All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die, or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one’s words were spoken with power, and his voice held them momentarily.
“Let your leader step forth,” ordered Rek, plunging his sword blade into the ground at his feet and folding his arms, though the Sathuli blades still ringed him.
The men before him stepped aside as a tall, broad-shouldered man in robes of blue and white moved forward. He was as tall as Rek, though hawk-nosed and swarthy. A trident beard gave him a sardonic look, and the saber scar from brow to chin completed the impression.
“I am Regnak, Earl of Dros Delnoch,” said Rek.
“I am Sathuli—Joachim Sathuli—and I shall kill you,” replied the man grimly.
“Matters like this should be settled by men such as you and I,” said Rek. “Look about you—everywhere are Sathuli corpses. How many of my men are among them?”
“They will join them soon,” said Joachim.
“Why do we not settle this like princes?” said Rek. “You and I alone.”
The man’s scarred eyebrow lifted. “That would only equal the odds against you. You have no bargaining power; wherefore should I grant you this?”
“Because it will save Sathuli lives. Oh, I know they give their lives gladly, but for what? We carry no provisions, no gold. We have only horses, and the Delnoch ranges are full of them. This is now a matter of pride, not of booty. Such matters are for you and I to decide.”
“Like all Drenai, you talk a good fight,” said the Sathuli, turning away.
“Has fear turned your bowels to water?” asked Rek softly.
The man turned back, smiling. “Ah, now you seek to anger me. Very well! We will fight. When you die, your men will lay down their swords?”
“Yes.”
“And if I die, we allow you to pass?”
“Yes.”
“So be it. I swear this on the soul of Mehmet, blessed be his name.”
Joachim drew a slender scimitar, and the Sathulis around Rek moved back to form a circle about the two men. Rek drew his blade from the earth, and the battle began.
The Sathuli was an accomplished swordsman, and Rek was forced back as soon as the fight started. Serbitar, Virae, and the others watched calmly as blade met blade time and again. Parry, riposte, thrust and parry, slash and check. Rek defended frantically at first, then slowly began to counter. The battle wore on, with both men sweating freely. It was obvious to all that they were evenly matched in skill and virtually identical in strength and reach. Rek’s blade sliced the skin above Joachim’s shoulder. The scimitar licked out to open a wound on the back of Rek’s hand. Both men circled warily, breathing deeply.
Joachim attacked; Rek parried, launching a riposte. Joachim jumped back, and they circled again. Arbedark, the finest swordsman of the Thirty, was lost in wonder at their technique.
Not that he could not match it, for he could, rather that his skill was honed by mental powers that the two combatants would never comprehend on a conscious level. Yet both were using the same skills subconsciously. It was as much a battle of minds as of blades, yet even here the men were well matched.
Serbitar pulsed a question to Arbedark. “It is too close for me to judge. Who will win?”
“I know not,” replied Arbedark. “It is fascinating.”
Both men were tiring fast. Rek had established a two-handed grip on his longsword, his right arm no longer able to bear the full weight of the blade. He launched an attack that Joachim parried desperately; then his sword caught the scimitar an inch above the hilt, and the curved blade snapped. Rek stepped forward, touching the point of his sword to Joachim’s jugular. The swarthy Sathuli did not move but merely gazed back defiantly, his brown eyes meeting Rek’s gaze.
“And what is your life worth, Joachim Sathuli?”
“A broken sword,” answered Joachim. Rek held out his hand and received the useless hilt.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the surprised Sathuli leader.
“It is simple,” answered Rek. “All of us here are as dead men. We ride for Dros Delnoch to face an army the like of which has not been seen before in this world. We shall not survive the summer. You are a warrior, Joachim, and a worthy one. Your life is worth more than a broken blade. We proved nothing by this contest, save that we are men. Before me I have nothing but enemies and war.
“Since we will meet no more in this life, I would like to believe that I have left at least a few friends behind me. Will you take my hand?” Rek sheathed his sword and held out his hand.
The tall Sathuli smiled. “There is a strangeness in this meeting,” he said, “for as my blade broke, I wondered, in that moment when death faced me, what I would have done had your sword snapped. Tell me, why do you ride to your death?”
“Because I must,” said Rek simply.
“So be it, then. You ask me for friendship, and I give it, though I have sworn mighty oaths that no Drenai would feel safe on Sathuli land. I give you this friendship because you are a warrior and because you are to die.”
“Tell me, Joachim, as one friend to another, what would you have done if my blade had broken?”
“I would have killed you,” said the Sathuli.
17
The first of the spring storms burst over the Delnoch mountains as Gilad relieved the watch sentry on Wall One. Thunder rumbled angrily overhead while crooked spears of jagged lightning tore the night sky, momentarily lighting the fortress. Fierce winds whistled along the walls, shrieking sibilantly.
Gilad hunched himself under the overhang of the gate tower, tugging the small brazier of hot coals into the lee of the wall. His cape was wet through, and water dripped steadily from his drenched hair onto his shoulders to trickle inside his breastplate, soaking the leather of his mail shirt. But the wall reflected the heat from the brazier, and Gilad had spent worse nights on the Sentran Plain, digging out buried sheep in the winter blizzards. He regularly raised himself to peer over the wall to the north, waiting for a flash of lightning to illuminate the plain. Nothing moved there.
Farther down the wall an iron brazier exploded as lightning struck it, and showers of hot coals fell close to him. What a place to be wearing armor, he thought. He shuddered and hunched closer to the wall. Slowly the storm moved on, swept over the Sentran Plain by the fierce wind from the north. For a while the rain remained, sheeting against the gray stone battlements and running down the tower walls, hissing and spitting as random drops vaporized on the coals.
Gilad opened his small pack and removed a strip of dried meat. He tore off a chunk and began to chew. Three more hours, then a warm bunk for three more.
From the darkness behind the battlements came the sound of movement. Gilad spun around, scrabbling for his sword, phantom childhood fears flooding his mind. A large figure loomed into the light from the brazier.
“Stay calm, laddie! It’s only me,” said Druss, seating himself on the other side of the brazier. He held out his huge hands to the flames.
His white beard was wet through, his black leather jerkin gleaming as if polished by the storm. The rain had petered to a fine drizzle, and the wind had ceased its eerie howling. Druss hummed an old battle hymn for a few moments as the heat warmed him. Gilad, tense and expectant, waited for the sarcastic comments to follow. “Cold, are we? Need a little fire to keep away the phantoms, do we?” Why pick my watch, you old bastard? he thought. After a while, the silence seemed oppressive and Gilad could bear it no longer.
“A cold night to be out walking, sir,” he said, cursing himself for the respectful tone.
“I have seen worse. And I like the cold. It’s like pain—it tells you you’re alive.”
The firelight cast deep shadows on the old warrior’s weather-beaten face, and for the first time Gilad saw the fatigue etched there. The man is bone-tired, he thought. Beyond the legendary armor and the eyes of icy fire, he was just another old man. Tough and strong
as a bull, maybe, but old. Worn out by time, the enemy that never tired.
“You may not believe it,” said Druss, “but this is the worst time for a soldier—the waiting before the battle. I’ve seen it all before. You ever been in a battle, lad?”
“No, never.”
“It’s never as bad as you fear it will be once you realize that dying is nothing special.”
“Why do you say that? It’s special to me. I have a wife and a farm which I’d like to see again. I’ve a lot of living to do yet,” said Gilad.
“Of course you have. But you could survive this battle and come down with the plague, or be killed by a lion, or develop a cancer. You could be robbed and killed or fall from a horse. Ultimately you will die anyway. Everyone dies. I’m not saying you should give up and just open your arms to welcome it. You must fight it all the way. An old soldier—a good friend of mine—told me early in my life that he who fears to lose will never win. And it’s true. You know what a baresark is, boy?”
“A strong warrior,” said Gilad.
“Yes, he is. But he’s more than that: he’s a killing machine who cannot be stopped. Do you know why?”
“Because he’s insane?”
“Yes, there is that to him. But more. He doesn’t defend, because when he’s fighting he doesn’t care. He just attacks, and lesser men—who do care—die.”
“What do you mean by lesser men? A man doesn’t have to be a killer to be great.”
“That’s not what I meant … but I suppose it could have been. If I tried to farm—as your neighbor—men would say that I was not as good as you. They would look down on me as a bad farmer. On these battlements men will be judged by how long they stay alive. Lesser men, or lesser soldiers if you will, either charge or fall.”
“Why did you come here, Druss?” asked Gilad, meaning to ask why the axman had chosen to interrupt his watch. But the warrior misunderstood.
“I came to die,” he said softly, warming his hands and staring into the coals. “To find some spot on the battlements to make a stand and then to die. I didn’t expect to have to take over the damned defense. A pox on it! I’m a soldier, not a general.”
As Druss talked on, Gilad realized the axman was not talking to him—not to Cul Gilad, the former farmer. He was chatting to just another soldier at just another fire at just another fortress. In microcosm this scene was Druss’s life, the wait before the war.
“I always promised her that I would stop and tend the farm, but always someone, somewhere, had a battle to fight. I thought for years that I was representing something—liberty, freedom, I don’t know. The truth was always much more simple. I love to fight. She knew but had the good grace never to point it out. Can you imagine what it’s like to be a legend—the damned legend? Can you, boy?”
“No, but it must make you feel proud,” said Gilad, uncertain.
“It makes you tired. It saps your strength when it should raise it. Because you can’t afford to be tired. You’re Druss the Legend, and you’re invulnerable, invincible. You laugh at pain. You can march forever. With one blow you can topple mountains. Do I look as if I can topple mountains?”
“Yes,” said Gilad.
“Well, I damned well can’t. I’m an old man with a weak knee and an arthritic back. My eyes are not so good as they were, either.
“When I was young and strong, the bruises always healed quickly. I was tireless then. I could fight all damned day. As I grew older, I learned to fake it and snatch rest where I could. To use my experience in battle where before I had just powered my way through. In my fifties I was careful, and anyway by that time the legend made men tremble. Three times since I have fought men who could have beaten me, but they beat themselves because they knew who I was and were afraid.
“Do you think I’m a good leader?”
“I don’t know. I’m a farmer, not a soldier,” said Gilad.
“Don’t hedge with me, boy. I asked for an opinion.”
“No, you’re probably not. But you are a great warrior. I suppose in years gone by you would have been a war chief. I can’t tell. You’ve done wonders with the training; there’s a new spirit at the Dros.”
“There were always leaders in my day,” said Druss. “Strong men with quick minds. I have tried to remember all their lessons. But it’s hard, boy. Do you see? It’s hard. I’ve never been afraid of enemies I can face with an ax or my hands, if need be. But the enemies at this fortress are not the same. Morale, preparation, fire gullies, supplies, liaison, organization. It saps the soul.”
“We’ll not fail you, Druss,” said Gilad, his heart reaching out to the older man. “We will stand firm beside you. You have given us that, though I hated you for most of the training.”
“Hate breeds strength, laddie. Of course you will hold. You’re men. Did you hear about Dun Mendar?”
“Yes, it was tragic. A good job that he was there to aid you,” said Gilad.
“He was there to kill me, boy. And he almost did.”
“What?” said Gilad, shocked.
“You heard me. And I don’t expect you to repeat it. He was in the pay of the Nadir, and he led the assassins.”
“But … that means you stood alone against them all,” said Gilad. “Five of them and you survived?”
“Aye, but they were a motley crew and ill trained. Do you know why I told you that … about Mendar?”
“Because you wanted to talk?”
“No. I’ve never been much of a talker, and I have little need for sharing my fears. No, I wanted you to know that I trust you. I want you to take over Mendar’s role. I’m promoting you to dun.”
“I don’t want it,” said Gilad fiercely.
“Do you think I want this responsibility? Why do you think I’ve spent this time here? I am trying to make you understand that often—more often than not—we are forced into doing what we fear. You will take over as of tomorrow.”
“Why? Why me?”
“Because I have watched you, and I think you have a talent for leadership. You’ve impressed me in leading your ten. And you helped Orrin in that race. That was pride. Also, I need you and others like you.”
“I’ve no experience,” said Gilad, knowing it sounded lame.
“That will come. Think on this: Your friend Bregan is no soldier, and some of your men will die at the first attack. Having a good officer will save some of them.”
“All right. But I can’t afford to dine in the officers’ mess or run up an armorer’s bill. You will have to supply me with the uniform.”
“Mendar’s gear should fit you, and you will put it to more noble use.”
“Thank you. You said earlier on that you came here to die. Does that mean you think we cannot win?”
“No, it doesn’t. Forget what I said.”
“Damn you, Druss, don’t patronize me! You just talked about trust. Well, I’m an officer now, and I asked you a straight question. I won’t repeat the answer. So trust me.”
Druss smiled, and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the young sentry.
“Very well. We have no chance in the long term. Every day brings us closer to a Nadir victory. But we will make them pay dearly. And you can believe that, laddie, for that’s Druss the Legend talking.”
“Never mind the legend,” said Gilad, returning the other’s smile. “That’s the man who took on five assassins in a darkened alley.”
“Don’t build me up too high because of that, Gilad. All men have talents. Some build, some paint, some write, some fight. For me it is different. I have always had a way with death.”
The girl moved along the battlements, ignoring the comments of the soldiers, her auburn hair glinting in the morning sun, her long legs, slender and bronzed, the object of many friendly though intimate comments from the troops. She smiled once when one of the men she passed murmured to a companion, “I think I’m in love.” She blew him a kiss and winked.
Bowman smiled, gently shaking his head. He knew Caessa was making a me
al of her entrance, but with a body like hers, who would blame her? She was as tall as most men, willowy and graceful, and her every movement combined to promise pleasure to any man watching. Physically, Bowman thought, she is the perfect woman. The ultimate female.
He watched her string her longbow. Jorak looked at him questioningly, but he shook his head. The rest of the archers stood back. This was Caessa’s moment, and after an entrance like that she deserved a little applause.
Straw dummies had been set up one hundred paces from the wall. The heads were painted yellow, the torsos red. It was a standard distance for a fine archer, but shooting down from a battlement added several degrees to the difficulty.
Caessa reached over her shoulder to the doeskin quiver and drew a black feathered shaft. She checked it for line, then notched it to the string.
“Head,” she said.
With one flowing movement she drew back the string, and as it touched her cheek, she loosed the shaft. It flashed through the morning air and hammered into the neck of the nearest dummy. The watching men burst into rapturous applause, and Caessa glanced at Bowman. He raised an eyebrow.
Five more arrows lanced into the straw target before Bowman raised a hand to signal the other archers forward. Then he called Caessa to him and walked from the battlements.
“You took your time getting here, lady,” he said, smiling.
She linked her arm in his and blew him a kiss. As always he felt arousal stirring. As always he suppressed it.
“Did you miss me?” Her voice was deep and throaty, a sound as full of sexual promise as her body was a vision.
“I always miss you,” he said. “You raise my spirits.”
“Only your spirits?”
“Only my spirits.”
“You lie. I can see it in your eyes,” she said.
“You see nothing that I do not want you to see—or anyone else. You are safe with me, Caessa. Have I not told you? But allow me to say that for a woman who does not seek the company of men, you make a very spectacular entrance. Where are your trousers?”
Legend Page 20
