Drenai Saga 01 - Legend

by David Gemmell

  “About the last thing I need now is a woman. I’ll get some sleep,” answered Druss. “Just here will be fine.” With his back to the wall, he slid gently to the ground, keeping his injured knee straight. Bowman turned and walked back to the mess hall, where he found Caessa and explained the problem. After a short argument she gathered some linen while Bowman sought a jug of water, and in the gathering twilight they walked back to the battlements. Druss was asleep, but he awoke as they approached him.

  The girl was a beauty, no doubt about that. Her hair was auburn but gold-tinted in the moonlight, matching the tawny flecks in her eyes. She stirred his blood as few women had the power to do now. But there was something else about her, something unattainable. She crouched down by him, her slender fingers probing gently at the swollen knee. Druss grunted as she dug more deeply. Then she removed his boot and rolled up the trouser leg. The knee was discolored and puffy, the veins in the calf below swollen and tender.

  “Lie back,” she told him. Moving alongside him, left hand curled around his thigh, she lifted the leg and held his ankle in her right hand. Slowly she flexed the joint.

  “There is water on the knee,” she said as she set down his leg and began to massage the joint. Druss closed his eyes. The sharpness of the pain receded to a dull ache. The minutes passed, and he dozed. She woke him with a light slap on the calf, and he found his knee was tightly bandaged.

  “What other problems do you have?” she asked coolly.

  “None,” he said.

  “Don’t lie to me, old man. Your life depends on it.”

  “My shoulder burns,” he admitted.

  “You can walk now. Come with me to the hospital, and I will ease the pain.” She gestured to Bowman, who leaned forward and helped the axman to his feet. The knee felt good, better than it had in weeks.

  “You have real skill, woman,” he said. “Real skill.”

  “I know. Walk slowly—it will feel a little sore by the time we get there.”

  In a side room at the hospital she told him to remove his clothes. Bowman smiled and leaned back against the door with arms folded across his chest.

  “All of them?” asked Druss.

  “Yes. Are you shy?”

  “Not if you’re not,” said Druss, slipping from his jerkin and shirt, then sitting on the bed to remove his trousers and boots.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Caessa stood before him, examining him critically, running her hands over his broad shoulders and probing his muscles.

  “Stand up,” she told him, “and turn around.” He did so, and she scrutinized his back. “Move your right arm above your head—slowly.” As the examination continued, Bowman watched the old warrior, marveling at the number of scars he carried. Everywhere: front and back; some long and straight, others jagged; some stitched, others blotchy and overlapped. His legs, too, showed evidence of many light wounds. But by far the greatest number was in the front. Bowman smiled. You have always faced your enemies, Druss, he thought.

  Caessa told the warrior to lie on the bed facedown and began to manipulate the muscles of his back, easing out knots and pummeling crystals under the shoulder blades.

  “Get me some oil,” she asked Bowman without looking around. He fetched liniment from the stores, then left the girl to her work. For over an hour she massaged the old man, until at last her arms burned with fatigue. Druss had fallen asleep long since, and she covered him with a blanket and silently left the room. In the corridor outside she stood for a moment, listening to the cries of the wounded in the makeshift wards and watching the orderlies assisting the surgeons. The smell of death was strong here, and she made her way out into the night.

  The stars were bright, like frozen snowflakes on a velvet blanket, the moon a bright silver coin at the center. She shivered. Ahead of her a tall man in black and silver armor strode toward the mess hall. It was Hogun. He saw her and waved, changed direction, and came toward her. She cursed under her breath; she was tired and in no mood for male company.

  “How is he?” asked Hogun.

  “Tough!” she said.

  “I know that, Caessa. The whole world knows it. But how is he?”

  “He’s old, and he’s tired—exhausted. And that’s after only one day. Don’t pin too many hopes on him. He has a knee which could collapse under him at any time, a bad back which will grow worse, and too many crystals in too many joints.”

  “You paint a pessimistic picture,” said the general.

  “I tell it as it is. It is a miracle that he’s alive tonight. I cannot see how a man of his age, with the physical injuries he’s carrying, could fight all day and survive.”

  “And he went where the fighting was thickest,” said Hogun. “As he will do tomorrow.”

  “If you want him to survive, make sure he rests the day after.”

  “He will never stand for it,” said Hogun.

  “Yes, he will. He may get through tomorrow—and that I doubt. But by tomorrow night he will hardly be able to move his arm. I will help him, but he will need to rest one day in three. And an hour before dawn tomorrow I want a hot tub set up in his room here. I will massage him again before the battle begins.”

  “You’re spending a lot of time over a man whom you described as old and tired and whose deeds you mocked only a short time since.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Hogun. I am spending this time with him because he is old and tired, and though I do not hold him in the same reverence as you, I can see that the men need him. Hundreds of little boys playing at soldiers to impress an old man who thrives on war.”

  “I will see that he rests after tomorrow,” said Hogun.

  “If he survives,” Caessa added grimly.

  21

  By midnight the final toll for the first day’s battle was known. Four hundred seven men were dead. One hundred sixty-eight were wounded, and half of those would not fight again.

  The surgeons were still working, and the head count was being double-checked. Many Drenai warriors had fallen from the battlements during the fighting, and only a complete roll call would supply their numbers.

  Rek was horrified, though he tried not to show it during the meeting with Hogun and Orrin in the study above the great hall. There were seven present at the meeting: Hogun and Orrin representing the warriors, Bricklyn for the townsfolk, and Serbitar, Vintar, and Virae. Rek had managed to snatch four hours sleep and felt fresher for it; the albino had slept not at all and seemed no different.

  “These are grievous losses for one day’s fighting,” said Bricklyn. “At that rate we could not hold out for more than two weeks.” His graying hair was styled after the fashion of the Drenai court, swept back over his ears and tightly curled at the nape of the neck. His face, though fleshy, was handsome, and he had a highly practiced charm. The man was a politician and therefore not to be relied upon, thought Rek.

  Serbitar answered Bricklyn. “Statistics mean nothing on the first day,” he said. “The wheat is being separated from the chaff.”

  “What does that mean, Prince of Dros Segril?” asked the burgher, the question more sharp in the absence of his usual smile.

  “No disrespect was intended to the dead,” replied Serbitar. “It is merely a reality in war that the men with the least skill are those first to fall. Losses are always greater at the outset. The men fought well, but many of the dead lacked skill—that is why they are dead. The losses will diminish, but they will still be high.”

  “Should we not concern ourselves with what is tolerable?” asked the burgher, turning to Rek. “After all, if we should believe that the Nadir will breach the walls eventually, what is the point of continued resistance? Are lives worth nothing?”

  “Are you suggesting surrender?” asked Virae.

  “No, my lady,” replied Bricklyn smoothly. “That is for the warriors to decide, and I will back any decision they make. But I believe we must examine alternatives. Four hundred men died today, and they should be honored for their sacr
ifice. But what of tomorrow? And the day after. We must be careful that we do not put pride before reality.”

  “What is he talking about?” Virae asked Rek. “I cannot understand any of it.”

  “What are these alternatives you speak of?” said Rek. “As I see it, there are only two. We fight and win, or we fight and lose.”

  “These are the plans uppermost at this time,” said Bricklyn. “But we must think of the future. Do we believe we can hold out here? If so, we must fight on by all means. But if not, then we must pursue an honorable peace, as other nations have done.”

  “What is an honorable peace?” asked Hogun softly.

  “It is where enemies become friends and quarrels are forgotten. It is where we receive the Lord Ulric into the city as an ally to Drenan, having first obtained from him the promise that no harm will come to the inhabitants. Ultimately all wars are so concluded, as evidenced by the presence here of Serbitar, a Vagrian price. Thirty years ago we were at war with Vagria. Now we are friends. In thirty years time we may have meetings like this with Nadir princes. We must establish perspectives here.”

  “I take your point,” said Rek, “and it is a good one.”

  “You may think so. Others may not!” snapped Virae.

  “It is a good one,” continued Rek smoothly. “These meetings are no place for saber-rattling speeches. We must, as you say, examine realities. The first reality is this: We are well trained, well supplied, and we hold the mightiest fortress ever built. The second reality is that Magnus Woundweaver needs time to train and build an army to resist the Nadir even if Delnoch falls. There is no point in discussing surrender at this time, but we will bear it in mind for future meetings.

  “Now, is there any other town business to discuss, for the hour is late and we have kept you overly long, my dear Bricklyn?”

  “No, my lord. I think we have concluded our business,” answered the burgher.

  “Then may I thank you for your help—and your sage counsel—and bid you good night.”

  The burgher stood, bowed to Rek and Virae, and left the room. For several seconds they listened to his departing footsteps. Virae, flushed and angry, was about to speak when Serbitar broke the silence.

  “That was well said, my lord Earl. He will be a thorn in our side.”

  “He is a political animal,” said Rek. “He cares nothing for morality, honor, or pride. But he has his place and his uses. What of tomorrow, Serbitar?”

  “The Nadir will begin with at least three hours of ballistae bombardment. Since they cannot advance their army while such an assault is in progress, I would suggest we retire all but fifty men to Musif an hour before dawn. When the barrage ceases, we will move forward.”

  “And what,” said Orrin, “if they launch their second assault at dawn? They will be over the walls before our force can reach the battlements.”

  “They do not plan such a move,” said the albino simply.

  Orrin was unconvinced but felt uncomfortable in the presence of Serbitar. Rek noted his concern.

  “Believe me, my friend, the Thirty have powers beyond the ken of normal men. If he says it, then it is so.”

  “We shall see, my lord,” said Orrin doubtfully.

  “How is Druss?” asked Virae. “He looked quite exhausted when I saw him at dusk.”

  “The woman Caessa tended to him,” said Hogun, “and she says he will be well. He is resting at the hospital.”

  Rek wandered to the window, opened it, and breathed in the crisp night air. From there he could see far down into the valley, where the Nadir camp fires blazed. His eyes rested on the Eldibar hospital, where lamps still burned.

  “Who would be a surgeon?” he said.

  At Eldibar Calvar Syn, waist wrapped in a bloody leather apron, moved like a sleepwalker. Fatigue bit deep into his bones as he moved from bed to bed, administering potions.

  The day had been a nightmare—more than a nightmare—for the bald, one-eyed surgeon. In thirty years he had seen death many times. He had watched men die who should have lived and seen men survive wounds that should have slain them outright. And often his own very special skills had thwarted death where others could not even staunch the wound. But today had been the worst day of his life. Four hundred strong young men, this morning fit and in their prime, were now rotting meat. Scores of others had lost limbs or fingers. Those with major wounds had been transferred to Musif. The dead had been carted back behind Wall Six for burial beyond the gates.

  Around the weary surgeon orderlies flung buckets of salted water to the bloody floor, brushing away the debris of pain.

  Calvar Syn walked silently into Druss’s room and gazed down on the sleeping figure. By the bedside hung Snaga, the silver slayer. “How many more, you butcher?” said Calvar. The old man stirred but did not wake.

  The surgeon stumbled into the corridor and made his way to his own room. There he hurled the apron across a chair and slumped to his bed, lacking even the energy to pull a blanket across his body. Sleep would not come. Nightmare images of agony and horror flitted across his mind, and he began to sob. A face entered his mind, elderly and gentle. The face grew, absorbing his anguish and radiating harmony. Larger and larger it became, until like a warm blanket it covered his pain. And he slept deeply and dreamlessly.

  “He rests now,” said Vintar as Rek turned away from the window in the keep.

  “Good,” said Rek. “He won’t rest much tomorrow. Serbitar, have you had any more thoughts about our traitor?”

  The albino shook his head. “I don’t know what we can do. We are watching the food and the wells. There is no other way he can affect us. You are guarded, as is Druss and Virae.”

  “We must find him,” said Rek. “Can you not enter the mind of every man in the fortress?”

  “Of course! We would surely have an answer for you within three months.”

  “I take the point,” Rek said, smiling ruefully.

  Khitan stood silently, watching the smoke billow up from his towers. His face was expressionless, his eyes dark and shrouded. Ulric approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “They were just wood, my friend.”

  “Yes, my lord. I was thinking that in future we need a false-fronted screen of soaking hides. It should not be too difficult, though the increased weight could prove a problem in terms of stability.”

  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.”