Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (35 page)

Ulric laughed. “I thought to find you broken with grief. And yet already you plan.”

“I feel stupid, yes,” answered Khitan. “I should have foreseen the use of the oil. I knew the timbers would never burn merely from fire arrows and gave no thought to other combustibles. No one will beat us like that again.”

“Most assuredly, my learned architect,” said Ulric, bowing.

Khitan chuckled. “The years are making me pompous, my lord. Deathwalker did well today. He is a worthy opponent.”

“Indeed he is, but I don’t think today’s plan was his. They have white templars among them, who destroyed Nosta Khan’s acolytes.”

“I thought there was some devilry in that,” muttered Khitan. “What will you do with the defenders when we take the fortress?”

“I have said that I will slay them.”

“I know. I wondered if you had changed your mind. They are valiant.”

“And I respect them. But the Drenai must learn what happens to those who oppose me.”

“So, my lord, what will you do?”

“I shall burn them all on one great funeral pyre—all save one, who shall live to carry the tale.”

An hour before dawn Caessa slipped silently into Druss’s room and approached the bedside. The warrior was sleeping deeply, lying on his belly with his massive forearms cradling his head. As she watched him, Druss stirred. He opened his eyes, focusing on her slender legs clad in thigh-length doeskin boots. Then his gaze traveled upward. She wore a body-hugging green tunic with a thick silver-studded leather belt that accentuated her small waist. By her side hung a short sword with an ebony handle. He rolled over and met her gaze; there was anger in her tawny eyes.

“Finished your inspection?” she snapped.

“What ails you, girl?”

All emotion left her face, withdrawing like a cat into shadows.

“Nothing. Turn over. I want to check your back.”

Skillfully she began to knead at the muscles of his shoulder blade, her fingers like steel pins, causing him to grunt occasionally through gritted teeth.

“Turn over again.”

With Druss once more on his back, she lifted his right arm, locked her own arms around it, and gave a sharp pull and twist. A violent cracking sound followed, and for a fraction of a second Druss thought she had broken his shoulder. Releasing his arm, she rested it on his left shoulder, then crossed his left arm to sit on the right shoulder. Leaning forward to pull him onto his side, she placed her clenched fist under his spine between the shoulder blades, then rolled him back. Suddenly she threw her weight across his chest, forcing his spine into her fist. Twice more he grunted as alarming sounds filled the air, which he identified as a kind of crunching snap. Sweat beaded his forehead.

“You’re stronger than you look, girl.”

“Be quiet and sit up, facing the wall.”

This time she seemed almost to break his neck, placing her hands under his chin and over his ear, wrenching first to the left and then to the right. The sound was like a dry branch snapping.

“Tomorrow you rest,” she said as she turned to leave.

He stretched and moved his injured shoulder. He felt good, better than he had in weeks.

“What were those cracking sounds?” he asked, halting her at the door.

“You have arthritis. The first three dorsals were locked solid; therefore, blood could not flow properly. Also, the muscle under the shoulder blade had knotted, causing spasms which reduced the strength of your right arm. But heed me, old man, tomorrow you must rest. That or die.”

“We all die,” he said.

“True. But you are needed.”

“Do you dislike me—or all men?” he asked as her hand touched the door handle.

She turned to look at him, smiled, pushed the door shut, and came back into the room, stopping within inches of his burly naked frame.

“Would you like to sleep with me, Druss?” she asked sweetly, laying her left arm across his shoulder.

“No,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes. The pupils were small, unnaturally so.

“Most men do,” she whispered, moving closer.

“I am not most men.”

“Are you dried up, then?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Or is it boys you lust after? We have some like that in our band.”

“No, I can’t say I have ever lusted after a man. But I had a real woman once, and since then I have never needed another.”

She stepped away from him. “I have ordered a hot bath for you, and I want you to stay in it until the water cools. It will help the blood flow through those tired muscles.” With that she turned and was gone. For a few moments Druss stared at the door, then he sat down on the bed and scratched his beard.

The girl disturbed him. There was something in her eyes. Druss had never been good with women, not intuitive as some men were. Women were another race to him, alien and forbidding. But this child was something else again; in her eyes was madness, madness and fear. He shrugged and did what he always had done when a problem eluded him: forgot about it.

After the bath he dressed swiftly, combed his hair and beard, then snatched a hasty breakfast in the Eldibar mess hall and joined the fifty volunteers on the battlements as the dawn sunlight pierced the early morning mist. It was a crisp morning, fresh with the promise of rain. Below him the Nadir were gathering, carts piled with boulders making their slow way to the catapults. Around him there was little conversation; on days such as this a man’s thoughts turned inward. Will I die today? What is my wife doing now? Why am I here?

Farther along the battlements Orrin and Hogun walked among the men. Orrin said little, leaving the legion general to make jokes and ask questions. He resented Hogun’s easy style with the enlisted men, but not too deeply; it was probably more regret than resentment.

A young cul—Bregan, was it?—made him feel better as they passed the small group of men near the gate tower.

“Will you be fighting with Karnak today, sir?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir. It is a great honor—for all of us.”

“It is nice of you to say so,” said Orrin.

“No, I mean it,” said Bregan. “We were talking about it last night.”

Embarrassed and pleased, Orrin smiled and walked on.

“Now that,” offered Hogun, “is a greater responsibility than checking supply lines.”

“In what way?”

“They respect you. And that man hero-worships you. It is not an easy thing to live up to. They will stand beside you when all have fled. Or they will flee with you when all else stand.”

“I won’t run away, Hogun,” said Orrin.

“I know you won’t; that’s not what I meant. As a man, there are times when you want to lie down, or give in, or walk away. It’s usually left to the individual, but in this case you are no longer one man. You are fifty. You are Karnak. It is a great responsibility.”

“And what of you?” asked Orrin.

“I am the legion,” he answered simply.

“Yes, I suppose you are. Are you frightened today?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Orrin, smiling. “I wouldn’t like to be the only one.”

As Druss had promised, the day brought fresh horror: stone missiles obliterating sections of battlements, then the terrible battle cries and the surging attack with ladders to the wall, and a snarling horde breasting the granite defense to meet the silver steel of the Drenai. Today it was the turn of three thousand men from Musif, Wall Two, to relieve warriors who had fought long and hard the day before. Swords rang, men screamed and fell, and chaos descended for long hours. Druss strode the walls like a fell giant, blood-spattered and grim, his ax cleaving the Nadir ranks, his oaths and coarse insults causing the Nadir to center on him. Rek fought with Serbitar beside him, as on the previous day, but with them now were Menahem and Antaheim, Virae and Arbedark.

By afternoon the twenty-foot-wide battlements were slippery with blood and cluttered by bodies, yet still the battle raged. Orrin, by the gate towers, fought like a man possessed, side by side with the warriors from Group Karnak. Bregan, his sword broken, had gathered a Nadir ax, two-headed and long-handled, which he wielded with astonishing skill.

“A real farmer’s weapon!” yelled Gilad during a brief lull.

’Tell that to Druss!” shouted Orrin, slapping Bregan on the back.

At dusk the Nadir fell back once more, sent on their way by jeers and catcalls. But the toll had been heavy. Druss, bathed in crimson, stepped across the bodies and limped to where Rek and Serbitar stood cleaning their weapons.

“The wall’s too damned wide to hold for long,” he muttered, leaning forward to clean Snaga on the jerkin of a dead Nadir.

“Too true,” said Rek, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his cloak. “But you are right; we cannot just give it to them yet.”

“At present,” said Serbitar, “we are killing them at a rate of three to one. It is not enough. They will wear us down.”

“We need more men,” said Druss, sitting back on the battlements and scratching his beard.

“I sent a messenger last night to my father at Dros Segril,” said Serbitar. “We should have reinforcements in about ten days.”

“Drada hates the Drenai,” said Druss. “Why should he send men?”

“He must send my personal bodyguard. It is the law of Vagria, and though my father and I have not spoken for twelve years, I am still his firstborn son. It is my right. Three hundred swords will join me here—no more than that, but it will help.”

“What was the quarrel?” asked Rek.

“Quarrel?” queried the albino.

“Between you and your father.”

“There was no quarrel. He saw my talents as ‘gifts of darkness’ and tried to kill me. I would not allow it. Vintar rescued me.” Serbitar removed his helm, untied the knot that bound his white hair, and shook his head. The evening breeze ruffled his hair. Rek exchanged glances with Druss and changed the subject.

“Ulric must realize by now that he has a battle on his hands.”

“He knew that anyway,” answered Druss. “It won’t worry him yet.”

“I don’t see why not; it worries me,” said Rek, rising as Virae joined them with Menahem and Antaheim. The three members of the Thirty left without a word, and Virae sat beside Rek, hugging his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Not an easy day,” said Rek, gently stroking her hair.

“They looked after me,” she whispered. “Just like you told them to, I suppose.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“Good. We have only just met, and I don’t want to lose you yet.”

“You two ought to eat,” said Druss. “I know you don’t feel like it, but take the advice of an old warrior.” The old man stood, glanced back once at the Nadir camp, and walked slowly toward the mess hall. He was tired. Almighty tired.

Ignoring his own advice, he skirted the mess hall and made for his room at the hospital. Inside the long building he paused to listen to the moans from the wards. The stench of death was everywhere. Stretcher-bearers pushed past him bearing bloodied corpses, orderlies hurled buckets of water to the floor, others with mops or buckets of sand prepared the ground for the next day. He spoke to none of them.

Pushing open the door of his room, he stopped. Caessa sat within. “I have food for you,” she said, avoiding his eyes. Silently he took the platter of beef, red beans, and thick black bread and began to eat.

“There is a bath for you in the next room,” she said as he finished. He nodded and stripped off his clothing.

He sat in the hip bath and cleaned the blood from his hair and beard. When cold air touched his wet back, he knew she had entered. She knelt by the bath and poured an aromatic liquid into her hands, then began washing his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of her fingers on his scalp. After rinsing his hair with warm fresh water, she rubbed it dry with a clean towel.

Back in his room, Druss found that she had laid out a clean undervest and black woolen trousers and had sponged his leather jerkin and boots. She poured him a goblet of Lentrian wine before leaving. Druss finished the wine and lay back on the bed, resting his head on his hand. Not since Rowena had a woman tended to him in this fashion, and his thoughts were mellow.

Rowena, his child bride, taken by slavers soon after the wedding at the great oak. Druss had followed them, not even stopping to bury his parents. For months he had traveled the land until at last, in the company of Sieben the poet, he had discovered the slavers’ camp. Having found out from them that Rowena had been sold to a merchant who was heading east, he slew the leader in his tent and set out once more. For five years he wandered across the continent, a mercenary, building a reputation as the most fearsome warrior of his time, becoming at last the champion of Ventria’s god-king, Gorben.

Finally he had found his wife in an eastern palace and had wept. For without her he had always been only half a man. She alone made him human, stilling for a while the dark side of his nature, making him whole, showing him the beauty in a field of flowers, where he looked for perfection in a blade of steel.

She used to wash his hair and stroke the tension from his neck and the anger from his heart.

Now she was gone, and the world was empty, a shifting blur of shimmering gray where once there had been colors of dazzling brightness.

Outside a gentle rain began to fall. For a while Druss listened to it pattering on the roof. Then he slept.

Caessa sat in the open air, hugging her knees. Had anyone approached her, he could not have seen where the rain ended and the tears began.

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