She shook her head. “He’s going to die.”
“Yes,” admitted the Ventrian. “But he bade me urge you to take the brooch. It was his great wish. Do not deny him!”
“I’ll take the brooch,” she said solemnly, “but when he dies, I shall die with him.”
Druss sat in the near deserted camp and watched the attack on the walls. From this distance it seemed that the attackers were insects, swarming up tiny ladders. He watched bodies topple and fall, heard the sound of battle horns and the occasional high-pitched scream that drifted on the shifting breeze. Sieben was beside him.
“The first time I’ve ever seen you miss a fight, Druss. Are you mellowing in your old age?”
Druss did not answer. His pale eyes watched the fighting and saw the smoke seeping out from under the wall. The timber and brushwood in the tunnels were burning now, and soon the foundations of the wall would disappear. As the smoke grew thicker the attackers fell back and waited.
Time passed slowly now in the great silence that descended over the plain. The smoke thickened, then faded. Nothing happened.
Druss gathered his axe and stood. Sieben rose with him. “It didn’t work,” said the poet.
“Give it time,” grunted Druss and he marched forward, Sieben followed until they were within thirty yards of the wall. Gorben was waiting here with his officers around him. No one spoke.
A jagged line, black as a spider’s leg, appeared on the wall, followed by a high screeching sound. The crack widened and a huge block of masonry dislodged itself from a nearby tower, thundering down to crash on the rocks before the wall. Druss could see defenders scrambling back. A second crack appeared… then a third. A huge section of wall crumbled and a high tower pitched to the right, smashing down on the ruined wall and sending up an immense cloud of dust. Gorben covered his mouth with his cloak, and waited until the dust settled.
Where moments before there had been a wall of stone, there were now only jagged ruins like the broken teeth of a giant.
The battle horns sounded. The black line of the Immortals surged forward.
Gorben turned to Druss. “Will you join them in the slaughter?”
Druss shook his head. “I have no stomach for slaughter,” he said.
The courtyard was littered with corpses and pools of blood. Michanek glanced to his right where his brother Narin was lying on his back with a lance jutting from his chest, his sightless eyes staring up at the crimson-stained sky.
Almost sunset, thought Michanek. Blood ran from a wound in his temple and he could feel it trickling down his neck. His back hurt, and when he moved he could feel the arrow that was lodged above his left shoulder-blade gouging into muscle and flesh. It made holding the heavy shield impossible, and Michanek had long since abandoned it. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. A man groaned to his left. It was his cousin Shurpac; he had a terrible wound in his belly, and was attempting to stop his entrails from gushing forth.
Michanek transferred his gaze to the enemy soldiers surrounding him. They had fallen back now, and were standing in a grim circle. Michanek turned slowly. He was the last of the Naashanites still standing. Glaring at the Immortals, he challenged them. “What’s the matter with you? Frightened of Naashanite steel?” They did not move. Michanek staggered and almost fell, but then righted himself.
All pain was fading now.
It had been quite a day. The undermined wall had collapsed, killing a score of his men, but the rest had regrouped well and Michanek was proud of them. Not one had suggested surrender. They had fallen back to the second line of defence and met the Ventrians with arrows, spears and even stones. But there were too many, and it had been impossible to hold a line.
Michanek had led the last fifty warriors towards the inner Keep, but they were cut off and forced down a side road that led to the courtyard of Kabuchek’s old house.
What were they waiting for?
The answer came to him instantly: They are waiting for you to die.
He saw a movement at the edge of the circle, the men moving aside as Gorben appeared - dressed now in a robe of gold, a seven-spiked crown upon his head. He looked every inch the Emperor. Beside him was the axeman, the husband of Pahtai.
“Ready for another duel… my Lord?” called Michanek. A racking cough burst from his lungs, spraying blood into the air.
“Put up your sword, man. It is over!” said Gorben.
“Do I take it you are surrendering?” Michanek asked. “If not, then let me fight your champion!”
Gorben turned to the axeman, who nodded and moved forward. Michanek steadied himself, but his mind was wandering. He remembered a day with Pahtai, by a waterfall. She had made a crown of white water-lilies which she placed on his brow. The flowers were wet and cool; he could feel them now…
No. Fight! Win!
He looked up. The axeman seemed colossal now, towering above him, and Michanek realised he had fallen to his knees. “No,” he said, the words slurring, “I’ll not die on my knees.” Leaning forward he tried to push himself upright, but fell again. Two strong hands took hold of his shoulders, drawing him upright, and he looked into the pale eyes of Druss the Axeman.
“Knew… you would… come,” he said. Druss half carried the dying warrior to a marble bench at the wall of the courtyard, laying him gently to the cool stone. An Immortal removed his own cloak and rolled it into a pillow for the Naashanite general.
Michanek gazed up at the darkening sky, then turned his head. Druss was kneeling alongside him, and beyond the axeman the Immortals waited. At an order from Gorben they drew their swords and held them high, saluting their enemy.
“Druss! Druss!”
“I am here.”
Treat… her… gently.”
“Michanek did not hear his answer.
He was sitting on the grass by a waterfall, the cool petals of a water-lily crown against his skin.
There was no looting in Resha, nor any organised slaughter amongst the population. The Immortals patrolled the city, having first marched through to the centre past cheering crowds who were waving banners and hurling flower petals beneath the feet of the soldiers. In the first hours there were isolated outbursts of violence, as angry citizens gathered in mobs to hunt down Ventrians accused of collaborating with the Naashanite conquerors.
Gorben ordered the mobs dispersed, promising judicial inquiries at a later date to identify those who could be accused of treason. The bodies of the slain were buried in two mass graves beyond the city walls, and the Emperor ordered a monument built above the Ventrian fallen, a huge stone Kon with the names of the dead carved into the base. Above the Naashanite grave there was to be no stone. Michanek, however, was laid to rest in the Hall of the Fallen, below the Great Palace on the Hill that stood like a crown at the centre of Resha.
Food was brought in to feed the populace, and builders began work, removing the dams that had starved the city of water, rebuilding the walls and repairing those houses and shops damaged by the huge stones of the ballistae that had hurtled over the walls during the past three months.
Druss had no interest in the affairs of the city. Day by day he sat at Rowena’s bedside, holding to her cold, pale hand.
After Michanek had died Druss had sought out his house, the directions supplied by a Naashanite soldier who had survived the last assault. With Sieben and Eskodas he had run through the city streets until at last he had come to the house on the hill, entering it through a beautiful garden. There he saw a small man, sitting weeping by an ornamental lake. Druss seized him by his woollen tunic, hauling him to his feet. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“She is dead,” wailed the man, his tears flowing freely. “She took poison. There is a priest with the body.” He pointed to the house, then fell to weeping again. Releasing him, Druss ran in to the house and up the curved stairs. The first three rooms were empty, but in the fourth he found the priest of Pashtar Sen sitting by the bedside.
“Gods, no!” sai
d Druss as he saw the still form of his Rowena, her face grey, her eyes closed. The priest looked up, his eyes tired.
“Say nothing,” urged the priest, his voice weak and seemingly far away. “I have sent for a… a friend. And it is taking all my power to hold her to life.” He closed his eyes. At a loss, Druss walked to the far side of the bed and gazed down on the woman he had loved for so long.
It was seven years since last he had laid eyes on her, and her beauty tore at his heart with talons of steel. Swallowing hard, he sat at the bedside. The priest was holding to her hand; sweat was flowing down his face, making grey streaks on his cheeks, and he seemed mortally weary. When Sieben and Eskodas entered the room Druss waved them to silence, and they sat and waited.
It was almost an hour before another man entered: a bald, portly man with a round red face and comically protruding ears, He was dressed in a long white tunic, and carried a large leather bag slung from his shoulder by a long gold-embroidered strap. Without a word to the three men he moved to the bedside, placing his fingers against Rowena’s neck.
The priest of Pashtar Sen opened his eyes. “She has taken yasroot, Shalitar,” he said.
The bald man nodded. “How long ago?”
“Three hours, though I have prevented most of it from spreading through the blood. But a minute part has reached the lymphatic system.”
Shalitar clicked his teeth, then delved into the leather bag. “One of you fetch water,” he ordered. Eskodas stood and left the room, returning moments later with a silver jug. Shalitar told him to stand close to the head of the bed, then from the bag he produced a small packet of powder which he tipped into the jug. It foamed briefly, then settled. Delving into the bag again, he pulled clear a long grey tube and a funnel. Reaching down, he opened Rowena’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” stormed Druss, grabbing the man’s hand.
The surgeon was unperturbed. “We must get the potion into her stomach. As you can see, she is in no condition to drink, therefore I intend to insert this tube in her throat and pour the potion in through the funnel. It is a delicate business, for I would not want to flood her lungs. It would be hard for me to do it correctly with a broken hand.”
Druss released him, and watched in silent anguish as the tube was eased into her throat. Shalitar held the funnel in place and ordered Eskodas to pour. When half of the contents of the jug had vanished, Shalitar nipped the tube between thumb and forefinger and withdrew it. Kneeling by the bed, he pressed his ear to Rowena’s breast.
“The heartbeat is very slow,” he said, “and weak. A year ago I treated her for plague; she almost died then, but the illness left its mark. The heart is not strong.” He turned to the men. “Leave me now, for I must keep her circulation strong, and that will involve rubbing oil into her legs, arms and back.”
“I’ll not leave,” said Druss.
“Sir, this lady is the widow of the Lord Michanek. She is well loved here - despite being wed to a Naashanite. It is not fitting for men to observe her naked - and any man who causes her shame will not survive the day.”
“I am her husband,” hissed Druss. “The others can go. I stay.”
Shalitar rubbed his chin, but looked ready to argue no further. The priest of Pashtar Sen touched the surgeon’s arm. “It is a long story, my friend, but he speaks truly. Now do your best.”
“My best may not be good enough,” muttered Shalitar.
Three days passed. Druss ate little and slept by the bedside. There was no change in Rowena’s condition, and Shalitar grew ever more despondent. The priest of Pashtar Sen returned on the morning of the fourth day.
“The poison is gone from her body,” said Shalitar, “yet she does not wake.”
The priest nodded sagely. “When first I came, as she was sinking into the coma, I touched her spirit. It was fleeing from life; she had no will to live.”
“Why?” asked Druss. “Why would she want to die?”
The man shrugged. “She is a gentle soul. She first loved you, back in your own lands, and carried that love within as something pure in a tarnished world. Knowing you were coming for her, she was ready to wait. Her Talents grew astonishingly swiftly and they overwhelmed her.
“Shalitar, and some others, saved her life by closing the pathways of that Talent, but in doing so they also took her memory. So here she woke, in the house of Michanek. He was a good man, Druss, and he loved her - as much as you love her. He nursed her to health, and he won her heart. But he did not tell her his greatest secret - that she had, as a seeress, predicted his death… one year to the day after he was wed.
“For several years they lived together, and she succumbed to the plague. During her illness and, as I have said, with no knowledge of her life as a seeress, she asked Michanek why he had never married her. In his fear at her condition, he believed that a marriage would save her. Perhaps he was right. Now we come to the taking of Resha. Michanek left her a gift - this gift,” he said, passing the brooch to Druss.
Druss took the delicate brooch in his huge hand and closed his fingers around it. “I made this,” he said. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”
“This was the key which Michanek knew would unlock her memory. He thought, as I fear men will, that a return of memory would help her assuage her grief at his passing. He believed that if she remembered you, and that if you still loved her, she would have a safe future. His reasoning was flawed, for when she touched the brooch what struck her most was a terrible guilt. She had asked Michanek to marry her, thus assuring - as she saw it - his death. She had seen you, Druss, at the house of Kabuchek, and had run away, frightened to find out her past, terrified it would destroy her new-found happiness. In that one moment she saw herself as a betrayer, and as a harlot and, I fear, as a killer.”
“None of it was her fault,” said Druss. “How could she think it was?”
The priest smiled, but it was Shalitar who spoke. “Any death produces guilt, Druss. A son dies of plague, and the mother will berate herself for not taking the child away to somewhere safe before the disease struck. A man falls to his death, and his wife will think, “If only I had asked him to stay home today.” It is the nature of good people to draw burdens to themselves. All tragedy could be avoided, if only we knew it; therefore when it strikes we blame ourselves. But for Rowena, the weight of guilt was overpowering.”
“What can I do?” the axeman asked.
“Nothing. We must just hope she returns.”
The priest of Pashtar Sen seemed about to speak, but instead stood and walked to the window. Druss saw the change in the man. “Speak,” he said. “What were you about to say?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly.
“Let me be the judge of that, if it concerns Rowena.”
The priest sat down and rubbed his tired eyes. “She hovers,” he said at last, “between death and life, her spirit wandering in the Valley of the Dead. Perhaps, if we could find a sorcerer, we could send his spirit after her to bring her home.” He spread his hands. “But I do not know where to find such a man - or woman. And I don’t think we have the time to search.”
“What about your Talent?” asked Druss. “You seem to know of this place.”
The man’s eyes swung away from Druss’s gaze. “I… I do have the Talent, but not the courage. It is a terrible place.” He forced a smile. “I am a coward, Druss. I would die there. It is no place for men of little spirit.”
“Then send me. I’ll find her.”
“You would have no chance. We are talking of a… a realm of dark magic and demons. You would be defenceless against them, Druss; they would overwhelm you.”
“But you could send me there?”
“There is no point. It would be madness.”
Druss turned to Shalitar. “What will happen to her if we do nothing?”
“She has maybe a day… perhaps two. Already she is fading.”
“Then there are no choices, priest,” said Druss, rising and moving to stand
before the man. “Tell me how I reach this Valley.”
“You must die,” the priest whispered.
A grey mist swirled, though there was no discernible breeze, and strange sounds echoed eerily from all around him.
The priest was gone now, and Druss was alone.
Alone?
Around him shapes moved in the mist, some huge, some low and slithering. “Keep to the path,” the priest had said. “Follow the road through the mist. Under no circumstances allow yourself to be led from the road.”
Druss glanced down. The road was seamless and grey, as if it had been created from molten stone. It was smooth and flat and the mist held to it, floating and swaying in cold tendrils that swirled around his legs and lower body.
A woman’s voice called to him from the side of the road. He paused and glanced to his right. A dark-haired woman, scarce more than a girl, was sitting on a rock with legs apart, her right hand stroking her thigh. She licked her lips and tossed her head. “Come here,” she called. “Come here!”
Druss shook his head. “I have other business.”
She laughed at him. “Here? You have other business here?” Her laughter rang out and she moved closer to him, but he saw that she did not set foot upon the road. Her eyes were large and golden but there were no pupils, merely black slits in the gold. When her mouth opened a forked tongue darted between her lips, which Druss now saw were grey-blue. Her teeth were small and sharp.
Ignoring her he walked on. An old man was sitting in the centre of the road with shoulders hunched. Druss paused. “Which way, brother?” asked the old man. “Which way do I go? There are so many paths.”
“There is only one,” said Druss.
“So many paths,” repeated the other man. Again Druss moved on, and behind him he heard the woman’s voice speaking to the old man. “Come here! Come here!” Druss didn’t look back, but only moments later he heard a terrible scream.
The road moved ever on through the mist, level and straight as a spear. There were others on the road, some walking tall, others shuffling. No one spoke. Druss moved through them silently, scanning their faces, seeking Rowena.
The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend dt-6 Page 32
