Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (32 page)

“So speak,” said Druss, his cold gray eyes fixed on Rek’s face.

Rek seated himself on the battlement wall and stared out over the glowing valley.

“A little on the large side, isn’t it?”

“Scare you, does it?”

“To the soles of my boots. However, you’re obviously in no mood to make this an easy meeting, so I will simply spell out my position. For better or worse, I am the earl. I’m not a fool, nor yet a general, though often the two are synonymous. As yet I will make no changes. But bear this in mind … I will take a backseat to no man when decisions are needed.”

“You think that bedding an earl’s daughter gives you that right?” asked Druss.

“You know it does! But that’s not the point. I have fought before, and my understanding of strategy is as sound as that of any man here. Added to that, I have the Thirty, and their knowledge is second to none. But even more important, if I have to die at this forsaken place, it will not be as a bystander. I shall control my own fate.”

“You seek to take a lot on yourself, laddie.”

“No more than I can handle.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No,” said Rek frankly.

“I didn’t think you did,” said Druss with a grin. “What the hell made you come here?”

“I think fate has a sense of humor.”

“She always had in my day. But you look like a sensible young fellow. You should have taken the girl to Lentria and set up home there.”

“Druss, nobody takes Virae anywhere she does not want to go. She has been reared on war and talk of war; she can cite all your legends and the facts behind every campaign you ever fought. She’s an Amazon, and this is where she wants to be.”

“How did you meet?”

Rek told him about the ride from Drenan, through Skultik, the death of Reinard, the temple of the Thirty, the shipboard wedding, and the battle with the Sathuli. The old man listened to the straightforward story without comment.

“And here we are,” concluded Rek.

“So you’re baresark,” said Druss.

“I didn’t say that!” retorted Rek.

“But you did, laddie—by not saying it. It doesn’t matter. I have fought beside many such. I am only surprised the Sathuli let you go; they’re not known for being an honorable race.”

“I think their leader—Joachim—is an exception. Listen, Druss, I would be obliged if you could keep quiet about the baresark side.”

Druss laughed. “Don’t be a fool, boy! How long do you think it will stay a secret once the Nadir are on the walls? You stick by me and I will see that you don’t swat anyone from our side.”

“That’s good of you, but I think you could be a little more hospitable. I’m as dry as a vulture’s armpit.”

“There is no doubt,” said Druss, “that talking works up more of a thirst than fighting. Come on, we will find Hogun and Orrin. This is the last night before the battle, so it calls for a party.”

20

A
s the dawn
sky lightened on the morning of the third day, the first realities of apocalypse hammered home on the walls of Dros Delnoch. Hundreds of ballistae arms were pulled back by thousands of sweating warriors. Muscles bunching and knotting, the Nadir drew back the giant arms until the wicker baskets at their heads were almost horizontal. Each basket was loaded with a block of jagged granite.

The defenders watched in frozen horror as a Nadir captain raised his arm. The arm swept down, and the air became filled with a deadly rain that crashed and thundered amid and around the defenders. The battlements shook as the boulders fell. By the gate tower, three men were smashed to oblivion as a section of crenellated battlement exploded under the impact of one huge rock. Along the wall men cowered, hurling themselves flat, hands over their heads. The noise was frightening; the silence that followed was terrifying. For as the first thunderous assault ceased and soldiers raised their heads to gaze below, it was only to see the same process being casually repeated. Back and farther back went the massive wooden arms. Up went the captain’s hand. Down it went.

And the rain of death bore down.

Rek, Druss, and Serbitar stood above the gate tower, enduring the first horror of war along with the men. Rek had refused to allow the old warrior to stand alone, though Orrin had warned that for both leaders to stand together was lunacy. Druss had laughed. “You and the lady Virae shall watch from the second wall, my friend. And you will see that no Nadir pebble can lay me low.”

Virae, furious, had insisted that she be allowed to wait on the first wall with the others, but Rek had summarily refused. An argument was swiftly ended by Druss: “Obey your husband, woman!” he thundered. Rek had winced at that, closing his eyes against the expected outburst. Strangely, Virae had merely nodded and retired to Musif, Wall Two, to stand beside Hogun and Orrin.

Now Rek crouched by Druss and gazed left and right along the wall. Swords and spears in hand, the men of Dros Delnoch waited grimly for the deadly storm to cease.

During the second reloading Druss ordered half the men back to stand beneath the second wall, out of range of the catapults. There they joined Bowman’s archers.

For three hours the assault continued, pulverizing sections of the wall, butchering men, and obliterating one overhanging tower, which collapsed under the titanic impact and crumbled slowly into the valley below. Most of the men leapt to safety, and only four were carried screaming over the edge to be broken on the rocks below.

Stretcher-bearers braved the barrage to carry wounded men back to the Eldibar field hospital. Several rocks had hit the building, but it was solidly built and so far none had broken through. Bar Britan, black-bearded and powerful, raced alongside the bearers with sword in hand, urging them on.

“Gods, that’s bravery!” said Rek, nudging Druss and pointing. Druss nodded, noting Rek’s obvious pride at the man’s courage. Rek’s heart went out to Britan as the man ignored the lethal storm.

At least fifty men had been stretchered away. Fewer than Druss had feared. He raised himself to stare over the battlements.

“Soon,” he said. “They are massing behind the siege towers.”

A boulder crashed through the wall ten paces away from him, scattering men like sand in the wind. Miraculously, only one failed to rise, the rest rejoining their comrades. Druss raised his arm to signal Orrin. A trumpet sounded, and Bowman and the rest of the men surged forward. Each archer carried five quivers of twenty arrows as they raced across the open ground, over the fire-gully bridges, and on toward the battlements.

With a roar of hate almost tangible to the defenders, the Nadir swept toward the wall in a vast black mass, a dark tide set to sweep the Dros before it. Thousands of the barbarians began to haul the huge siege towers forward, while others ran with ladders and ropes. The plain before the walls seemed alive as the Nadir poured forward, screaming their battle cries.

Breathless and panting, Bowman arrived to stand beside Druss, Rek, and Serbitar. The outlaws spread out along the wall.

“Shoot when you’re ready,” said Druss. The green-clad outlaw swept a slender hand through his blond hair and grinned.

“We can hardly miss,” he said. “But it will be like spitting into a storm.”

“Every little bit helps,” said the axman.

Bowman strung his yew bow and notched an arrow. To the left and right of him the move was repeated a thousand times. Bowman sighted on a leading warrior and released the string, the shaft slashing the air to slice and hammer through the man’s leather jerkin. As he stumbled and fell, a ragged cheer went up along the wall. A thousand arrows followed, then another thousand and another. Many Nadir warriors carried shields, but many did not. Hundreds fell as the arrows struck, tripping the men behind. But still the black mass kept coming, trampling the wounded and dead beneath them.

Armed with his Vagrian bow, Rek loosed shaft after shaft into the horde, his lack of skill an irrelevant factor since, as Bowman had said, one could hardly miss. The arrows were a barbed mockery of the clumsy ballistae attack so recently used against them. But they were taking a heavier toll.

The Nadir were close enough now for individual faces to be clearly seen. Rough-looking men, thought Rek, but tough and hardy, raised to war and blood. Many of them lacked armor, others wore mail shirts, but most were clad in black breastplates of lacquered leather and wood. Their screaming battle cries were almost bestial. No words could be heard; only their hate could be felt. Like the angry scream of some vast, inchoate monster, thought Rek as the familiar sensation of fear gripped his belly.

Serbitar raised his helm visor and leaned over the battlements, ignoring the few arrows that flashed up and by him.

“The ladder men have reached the walls,” he said softly.

Druss turned to Rek. “The last time I stood beside an Earl of Dros Delnoch in battle, we carved a legend,” he said.

“The odd thing about sagas,” offered Rek, “is that they very rarely mention dry mouths and full bladders.”

A grappling hook whistled over the wall.

“Any last words of advice?” asked Rek, dragging his sword free from its scabbard.

Druss grinned, drawing Snaga. “Live!” he said.

More grappling irons rattled over the walls, jerking taut instantly and biting into the stone as hundreds of hands applied pressure below. Frantically the defenders lashed razor-edged blades at the vine ropes until Druss bellowed at the men to stop.

“Wait until they’re climbing!” he shouted. “Don’t kill ropes—kill
men
!”

Serbitar, a student of war since he was thirteen, watched the progress of the siege towers with detached fascination. The obvious idea was to get as many men on the walls as possible by using ropes and ladders and then to pull in the towers. The carnage below among the men pulling the tower ropes was horrific as Bowman and his archers peppered them with shafts. But more always rushed in to fill the places of the dead and dying.

On the walls, despite the frenzied slashing of ropes, the sheer numbers of hooks and throwers had enabled the first Nadir warriors to gain the battlements.

Hogun, with five thousand men on Musif, Wall Two, was sorely tempted to forget his orders and race to the aid of Wall One. But he was a professional soldier, reared on obedience, and he stood his ground.

Tsubodai waited at the bottom of the rope as the tribesmen slowly climbed above him. A body hurtled by him to splinter on the jagged rocks, and blood splashed his lacquered leather breastplate. He grinned, recognizing the twisted features of Nestzan, the race runner.

“He had it coming to him,” he said to the man beside him. “Now, if he’d been able to run as fast as he fell, I wouldn’t have lost so much money!”

Above them the climbing men had stopped now as the Drenai defenders forced the attackers back toward the ramparts. Tsubodai looked up at the man ahead of him.

“How long are you going to hang there, Nakrash?” he called. The man twisted his body and looked down.

“It’s these Green Steppe dung eaters,” he shouted. “They couldn’t gain a foothold on a cowpat.”

Tsubodai laughed happily, stepping away from the rope to see how the other climbers were moving. All along the wall it was the same: the climbing had stopped, the sounds of battle echoing down from above. As bodies crashed to the rocks around him, he dived back into the lee of the wall.

“We’ll be down here all day,” he said. “The Khan should have sent the Wolfshead in first. These Greens were useless at Gulgothir, and they’re even worse here.”

His companion grinned and shrugged. “Line’s moving again,” he said.

Tsubodai grasped the knotted rope and pulled himself up beneath Nakrash. He had a good feeling about today. Maybe he could win the horses Ulric had promised to the warrior who would cut down the old graybeard everyone was talking about.

“Deathwalker.” A potbellied old man without a shield.

“Tsubodai,” called Nakrash. “You don’t die today, hey? Not while you still owe me on that footrace.”

“Did you see Nestzan fall?” Tsubodai shouted back. “Like an arrow. You should have seen him swinging his arms. As if he wanted to push the ground away from him.”