Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (13 page)

“No. Believe me, Elicas, it would achieve nothing. He’s Abalayn’s nephew.”

“That old man has a lot to answer for,” snarled Elicas. “If we do somehow get out of this business alive, he will fall for sure.”

“He has ruled for thirty years. It’s too long. But as you say, if we do get out alive, it will be because of Woundweaver. And it’s certain he will take control.”

“Then let me ride to him now,” urged Elicas.

“The time isn’t right. Woundweaver cannot act. Now, leave it alone. We will do our job and, with luck, get away without being spotted.”

But luck had not been with them. Five days out from Delnoch they had come across three Nadir outriders. They had killed only two, the third ducking down over the neck of his steppe pony and riding like the wind into a nearby wood. Hogun had ordered an immediate withdrawal and might have pulled it off had he enjoyed an ounce of luck. Elicas has been the first to spot the mirror messages flashing from peak to peak.

“What do you think, sir?” he asked as Hogun reined in.

“I think we will need good fortune. It depends on how many dog soldiers they have in the vicinity.”

The answer was not long in coming. Toward late afternoon they saw the dust cloud south of them. Hogun glanced over his back trail.

“Lebus!” he called, and a young warrior cantered alongside.

“You have eyes like a hawk. Look back there. What do you see?”

The young soldier shielded his eyes from the sun, then squinted at their back trail.

“Dust, sir. From maybe two thousand horses.”

“And ahead?”

“Perhaps a thousand.”

“Thank you. Rejoin the troop. Elicas!”

“Sir?”

“Cloaks furled. We will take them with lances and sabers.”

“Yes, sir.” He cantered back down the column. The black cloaks were unpinned and folded to be strapped to saddles. The black and silver armor glinted in the sunlight as man after man began to prepare for the charge. From saddlebags each rider removed a black and silver forearm guard and slipped it in place. Then small round bucklers were lifted from saddle horns to be fitted to the left arm. Straps were adjusted, and armor tightened. The approaching Nadir could now be seen as individuals, but the sound of their battle cries was muffled by the pounding of horses’ hooves.

“Helms down!” yelled Hogun. “Wedge formation!”

Hogun and Elicas formed the point of the wedge, the other riders slipping expertly into position a hundred on either side.

“Advance!” yelled Elicas. The troop broke into a canter; then, at full gallop, the lances tilted. As the distance narrowed, Hogun felt his blood racing and could hear his pounding heart in time with the rolling thunder of the black horses’ iron-shod hooves.

Now he could pick out individual Nadir faces and hear their screams.

The wedge smashed into the Nadir ranks, the larger black war-horses cleaving a path through the mass of smaller hill ponies. Hogun’s lance speared a Nadir chest and snapped as the man catapulted from his pony. Then his saber slashed into the air; he cut one man from his mount, parried a thrust from the left, and backhanded his blade across the throat of the horseman. Elicas screamed a Drenai war cry from his right, his horse rearing, the front hooves caving in the chest of a piebald pony that ditched his rider beneath the milling mass of black riders.

And then they were through, racing for the distant, fragile safety of Dros Delnoch.

Glancing back, Hogun saw the Nadir re-form and canter to the north. There was no pursuit.

“How many men did we lose?” he asked Elicas as the troop slowed to a walk.

“Eleven.”

“It could have been worse. Who were they?”

Elicas recounted the names. All good men, survivors of many battles.

“That bastard Orrin will pay for this,” said Elicas bitterly.

“Forget it! He was right. More by luck than any judgment, but he was right.”

“What do you mean ‘right’? We’ve learned nothing, and we’ve lost eleven men,” said Elicas.

“We have learned that the Nadir are closer than we believed. Those dog soldiers were Wolfshead tribe. That’s Ulric’s own; they’re his personal guard. He’d never send them that far ahead of his main force. I’d say we now have a month—if we’re lucky.”

“Damn! I was going to gut the pig and take the consequences.”

“Tell the men no fires tonight,” said Hogun.

Well, fat man, he thought, this is your first good decision.

May it not be the last.

9

T
he forest had
an ageless beauty that touched Druss’s warrior soul. Enchantment hung in the air. Gnarled oaks became silent sentinels in the silver moonlight, majestic, immortal, unyielding. What cared they for man’s wars? A gentle breeze whispered through the interwoven branches above the old man’s head. A shaft of moonlight bathed a fallen log, granting it momentarily an ethereal splendor. A lone badger, caught in the light, shuffled into the undergrowth.

A raucous song began among the men crowded around the blazing camp fire, and Druss cursed softly. Once again the forest was merely forest, the oaks outsize plants. Bowman wandered across to him, carrying two leather goblets and a wine sack.

“Finest Ventrian,” he said. “It’ll turn your hair black.”

“I’m all for that,” said Druss. The young man filled Druss’s goblet, then his own.

“You look melancholy, Druss. I thought the prospect of another glorious battle would lighten your heart.”

“Your men are the worst singers I have heard in twenty years. They’re butchering that song.” Druss replied, leaning his back against the oak, feeling the wine ease his tension.

“Why are you going to Delnoch?” asked Bowman.

“The worst were a bunch of captured Sathuli. They just kept chanting the same bloody verse over and over again. We let them go in the end—we thought that if they sang like that when they got home, they’d break the fighting spirit of their tribe in a week.”

“Now look here, old horse,” said Bowman. “I am a man not easily thrown. Give me an answer—any answer! Lie if you like. But tell me why you travel to Delnoch.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It fascinates me. A man with half an eye could see that Delnoch will fall, and you’re a man with enough experience to know the truth when you see it. So why go?”

“Have you any idea, laddie, how many such lost causes I have been involved in during the past forty or so years?”

“Precious few,” said Bowman. “Or you would not be here to tell of them.”

“Not so. How do you decide a battle is lost? Numbers, strategic advantage, positioning? It’s all worth a sparrow’s fart. It comes down to men who are willing. The largest army will founder if its men are less willing to die than to win.”

“Rhetoric,” snorted Bowman. “Use it at the Dros. The fools there will lap it up.”

“One man against five, and the one disabled,” said Druss, holding his temper. “Where would your money go?”

“I’m ahead of you, old man. What if the one was Karnak the One-Eyed. Yes? Well, then my money would be on him. But how many Karnaks are there at Dros Delnoch?”

“Who knows? Even Karnak was unknown once. He made his name on a bloody battlefield. There will be many heroes come the last at Dros Delnoch.”

“Then you admit it? The Dros is doomed,” said Bowman, grinning in triumph. “At the last, you said.”

“Damn you, boy! Don’t put words in my mouth,” snarled Druss, cursing himself. Where are you now, Sieben? he thought. Now that I need you with your glib words and ready wit.

“Then don’t try to treat me like a fool. Admit that the Dros is doomed.”

“As you say,” admitted Druss, “anyone with half an eye could see it. But I don’t give a damn, laddie. Until the actual moment when they cut me down, I shall still be looking to win. And the gods of war are fickle at best. Where do you stand on the matter?”

Bowman smiled and refilled both goblets. For a while he was silent, enjoying the wine and the old man’s discomfort.

“Well?” said Druss.

“Now we come to it,” answered Bowman.

“Come to what?” said Druss, ill at ease under the young archer’s cynical gaze.

“The reason for this visit to my woods,” said Bowman, spreading his hands, his smile now open and friendly. “Come now, Druss. I’ve too much respect for you to fence any longer. You want my men for your insane battle. And the answer is no. But enjoy the wine, anyway.”

“Am I so transparent?” asked the old warrior.

“When Druss the Legend takes a stroll through Skultik on the eve of the end, he’s looking for more than acorns.”

“Is this all you want from life?” asked Druss. “You sleep in a wattle hut and eat when you can find game. When you cannot, you starve. In winter you’re cold. In summer, the ants crawl into your clothes and the lice prosper. You were not made for a life like this.”

“We are not made for life at all, old horse. It is made for us. We live it. We leave it. I’ll not throw my life away in your bloody madness. I leave such heroics to men like you. All your years have been spent in one squalid war after another. And what has changed? Have you thought that if you had not defeated the Ventrians fifteen years ago at Skeln, we would now be part of a mighty empire and
they
would have had to worry about the Nadir?”

“Freedom’s worth fighting for,” said Druss.

“Why? No one can take away the freedom of a man’s soul.”

“Liberty, then?” offered Druss.

“Liberty is valued only when it is threatened; therefore, it is the threat that highlights the value. We should be grateful to the Nadir, since they heighten the value of our liberty.”

“You’ve lost me, damn you, with your pretty words. You’re like those politicians in Drenan, as full of wind as a sick cow. Don’t tell me my life has been wasted, I won’t have that! I loved a good woman, and I’ve always been true to my principles. I never did a shameful thing, nor yet a cruel one.”

“Ah, but Druss, not all men are you. I will not criticize your principles if you do not try to graft them onto me. I have no time for them. A pretty hypocrite I would be as a robber outlaw with principles.”

“Then why did you not let Jorak shoot me down?”

“As I said, it was unsporting. It lacked a sense of style. But on another day, when I was colder or more bad tempered …”

“You are a nobleman, aren’t you?” said Druss. “A rich boy playing at robbers. Why do I sit here and argue with you?”

“Because you need my archers.”

“No. I have given up on that thought,” said Druss, offering his goblet to the green-garbed outlaw. Bowman filled it, a cynical smile once more upon his mouth.

“Given up? Nonsense. I will tell you what you’re thinking. You will argue some more, offer me wages and a pardon for my crimes. If I refuse, you will kill me and take your chances with the same offer to my men.”

Druss was shaken, but his face showed nothing.

“Do you also read palms?” he asked, sipping his wine.

“You’re too honest, Druss. And I like you. That’s why I would like to point out that Jorak is behind the bushes there with an arrow notched.”

“Then I have lost,” said Druss. “You keep your archers.”

“Tut, tut, dear man, I didn’t expect such defeatism from Druss the Legend. Put your offer.”

“I’ve no time for your games. I had a friend like you, Sieben the saga master. He could talk all day and convince you the sea was sand. I never won an argument with him. He talked about having no principles—and like you, he lied.”

“He was the poet who wrote the legend. He made you immortal,” said Bowman softly.

“Yes,” said Druss, his mind drifting back over the long years.

“Did you really hunt your woman across the world?”

“That part at least was true. We were wed when we were very young. Then my village was attacked by a slaver called Harib Ka, who sold her to an eastern merchant. I missed the attack, as I was working in the woods. But I followed them. In the end it took me seven years, and when I found her, she was with another man.”

“What happened to him?” asked Bowman softly.

“He died.”

“And she came back with you to Skoda.”

“Aye. She loved me. She really did.”