno racing on the wings of the wind throughout the Ventrian camp.
A small group of Immortals, swords in hand, collided with Druss as he raced towards the stream. Snaga leapt forward, braining the first. The second died as Diagoras back-handed a slash across his throat. The battle was brief and bloody, but the element of surprise was with the Drenai. Bursting through the front line of swordsmen, Druss crashed his axe through one man's side before reversing a slashing swipe across another's shoulder.
Bodasen ran from his tent, sword in hand. Swiftly gathering a small group of Immortals, he raced past the flames towards the battle. A Drenai warrior loomed before him. The man aimed a thrust at Bodasen's unprotected body. The Ventrian parried and launched a devastating riposte that tore open the man's throat. Bodasen stepped over the body and led his men forward.
Druss killed two men, then bellowed for the Drenai to fall back.
The pounding of feet from behind caused him to swivel and face the new force. With the fire behind them Druss could not make out faces.
Nearby Archytas despatched a warrior, then saw Druss standing alone.
Without thinking, he raced towards the Immortals. In that instant Druss charged. His axe rose and fell, shearing through armour and bone. Diagoras and Certak joined him, with four other Drenai warriors. The battle was brief. Only one Ventrian broke clear, hurling himself to the right and rolling to his feet behind Archytas. The tall Drenai turned on his heel and engaged the man. Archytas grinned as their swords met. The man
was old, though skilful, and no match for the young Drenai. Their swords glittered in the firelight: parry, riposte, counter, thrust and block. Suddenly the Ventrian seemed to trip. Archytas leapt forward. His opponent ducked and rolled to his feet in one flowing movement, his sword ramming into Archytas' groin.
'You live and learn, boy,' hissed Bodasen, dragging his blade clear. Bodasen turned as more Immortals ran forward. Gorben wanted Druss's head. Tonight he would give it to him.
Druss wrenched his axe from a man's body and sprinted for the stream and the relative sanctuary of the pass.
A warrior leapt into his path. Snaga sang through the air, smashing the man's sword to shards. A back-hand cut shattered his ribs. As Druss passed him, the man reached out, grabbing his shoulder. In the gleam of the flames, the axeman saw it was Bodasen. The dying Immortal general gripped Druss's jerkin, trying to slow him. Druss kicked him aside and ran on.
Bodasen fell heavily and rolled, watching the burly figure of the axeman and his companions fording the stream.
The Ventrian's vision swam. He closed his eyes. Weariness settled on him like a cloak. Memories danced in his mind. He heard a great noise like the crashing of the sea, and saw again the corsair ship bearing down upon them, gliding out of the past. Once more he raced with Druss to board her, carrying the fight to the aft deck.
Damn! He should have realised Druss would never change.
Attack. Always attack.
He opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. Druss was safely on the other side of the stream now, leading the warriors back to the Drenai line.
Bodasen tried to move, but agony lanced him. Carefully he probed the wound in his side, his sticky fingers feeling the broken ribs and the rush of arterial blood from the gaping gash.
It was over.
No more fear. No more insanity. No more bowing and scraping to the painted madman.
In a way he was relieved.
His whole life had been an anticlimax after that battle with Druss against the corsairs. In that one towering moment he had been alive, standing with Druss against . . .
They brought his body to the Emperor in the pink light of dawn.