The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (28 page)

“Why couldn’t you afford the armor? Don’t they pay officers?”

“Of course, but only a
disha
a day. That’s half of what I earn now.”

“The officers receive less than the rankers? That’s stupid.”

Oliquar shook his head. “Of course it isn’t. That way only the rich can afford to be officers, which means that only noblemen—or the sons of merchants, who desire to be noblemen—can command. In this way the noble families retain power. Where are you from, young man?”

“I am Drenai.”

“Ah, yes. I have never been there of course, but I understand the mountains of Skeln are exceptionally beautiful. Green and lush, like the Saurab. I miss the mountains.”

Druss sat with Oliquar in the Western Barracks and ate a meal of beef and wild onions before setting off back to the empty tavern. It was a calm night, with no clouds, and the moon turned the white, ghostly buildings to a muted silver.

Sieben was not in their room and Druss sat by the window, staring out over the harbor, watching the moonlit waves and the water which looked like molten iron. He had fought in three of the four attacks—the enemy, red-cloaked, with helms boasting white horsehair plumes, running forward carrying ladders which they leaned against the walls. Rocks had been hurled down upon them, arrows peppered them. Yet on they came. The first to reach the walls were speared, or struck with swords, but a few doughty fighters made their way to the battlements, where they were cut down by the defenders. Halfway through the second attack a dull, booming sound, like controlled thunder, was heard on the walls.

“Battering ram,” said the soldier beside him. “They won’t have much luck, those gates are reinforced with iron and brass.”

Druss leaned back in his chair and stared down at Snaga. In the main, he had used the axe to push back ladders, sliding them along the wall, sending attackers tumbling to the rocky ground below. Only twice had the weapon drawn blood. Reaching out, Druss stroked the black haft, remembering the victims—a tall, beardless warrior and a swarthy, potbellied man in an iron helm. The first had died when Snaga crunched through his wooden breastplate, the second when the silver blades had sheared his
iron helm in two. Druss ran his thumb along the blades. Not a mark, or a nick.

Sieben arrived at the room just before midnight. His eyes were red-rimmed and he yawned constantly. “What happened to you?” asked Druss.

The poet smiled. “I made new friends.” Pulling off his boots he settled back on one of the narrow beds.

Druss sniffed the air. “Smells like you were rolling in a flowerbed.”

“A bed of flowers,” said Sieben, with a smile. “Yes, almost exactly how I would describe it.”

Druss frowned. “Well, never mind that, do you know anything about rules of engagement?”

“I know everything about
my
rules of engagement, but I take it you are talking about Ventrian warfare?” Swinging his legs from the bed, he sat up. “I’m tired, Druss, so let’s make this conversation brief. I have a meeting in the morning and I need to build up my strength.”

Druss ignored the exaggerated yawn with which Sieben accompanied his words. “I saw hundreds of men wounded today, and scores killed. Yet now, with only a few men on the walls, the enemy sits back and waits for sunrise. Why? Does no one want to win?”

“Someone will win,” answered Sieben. “But this is a
civilized
land. They have practiced warfare for thousands of years. The siege will go on for a few weeks, or a few months, and every day the combatants will count their losses. At some point, if there is no breakthrough, either one or the other will offer terms to the enemy.”

“What do you mean, terms?”

“If the besiegers decide they cannot win, they will withdraw. If the men here decide all is lost, they will desert to the enemy.”

“What about Gorben?”

Sieben shrugged. “His own troops might kill him, or hand him over to the Naashanites.”

“Gods, is there no honor among these Ventrians?”

“Of course there is, but most of the men here are mercenaries from many eastern tribes. They are loyal to whoever pays them the most.”

“If the rules of war here are so civilized,” said Druss, “why
have the inhabitants of the city fled? Why not just wait until the fighting is over, and serve whoever wins?”

“They would, at best, be enslaved; at worst, slaughtered. It may be a civilized land, Druss, but it is also a harsh one.”

“Can Gorben win?”

“Not as matters stand, but he may be lucky. Often Ventrian sieges are settled by single combat between champions, though such an event would take place only if both factions were of equal strength, and both had champions they believed were invincible. That won’t happen here, because Gorben is heavily outnumbered. However, now that he has the gold Bodasen brought, he will send spies in to the enemy camp to bribe the soldiers to desert to his cause. It’s unlikely to work, but it might. Who knows?”

“Where did you learn all this?” asked Druss.

“I have just spent an informative afternoon with the Princess Asha—Gorben’s sister.”

“What?” stormed Druss. “What is it with you? Did you learn nothing from what happened in Mashrapur? One day! And already you are rutting!”

“I do not
rut
,” snapped Sieben. “I make love. And what I do is none of your concern.”

“That’s true,” admitted Druss, “and when they take you for disemboweling, or impaling, I shall remind you of that.”

“Ah, Druss!” said Sieben, settling back on the bed. “There are some things worth dying for. And she is very beautiful. By the gods, a man could do worse than marry her.”

Druss stood and turned away to the window. Sieben was instantly contrite. “I am sorry, my friend. I wasn’t thinking.” He approached Druss and laid his hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry about what happened with the priest.”

“It was her voice,” said Druss, swallowing hard and fighting to keep his emotions in check. “She said she was waiting for me. I thought that if I went to the wall I might be killed, and then I’d be with her again. But no one came with the skill or the heart. No one ever will … and I don’t have the courage to do the deed myself.”

“That would not be courage, Druss. And Rowena would not want it. She’d want you to be happy, to marry again.”

“Never!”

“You are not yet twenty, my friend. There are other women.”

“None like her. But she’s gone, and I’ll speak no more of her. I’ll carry her here,” he said, touching his chest, “and I’ll not forget her. Now go back to what you were saying about Eastern warfare.”

Sieben lifted a clay goblet from a shelf by the window, blew the dust from it, and filled it with water which he drained at a single swallow. “Gods, that tastes foul! All right … Eastern warfare. What is it you wish to know now?”

“Well,” said Druss slowly, “I know that the enemy can attack four times in a day. But why did they only attack one wall? They have the numbers to surround the city and attack in many places at once.”

“They will, Druss, but not in the first month. This is the testing time. Untried new soldiers are judged on their courage during the first few weeks; then they will bring up the siege-engines. That should be the second month. After that perhaps ballistae, hurling huge rocks over the walls. If at the end of the month there has been no success, they will call in the engineers and they will burrow under the walls, seeking to bring them down.”

“And what rules over the besieged?” asked the axeman.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, suppose we were to attack them. Could we only do it four times? Can we attack at night? What are the rules?”

“It is not a question of rules, Druss, it’s more a matter for common sense. Gorben is outnumbered by around twenty to one; if he attacked, he’d be wiped out.”

Druss nodded, and lapsed into silence. Finally he spoke. “I’ll ask Oliquar for his book. You can read it to me, then I’ll understand.”

“Can we sleep now?” asked Sieben.

Druss nodded and took up his axe. He did not remove his boots or jerkin and stretched out on the second bed with Snaga beside him.

“You don’t need an axe in bed in order to sleep.”

“It comforts me,” answered Druss, closing his eyes.

“Where did you get it?”

“It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Was he a great hero?” asked Sieben, hopefully.

“No, he was a madman, and a terrible killer.”

“That’s nice,” said Sieben, settling down on his own bed. “It’s good to know you have a family trade to fall back on if times get hard.”

6

G
ORBEN LEANED BACK
in his chair as his servant, Mushran, carefully shaved the stubble from his chin. He glanced up at the old man. “Why do you stare so?” he asked.

“You are tired, my boy. Your eyes are red-rimmed and there are purple patches beneath them.”

Gorben smiled. “One day you will call me
great Lord
or
my Emperor
. I live for that day, Mushran.”

The old man chuckled. “Other men can bestow upon you these titles. They can fall to the ground before you and bounce their brows from the stone. But when I look upon you,
my boy
, I see the child that was before the man, and the babe who was before the child. I prepared your food and I wiped your bottom. And I am too old to crash my poor head to the stones every time you walk into a room. Besides, you are changing the subject. You need more rest.”

“Has it escaped your notice that we have been under siege for a month? I must show myself to the men; they must see me fight, or they will lose heart. And there are supplies to be organized, rations set—a hundred different duties. Find me some more hours in a day and I will rest, I promise you.”

“You don’t need more hours,” snapped the old man, lifting the razor and wiping oil and stubble from the blade. “You need better men. Nebuchad is a good boy—but he’s slow-witted. And Jasua …” Mushran raised his eyes to the ceiling. “A wonderful killer, but his brain is lodged just above his …”

“Enough of that!” said Gorben amiably. “If my officers knew how you spoke of them, they’d have you waylaid in an alley and beaten to death. Anyway, what about Bodasen?”

“The best of them—but let’s be fair, that isn’t saying much.”

Gorben’s reply was cut off as the razor descended to his throat and he felt the keen blade gliding up over his jawline and across
to the edge of his mouth. “There!” said Mushran proudly. “At least you look like an Emperor now.”

Gorben stood and wandered to the window. The fourth attack was under way; it would be repulsed, he knew, but even from here he could see the huge siege-towers being dragged into place for tomorrow. He pictured the hundreds of men pulling them into position, saw in his mind’s eye the massive attack ramps crashing down on to the battlements, and heard the war-cries of the Naashanite warriors as they clambered up the steps, along the ramp, and hurled themselves on to the defenders. Naashanites? He laughed bitterly. Two-thirds of the
enemy
soldiers were Ventrians, followers of Shabag, one of the renegade Satraps. Ventrians killing Ventrians! It was obscene. And for what? How much richer could Shabag become? How many palaces could a man occupy at one time? Gorben’s father had been a weak man, and a poor judge of character, but for all that he had been an Emperor who cared for his people. Every city boasted a university, built from funds supplied by the Royal treasury. There were colleges where the brightest students could learn the arts of medicine, listen to lectures from Ventria’s finest herbalists. There were schools, hospitals, and a road system second to none on the continent. But his greatest achievement had been the forming of the Royal Raiders, who could carry a message from one end of the Empire to another in less than twelve weeks. Such swift communication meant that if any satrapy suffered a natural disaster—plague, famine, flood—then help could be sent almost immediately.

Now the cities were either conquered or besieged, the death toll was climbing toward a mountainous total, the universities were closed, and the chaos of war was destroying everything his father had built. With great effort he forced down the heat of anger, and concentrated coolly on the problem facing him at Capalis.