The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (39 page)

“Tell him what?”

Varsava shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “Tell him goodbye,” he said.

Michanek followed the young officer to the base of the wall, then both men kneeled with their ears to the stone. At first Michanek could hear nothing, but then came the sound of scraping, like giant rats beneath the earth, and he swore softly.

“You have done well, Cicarin. They are digging beneath the walls. The question is, from where? Follow me.” The young officer followed the powerfully built champion as Michanek scaled the rampart steps and leaned out over the parapet. Ahead was the main camp of the Ventrian army, their tents pitched on the plain before the city. To the left was a line of low hills with the river beyond them. To the right was a higher section of hills, heavily wooded. “My guess,” said Michanek, “would be that they began their work on the far side of that hill, about halfway up. They will have taken a bearing and know that if they hold to a level course they will come under the walls by around two feet.”

“How serious is it, sir?” asked Cicarin nervously.

Michanek smiled at the young man. “Serious enough. Have you ever been down a mine?”

“No, sir.”

Michanek chuckled. Of course he hadn’t. The boy was the youngest son of a Naashanite Satrap who until this siege had been surrounded by servants, barbers, valets, and huntsmen. His clothes would have been laid out each morning, his breakfast brought to him on a silver tray as he lay in bed with satin sheets. “There are many aspects to soldiering,” he said. “They are mining beneath our walls, removing the foundations. As they dig,
they are shoring up the walls and ceilings with very dry timber. They will dig along the line of the wall, then burrow on to the hills by the river, emerging somewhere around … there.” He pointed to the tallest of the low hills.

“I don’t understand,” said Cicarin. “If they are shoring up the tunnel, what harm can it do?”

“That’s an easy question to answer. Once they have two openings, there will be a through draft of air; then they will soak the timbers with oil and, when the wind is right, set fire to the tunnel. The wind will drive the flames through, the ceiling will collapse and, if they have done their job well, the walls will come crashing down.”

“Can we do nothing to stop them?”

“Nothing of worth. We could send an armed force to attack the workings, maybe kill a few miners, but they would just bring in more. No. We cannot act, therefore we must react. I want you to assume that this section of wall will fall.” He turned from the parapet and scanned the line of houses behind the wall. There were several alleyways and two major roads leading into the city. “Take fifty men and block the alleys and roads. Also fill in the ground-floor windows of the houses. We must have a secondary line of defense.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, his eyes downcast.

“Keep your spirits up, boy,” advised Michanek. “We’re not dead yet.”

“No, sir. But people are starting to talk openly about the relief army; they say it’s not coming—that we’ve been left behind.”

“Whatever the Emperor’s decision, we will abide by it,” said Michanek sternly. The young man reddened, then saluted and strode away. Michanek watched him, then returned to the battlements.

There was no relief force. The Naashanite army had been crushed in two devastating battles and was fleeing now toward the border. Resha was the last of the occupied cities. The intended conquest of Ventria was now a disaster of the first rank.

But Michanek had his orders. He, and the renegade Ventrian, Darishan, were to hold Resha as long as possible, tying down Ventrian troops while the Emperor fled back to the safety of the mountains of Naashan.

Michanek dug into the pouch at his side and pulled clear the
small piece of parchment on which the message had been sent. He gazed down at the hasty script.

Hold at all costs, until otherwise ordered. No surrender
.

The warrior slowly shredded the message. There were no farewells, no tributes, no words of regret. Such is the gratitude of princes, he thought. He had scribbled his own reply, folding it carefully and inserting it into the tiny metal tube which he then tied to the leg of the pigeon. The bird soared into the air and flew east, bearing Michanek’s last message to the Emperor he had served since a boy:

As you order, so shall it be
.

The stitched wound on his side was itching now, a sure sign of healing. Idly he scratched it. You were lucky, he thought. Bodasen almost had you. By the western gate he saw the first of the food convoys wending its way through the Ventrian ranks, and he strode down to meet the wagons.

The first driver waved as he saw him; it was his cousin Shurpac. The man leaped down from the plank seat, throwing the reins to the fat man beside him.

“Well met, cousin,” said Shurpac, throwing his arms around Michanek and kissing both bearded cheeks. Michanek felt cold, the thrill of fear coursing through him as he remembered Rowena’s warning:
“I see soldiers with black cloaks and helms, storming the walls. You will gather your men for a last stand outside these walls. Beside you will be … your youngest brother and a second cousin.”

“What’s wrong, Michi? You look as if a ghost had drifted across your grave.”

Michanek forced a smile. “I did not expect to see you here. I heard you were with the Emperor.”

“I was. But these are sad times, cousin; he is a broken man. I heard you were here and was trying to find a way through. Then I heard about the duel. Wonderful. The stuff of legends! Why did you not kill him?”

Michanek shrugged. “He fought well, and bravely. But I pierced his lung and he fell. He was no threat after that, there was no need to make the killing thrust.”

“I’d love to have seen Gorben’s face. He is said to have believed Bodasen unbeatable with the blade.”

“No one is unbeatable, cousin. No one.”

“Nonsense,” announced Shurpac. “You are unbeatable. That’s why I wanted to be here, to fight beside you. I think we’ll show these Ventrians a thing or three. Where is Narin?”

“At the barracks, waiting for the food. We will test it on Ventrian prisoners.”

“You think Gorben may have poisoned it?”

Michanek shrugged. “I don’t know … perhaps. Go on, take them through.”

Shurpac clambered back to his seat, lifted a whip, and lightly cracked it over the heads of the four mules. They lurched forward into the traces and the wagon rolled on. Michanek strolled out through the gates and counted the wagons. There were fifty, all filled with flour and dried fruit, oats, cereal, flour, and maize. Gorben had promised two hundred. Will you keep your word? wondered Michanek.

As if in answer a lone horseman rode from the enemy camp. The horse was a white stallion of some seventeen hands, a handsome beast built for power and speed. It charged toward Michanek, who held his ground with arms crossed against his chest. At the last moment the rider dragged on the reins. The horse reared, and the rider leaped down. Michanek bowed as he recognized the Ventrian Emperor.

“How is Bodasen?” asked Michanek.

“Alive. I thank you for sparing the last thrust. He means much to me.”

“He’s a good man.”

“So are you,” said Gorben. “Too good to die here for a monarch who has deserted you.”

Michanek laughed. “When I made my oath of allegiance, I do not recall it having a clause that would allow me to break it. You have such clauses in your own oath of fealty?”

Gorben smiled “No. My people pledge to support me to the death.”

Michanek spread his arms. “Well then, my Lord, what else would you expect this poor Naashanite to do?”

Gorben’s smile faded and he stepped in close. “I had hoped you would surrender, Michanek. I do not seek your death—I owe you a life. You must see now that even with these supplies, you
cannot hold out much longer. Why must I send in my Immortals to see you all cut to pieces? Why not merely march out in good order and return home? You may pass unmolested; you have my word.”

“That would be contrary to my orders, my Lord.”

“Might I ask what they are?”

“To hold until ordered otherwise.”

“Your Lord is in full flight. I have captured his baggage train, including his three wives and his daughters. Even now one of his messengers is in my tent, negotiating for their safe return. But he asks nothing for you, his most loyal soldier. Do you not find that galling?”

“Of course,” agreed Michanek, “but it alters nothing.”

Gorben shook his head and turned to his stallion. Taking hold of rein and pommel, he vaulted to the horse’s back. “You are a fine man, Michanek. I wish you could have served me.”

“And you, sir, are a gifted general. It has been a pleasure to thwart you for so long. Give my regards to Bodasen—and if you wish to stake it all on another duel, I will meet whoever you send.”

“If my champion was here I would hold you to that,” said Gorben, with a wide grin. “I would like to see how you would fare against Druss and his axe. Farewell, Michanek. May the gods grant you a splendid afterlife.”

The Ventrian Emperor heeled the stallion into a run and galloped back to the camp.

Pahtai
was sitting in the garden when the first vision came to her. She was watching a bee negotiate an entry into a purple bloom when suddenly she saw an image of the man with the axe—only he had no axe, and no beard. He was sitting upon a mountainside overlooking a small village with a half-built stockade wall. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. She was troubled, but with the constant battles upon the walls of Resha, and her fears for Michanek’s safety, she brushed her worries away.

But the second vision was more powerful than the first. She saw a ship, and upon it a tall, thin man. A name filtered through the veils of her mind:

Kabuchek.

He had owned her once, long ago, in the days when Pudri said she had a rare Talent, a gift for seeing the future and reading the
past. The gift was gone now, and she did not regret it. Amid a terrible civil war it was, perhaps, a blessing not to know what perils the future had to offer.

She told Michanek of her visions and watched as the look of sorrow touched his handsome face. He had taken her into his arms, holding her tight, just as he had throughout her sickness. Michanek had risked catching the plague, yet in her fever dreams she drew great strength from his presence and his devotion. And she had survived, though all the surgeons predicted her death. True, her heart was now weak, so they said, and any exertion tired her. But her strength was returning month by month.

The sun was bright above the garden, and
Pahtai
moved out to gather flowers with which to decorate the main rooms. In her arms she held a flat wicker basket in which was placed a sharp cutting knife. As the sun touched her face, she tilted her head, enjoying the warmth upon her skin. In the distance a high-pitched scream suddenly sounded and her eyes turned toward the direction of the noise. Faintly she could hear the clash of steel on steel, the shouts and cries of warriors in desperate combat.

Will it never end? she thought.

A shadow fell across her and she turned and saw that two men had entered the garden. They were thin, their clothes ragged and filthy.

“Give us food,” demanded one, moving in toward her.

“You must go to the ration center,” she said, fighting down her fear.

“You don’t live on rations, do you, you Naashanite whore!” said the second man, stepping in close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap ale, and she saw his pale eyes glance toward her breasts. She was wearing a thin tunic of blue silk, and her legs were bare. The first man grabbed her arm, dragging her toward him. She thought of grabbing for the cutting knife, but in that instant found herself staring down at a narrow bed in a small room. Upon it lay a woman and a sickly child; their names flashed into her mind.

“What of Katina?” she said suddenly. The man groaned and fell back, releasing his hold, his eyes wide and stricken with guilt. “Your baby son is dying,” she said softly. “Dying while you drink and attack women. Go to the kitchen, both of you. Ask for Pudri, and tell him that …” she hesitated … “that
Pahtai
said
you could have food. There are some eggs and unleavened bread. Go now, both of you.”

The men backed away from her, then turned and ran for the house.
Pahtai
, trembling from the shock, sat down on a marble seat.

Pahtai?
Rowena … The name rose up from the deepest levels of her memory, and she greeted it like a song of morning after a night of storms.

Rowena. I am Rowena.

A man came walking along the garden path, bowing as he saw her. His hair was silver, and braided, yet his face was young and almost unlined. He bowed again. “Greetings,
Pahtai
, are you well?”

“I am well, Darishan. But you look tired.”

“Tired of sieges, that’s for sure. May I sit beside you?”

“Of course. Michanek is not here, but you are welcome to wait for him.”

He leaned back and sniffed the air. “I do love roses. Exquisite smell; they remind me of my childhood. You know I used to play with Gorben? We were friends. We used to hide in bushes such as these, and pretend we were being hunted by assassins. Now I am hiding again, but there is not a rose bush large enough to conceal me.”

Rowena said nothing, but she gazed into his handsome face and saw the fear lurking below the surface.

“I saddled the wrong horse, my dear,” he said, with a show of brightness. “I thought the Naashanites would be preferable to watching Gorben’s father destroy the Empire. But all I have done is to train a younger lion in the ways of war and conquest. Do you think I could convince Gorben that I have, in fact, done him a service?” He looked into her face. “No, I suppose I couldn’t. I shall just have to face my death like a Ventrian.”

“Don’t talk of death,” she scolded. “The walls still hold and now we have food.”

Darishan smiled. “Yes. It was a fine duel, but I don’t mind admitting that my heart was in my mouth throughout. Michanek might have slipped, and then where would I have been, with the gates open to Gorben?”