Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (20 page)

“There are half a million Nadir warriors. An awesome figure! One to numb the mind. But the walls are only so long and so wide. They cannot all come over at once. We will kill them as they do, and we will kill hundreds more as they climb. And day by day we will wear them down.

“You are going to lose friends, comrades, brothers. You are going to lose sleep. You are going to lose blood. Nothing about the next few months will be easy.

“I am not going to talk about patriotism, duty, liberty, and the defense of freedom because that’s all dung to a soldier.

“I want you to think about survival. And the best way you can do that is to look down on the Nadir when they arrive and think to yourselves: There are fifty men down there just for me. And one by one, by all the gods, I’ll cut them down.

“As for me … well, I’m a seasoned campaigner. I’ll take a hundred.” Druss took a deep breath, allowing time for his words to sink in.

“Now,” he said at last, “you can get back to your duties, with the exception of Group Karnak.” Turning, he saw Hogun, and as the men hauled themselves to their feet, he walked back toward the mess hall of Wall One with the young general.

“A nice speech,” said Hogun. “It sounded very similar to the one you gave this morning at Wall Three.”

“You haven’t been very attentive, laddie,” said Druss. “I have given that speech six times since yesterday. And I’ve been knocked down three times. I’m as dry as a sand lizard’s belly.”

“I will stand you a bottle of Vagrian in the mess hall,” said Hogun. “They don’t serve Lentrian at this end of the Dros—it’s too pricey.”

“It will do. I see you have regained your good humor.”

“Aye. You were right about the earl’s burial. Just too damned quick about being right, that’s all,” said Hogun.

“What does that mean?”

“Just what it says. You have a way, Druss, of turning your emotions on and off. Most men lack that. It makes you seem what Mendar called you—coldhearted.”

“I don’t like the phrase, but it fits,” said Druss, pushing open the door to the mess hall. “I mourned Delnar as he lay dying. But once dead, he’s gone. And I’m still here. And there’s a damned long way to go yet.”

The two men sat at a window table and ordered drinks from a steward. He returned with a large bottle and two goblets; both men sat silently for a while, watching the training.

Druss was deep in thought. He had lost many friends in his life but none more dear than Sieben and Rowena—the one his sword brother, the other his wife. Thoughts of them both were as tender as open wounds. When I die, he thought, everyone will mourn for Druss the Legend.

But who will mourn for
me
?

13

“T
ell us what
you saw,” said Rek as he joined the four leaders of the Thirty in Serbitar’s cabin. He had been woken from a deep sleep by Menahem, who had swiftly explained the problems facing the Dros. Now alert, he listened as the blond warrior-priest outlined the threat.

“The Captain of the Ax is training the men. He has demolished all buildings from Wall Three and created a killing ground. He has also blocked the gate tunnels back to Wall Four—he has done well.”

“You mentioned traitors,” said Rek.

Serbitar lifted a hand. “Patience!” he said. “Go on, Arbedark.”

“There is an innkeeper called Musar, originally from the Nadir Wolfshead tribe. He has been at Dros Delnoch for eleven years. He and a Drenai officer are planning to kill Druss. I think there may be others. Ulric has been told of the tunnel blocking.”

“How?” asked Rek. “Surely there is no travel to the north?”

“He keeps pigeons,” said Arbedark.

“What can you do?” Rek asked Serbitar, who shrugged and looked to Vintar for support. The abbot spread his hands. “We tried to make contact with Druss, but he is not receptive and the distance is still very great. I do not see how we can help.”

“What news of my father?” asked Virae. The men looked at one another, ill at ease. Serbitar spoke at last.

“He is dead. I am deeply sorry.”

Virae said nothing, her face showing no emotion. Rek put an arm on her shoulder, but she pushed it away and stood. “I’m going on deck,” she said softly. “I’ll see you later, Rek.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. It’s not for sharing.”

As the door closed behind her, Vintar spoke, his voice gentle and sorrowful. “He was a fine man after his fashion. I contacted him before the end; he was at peace and in the past.”

“In the past?” said Rek. “What does that mean?”

“His mind had vanished into happier memories. He died well. I think the Source will have him—I shall pray to that effect. But what of Druss?”

“I tried to reach the general, Hogun,” said Arbedark, “but the danger was great. I almost lost my bearings. The distance …”

“Yes,” said Serbitar. “Did you manage to ascertain how the assassination is to be attempted?”

“No. I could not enter the man’s mind, but before him was a bottle of Lentrian red that he was resealing. It could be poison or an opiate of some kind.”

“There must be something you can do,” said Rek, “with all your power.”

“All power—but one—has limits,” said Vintar. “We can only pray. Druss has been a warrior for many years, a survivor. It means he is not only skillful but lucky. Menahem, you must journey to the Dros and watch for us. Perhaps the attempt will be delayed until we are closer.”

“You mentioned a Drenai officer,” said Rek to Arbedark. “Who? Why?”

“I know not. As I completed the journey, he was leaving the house of Musar. He acted furtively, and this aroused my suspicions. Musar was in the loft, and upon the table beside him lay a note written in the Nadir tongue. It said, ‘Kill Deathwalker.’ That is the name by which Druss is known to the tribes.”

“You were lucky to see the officer,” said Rek. “In a fortress city of that size the chances of seeing a single act of treachery must be amazing.”

“Yes,” said Arbedark. Rek saw the look that passed between the blond priest and the albino.

“Is there more to it than luck?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” said Serbitar. “We will talk of it soon. For now we are helpless. Menahem will watch the situation and keep us informed. If they delay the attempt for two more days, we may be in a position to help.”

Rek looked at Menahem, sitting upright at the table, eyes closed and breathing shallowly.

“Has he gone?” he asked.

Serbitar nodded.

Druss managed to look interested as the speeches wore on. Three times since the banquet had ended the old warrior had heard how grateful were the townsfolk, burghers, merchants, and lawyers that he had come among them. How it showed up the faint hearts ever ready to write off the might of the Drenai empire. How, when the battle was won—speedily—Dros Delnoch would attract sightseers from all over the continent. How new verses would be added to Sieben’s saga of the Legend. The words droned on, the praise growing more fulsome as the wine flowed.

Some two hundred of Delnoch’s richest and most influential families were present at the great hall, seated around the massive round table normally reserved for state occasions. The banquet was the brainchild of Bricklyn, the master burgher, a short self-obsessed businessman who had bent Druss’s ear throughout the meal and was now taking the liberty of bending it again in the longest speech so far.

Druss kept his smile firmly fixed, nodding here and there where he felt it appropriate. He had attended many such functions in his life, though they normally followed rather than preceded a battle.

As had been expected, Druss had opened the speeches with a short talk on his life, concluding it with a stirring promise that the Dros would hold if only the soldiers would show the same courage as those families sitting around the table. As had also been expected, he received a tumultuous ovation.

As was his wont on these occasions, Druss drank sparingly, merely sipping the fine Lentrian red placed before him by the stout innkeeper Musar, the banquet’s master of ceremonies.

With a start, Druss realized that Bricklyn had finished his speech, and he applauded vigorously. The short gray-haired man sat down at his left, beaming and bowing as the applause continued.

“A fine speech,” said Druss. “Very fine.”

“Thank you. Yours, I think, was better,” said Bricklyn, pouring himself a glass of Vagrian white from a stone jug.

“Nonsense. You are a born speaker.”

“It’s strange you should say that. I remember when I gave a speech in Drenan for the wedding of Count Maritin—you know the count, of course? Anyway, he said …” And so it went on, with Druss smiling and nodding and Bricklyn finding more and more stories to outline his qualities.

Toward midnight, as prearranged, Delnar’s elderly servant, Arshin, approached Druss and announced—loudly enough for Bricklyn to overhear—that Druss was needed on Wall Three to supervise a new detachment of archers and their placement. It was not before time. Throughout the evening Druss had drunk no more than a single goblet, yet his head swam and his legs shook as he pushed himself upright. He made his apologies to the stout burgher, bowed to the assembly, and marched from the room. In the corridor outside he stopped and leaned against a pillar.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Arshin.

“The wine was bad,” muttered Druss. “It’s hit my stomach worse than a Ventrian breakfast.”

“You’d better get to bed, sir. I will take a message to Dun Mendar to attend you in your room.”

“Mendar? Why the hell should he attend me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t mention it in the hall as you had told me what to say when I approached you, but Dun Mendar asked if you could spare him a moment. He has a serious problem, he said.”

Druss rubbed his eyes and took several deep breaths. His belly felt weak, disconnected, and fragile. He toyed with the idea of sending Arshin to explain to the young Karnak officer but then realized word would get around that Druss was sick. Or worse, that he could not hold his wine.

“Maybe the air will do me good. Where is he?”

“He said he would meet you at the inn by Unicorn Alley. Turn right outside the keep until you reach the first market square, then turn left by the miller’s. Walk on through Baker’s Row until you reach the armory repair shop, then turn right. That’s Unicorn Alley, and the inn is at the far end.”

Druss asked the man to repeat the directions, then pushed himself from the wall and staggered out into the night. The stars were bright, the sky cloudless. He sucked in the crisp air and felt his stomach turn.

“Damn this,” he said angrily, and found a secluded spot by the keep, away from the sentries, where he made himself vomit. Cold sweat covered his brow and his head ached as he pushed himself upright, but at least his stomach seemed more settled. He headed toward the first square, located the miller’s store, and turned left. Already the smell of baking bread was coming from the ovens in Baker’s Row.

The smell made him retch again. Angry now at his condition, he hammered on the first door he came to. A short, fat baker in a white cotton apron opened the door and peered nervously at him.

“Yes?” he said.

“I am Druss. Do you have a loaf ready?”

“It’s only just past midnight. I have some bread from yesterday, but if you wait for a while I will have fresh. What’s the matter? You look green.”

“Just get me a loaf—and hurry!” Druss clamped a hand to the door frame, pulling himself upright. What the hell was wrong with that wine? Or maybe it was the food. He hated rich food. Too many years on dried beef and raw vegetables. His body could not take it, but it had never reacted like this before.

The man trotted back down the short hallway bearing a hefty chunk of black bread and a small phial.

“Drink this,” he said. “I have an ulcer, and Calvar Syn says it settles the stomach faster than anything else.” Gratefully Druss downed the contents of the phial. It tasted like charcoal. Then he tore a great bite from the bread, sliding gratefully to the floor with his back against the door. His stomach rebeled, but he gritted his teeth and finished the loaf; within a few minutes he was feeling better. His head ached like the devil and his vision was a little blurred, but his legs felt fine and he had strength enough to bluff his way through a short chat with Mendar.