The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (29 page)

Tomorrow would be a pivotal day in the siege. If his warriors held, then dismay would spread among the enemy. If not … He smiled grimly. If not we are finished, he thought. Shabag would have him dragged before the Naashanite Emperor. Gorben sighed.

“Never let despair enter your mind,” said Mushran. “There is no profit in it.”

“You read minds better than any seer.”

“Not minds, faces. So wipe that expression clear and I’ll fetch Bodasen.”

“When did he arrive?”

“An hour ago. I told him to wait. You needed the shave—and the rest.”

“In a past life you must have been a wonderful mother,” said Gorben. Mushran laughed, and left the room. Returning, he ushered Bodasen inside and bowed. “The general Bodasen, great Lord, my Emperor,” he said, then backed out, pulling shut the door behind him.

“I don’t know why you tolerate that man, Lord!” snapped Bodasen. “He is always insolent.”

“You wished to see me, General?”

Bodasen snapped to attention. “Yes, sir. Druss the Axeman came to see me last night, he has a plan concerning the siegetowers.”

“Go on.”

Bodasen cleared his throat. “He wants to attack them.”

Gorben stared hard at the general, observing the deep blush that was appearing on the warrior’s cheeks. “Attack them?”

“Yes, Lord. Tonight, under cover of darkness—attack the enemy camp and set fire to the towers.”

“You feel this is feasible?”

“No, Lord … well … perhaps. I watched this man attack a corsair trireme and force fifty men to throw down their weapons. I don’t know whether he can succeed this time, but …”

“I’m still listening.”

“We have no choice. They have thirty siege-towers, Lord. They’ll take the wall and we’ll not hold them.”

Gorben moved to a couch and sat. “How does he intend to set these fires? And what does he think the enemy will be doing while he does so? The timbers are huge, old, weathered. It will take a great flame to bring one of them down.”

“I appreciate that, Lord. But Druss says the Naashanites will be too busy to think of towers.” He cleared his throat. “He intends to attack the center of the camp, kill Shabag and the other generals, and generally cause enough mayhem to allow a group of men to sneak from Capalis and set fires beneath the towers.”

“How many men has he asked for?”

“Two hundred. He says he’s already chosen them.”

“
He
has chosen them?”

Bodasen glanced down at the floor. “He is a very … popular man, Lord. He has fought every day and he knows many of the men well. They respect him.”

“Has he chosen any officers?”

“Only one … Lord.”

“Let me guess. You?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And you are willing to lead this … insane venture?”

“I am, Lord.”

“I forbid it. But you can tell Druss that I agree, and that I will choose an officer to accompany him.”

Bodasen seemed about to protest, but he held his tongue, and bowed deeply. He backed to the door.

“General,” called Gorben.

“Yes, Lord?”

“I am well pleased with you,” said Gorben, not looking at the man. He walked out to the balcony and breathed the evening air. It was cool and flowing from the sea.

Shabag watched the setting sun turn the mountains to fire, the sky burning like the vaults of Hades, deep crimson, flaring orange. He shuddered. He had never liked sunsets. They spoke of endings, inconstancy—the death of a day.

The siege-towers stood in a grim line facing Capalis, monstrous giants promising victory. He gazed up at the first. Tomorrow they would be dragged to the walls, then the mouths of the giants would open, the attack ramps would drop to the ramparts like stiff tongues. He paused. How would one continue the analogy? He pictured the warriors climbing from the belly of the beast and hurling themselves on to the enemy. Then he chuckled. Like the breath of death, like a dragon’s fire? No, more like a demon disgorging acid. Yes, I like that, he thought.

The towers had been assembled from sections brought on huge wagons from Resha in the north. They had cost twenty thousand gold pieces, and Shabag was still angry that he alone had been expected to finance them. The Naashanite Emperor was a parsimonious man.

“We will have him tomorrow, sir?” said one of his aides. Shabag jerked his mind to the present and turned to his staff officers. The
him
was Gorben. Shabag licked his thin lips.

“I want him alive,” he said, keeping the hatred from his voice.
How he loathed Gorben! How he despised both the man and his appalling conceit. A trick of fate had left him with a throne that was rightly Shabag’s. They shared the same ancestors, the kings of glory who had built an empire unrivaled in history. And Shabag’s grandfather had sat upon the throne. But he died in battle leaving only daughters surviving him. Thus had Gorben’s father ascended the golden steps and raised the ruby crown to his head.

And what happened then to the Empire? Stagnation. Instead of armies, conquest, and glory, there were schools, fine roads, and hospitals. And to what purpose? The weak were kept alive in order to breed more weaklings, peasants learned their letters and became obsessed with thoughts of betterment. Questions that should never have been voiced were debated openly in city squares:
By what right do the noble families rule our lives? Are we not free men?
By what right? By the right of blood, thought Shabag. By the right of steel and fire!

He thought back with relish to the day when he had surrounded the university at Resha with armed troops, after the students there had voiced their protests at the war. He had called out their leader, who came armed not with a sword, but with a scroll. It was an ancient work, written by Pashtar Sen, and the boy had read it aloud. What a fine voice he had. It was a well-written piece, full of thoughts of honor, and patriotism, and brotherhood. But then when Pashtar Sen had written it the serfs knew their places, the peasants lived in awe of their betters. The sentiments were outworn now.

He had allowed the boy to finish the work, for anything less would have been ill mannered, and ill befitting a nobleman. Then he had gutted him like a fish. Oh, how the brave students ran then! Save that there was nowhere to run, and they had died in their hundreds, like maggots washed from a pus-filled sore. The Ventrian Empire was decaying under the old emperor, and the only chance to resurrect her greatness was by war. Yes, thought Shabag, the Naashanites will think they have won, and I will indeed be a vassal king. But not for long.

Not for long …

“Excuse me, sir,” said an officer and Shabag turned to the man.

“Yes?”

“A ship has left Capalis. It is heading north along the coast. There are quite a number of men aboard.”

Shabag swore. “Gorben has fled,” he announced. “He saw our
giants
and realized he could not win.” He felt a sick sense of disappointment, for he had been anticipating tomorrow with great expectation. He turned his eyes toward the distant walls, half expecting to see the Herald of Surrender. “I shall be in my tent. When they send for terms wake me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He strode through the camp, his anger mounting. Now some whore-born corsair would capture Gorben, maybe even kill him. Shabag glanced up at the darkening sky. “I’d give my soul to have Gorben before me!” he said.

But sleep would not come and Shabag wished he had brought the Datian slave girl with him. Young, innocent, and exquisitely compliant, she would have brought him sleep and sweet dreams.

He rose from his bed and lit two lanterns. Gorben’s escape—if he managed to avoid the corsairs—would prolong the war. But only by a few months, reasoned Shabag. Capalis would be his by tomorrow, and after that Ectanis would fall. Gorben would be forced to fall back into the mountains, throwing himself upon the mercy of the wild tribes who inhabited them. It would take time to hunt him down, but not too much. And the hunt might afford amusement during the bleak winter months.

He thought of his palace in Resha, deciding that after organizing the surrender of Capalis he would return home for a rest. Shabag pictured the comforts of Resha, the theaters, the arena, and the gardens. By now the flowering cherry trees would be in bloom by the lake, dropping their petals to the crystal waters, the sweet scent filling the air.

Was it only a month since he had sat by the lake with Darishan beside him, sunlight gleaming upon his braided silver hair?

“Why do you wear those gloves, cousin?” Darishan had asked, tossing a pebble into the water. A large golden fish flicked its tail at the sudden disturbance, then vanished into the depths.

“I like the feel of them,” answered Shabag, irritated. “But I did not come here to discuss matters sartorial.”

Darishan chuckled. “Always so serious? We are on the verge of victory.”

“You said that half a year ago,” Shabag pointed out.

“And I was correct then. It is like a lion hunt, cousin. While he is in the dense undergrowth he has a chance, but once you have
him on open ground, heading into the mountains, it is only a matter of time before he runs out of strength. Gorben is running out of strength
and
gold.”

“He still has three armies.”

“He began with seven. Two of them are now under my command. One is under yours, and one has been destroyed. Come, cousin, why the gloom?”

Shabag shrugged. “I want to see an end to the war, so I can begin to rebuild.”

“I? Surely you mean we?”

“A slip of the tongue, cousin,” said Shabag swiftly, forcing a smile. Darishan leaned back on the marble seat and idly twisted one of his braids. Though not yet forty, his hair was startlingly pale, silver and white, and braided with wires of gold and copper.

“Do not betray me, Shabag,” he warned. “You will not be able to defeat the Naashanites alone.”

“A ridiculous thought, Darishan. We are of the same blood—and we are friends.”

Darishan’s cold eyes held to Shabag’s gaze, then he too smiled. “Yes,” he whispered, “friends and cousins. I wonder where our cousin—and former friend—Gorben is hiding today.”

Shabag reddened. “He was never my friend. I do not betray my friends. Such thoughts are unworthy of you.”

“Indeed, you are right,” agreed Darishan, rising. “I must leave for Ectanis. Shall we have a small wager as to which of us conquers first?”

“Why not? A thousand in gold that Capalis falls before Ectanis.”

“A thousand—plus the Datian slave girl?”

“Agreed,” said Shabag, masking his irritation. “Take care, cousin.” The men shook hands.

“I shall.” The silver-haired Darishan swung away, then glanced back over his shoulder. “By the way, did you see the wench?”

“Yes, but she told me little of use. I think Kabuchek was swindled.”

“That may be true, but she saved him from the sharks and predicted a ship would come. She also told me where to find the opal brooch I lost three years ago. What did she tell you?”

Shabag shrugged. “She talked of my past, which was interesting, but then she could easily have been schooled by Kabuchek. When I asked her about the coming campaign she closed her
eyes and took hold of my hand. She held it for maybe three heartbeats, then pulled away and said she could tell me nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing that made any sense. She said … 
‘He is coming!’
She seemed both elated and yet, moments later, terrified. Then she told me not to go to Capalis. That was it.”

Darishan nodded and seemed about to speak. Instead he merely smiled and walked away.

Putting thoughts of Darishan from his mind, Shabag moved to the tent entrance. The camp was quiet. Slowly he removed the glove from his left hand. The skin itched, red open sores covering the surface as they had done since adolescence. There were herbal ointments and emollients that could ease them, but nothing had ever healed the diseased skin, nor fully removed the other sores that stretched across his back and chest, thighs and calves.

Slowly he peeled back the right-hand glove. The skin here was clean and smooth. This was the hand she had held.

He had offered Kabuchek sixty thousand gold pieces for her, but the merchant had politely refused. When the battle is over, thought Shabag, I shall have her taken from him.

Just as he was about to turn into the tent Shabag saw a line of soldiers marching slowly down toward the camp, their armor gleaming in the moonlight. They were moving in columns of twos, with an officer at the head; the man looked familiar, but he was wearing a plumed helm with a thick nasal guard that bisected his face. Shabag rubbed at his tired eyes to focus more clearly on the man; it was not the face but the walk that aroused his interest. One of Darishan’s officers? he wondered. Where have I seen him before?

Pah, what difference does it make, he thought suddenly, pulling shut the tent flap. He had just blown out the first of the two lanterns when a scream rent the air. Then another. Shabag ran to the entrance, tearing aside the flap.

Warriors were running through his camp, cutting and killing. Someone had picked up a burning brand and had thrown it against a line of tents. Flames rippled across the bone-dry cloth, the wind carrying the fire to other tents.

At the center of the fighting Shabag saw a huge warrior dressed in black, brandishing a double-headed axe. Three men ran at him, and he killed them in moments. Then Shabag saw the
officer—and remembrance rose like a lightning blast from the halls of his memory.

Gorben’s soldiers surrounded Shabag’s tent. It had been set at the center of the camp, with thirty paces of clear ground around it to allow the Satrap a degree of privacy. Now it was ringed by armed men.

Shabag was bewildered by the speed at which the enemy had struck, but surely, he reasoned, it would avail them nothing. Twenty-five thousand men were camped around the besieged harbor city. How many of the enemy were here? Two hundred? Three hundred? What could they possibly hope to achieve, save to slay Shabag himself? And how would that serve them, for they would die in the act?

Nonplussed, he stood—a still, silent spectator as the battle raged and the fires spread. He could not tear his eyes from the grim, blood-smeared axeman, who killed with such deadly efficiency, such a minimum of effort. When a horn sounded, a high shrill series of notes that flowed above the sounds of combat, Shabag was startled. The trumpeter was sounding the truce signal and the soldiers fell back, momentarily bewildered. Shabag wanted to shout at his men: “Fight on! Fight on!” But he could not speak. Fear paralyzed him. The silent circle of soldiers around him stood ready, their blades shining in the moonlight. He felt that were he to even move they would fall upon him like hounds upon a stag. His mouth was dry, his hands trembling.