The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (43 page)

“It is not for selling, my Lord,” said Druss.

“Ah, Druss, and I thought you liked me.”

“I do, laddie. That’s why I’ll not sell it to you.”

A cold wind swirled around the cave. Anindais felt the chill and swung from the altar, looking back to see the Old Woman rise from her seat outside the golden circle. “What is happening?” he asked. “The axeman has killed the beast. Can we send another?”

“No,” she told him. “But he did not kill it, he merely sent it back to the Pit.”

“Well, what now?”

“Now we pay for the services of the Kalith.”

“You said the payment would be the blood of Gorben.”

“Gorben did not die.”

“Then I do not understand you. And why is it so cold?”

A shadow fell across the Naashanite, who swung round to see a huge shape rearing above him. Talons flashed down, slicing into his chest.

“Not even intelligence,” repeated the Old Woman, turning her back on his screams. Returning to her apartments, she sat back in an old wicker chair. “Ah, Druss,” she whispered, “perhaps I should have let you die back in Mashrapur.”

6

R
OWENA OPENED HER
eyes and saw Michanek sitting at her bedside. He was wearing his ceremonial armor of bronze and gold, the helm with the red crest, and the enameled cheek-guards, the molded breastplate covered in sigils and motifs.

“You look very handsome,” she said sleepily.

“And you are very beautiful.”

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. “Why are you wearing that today? It is not as strong as your old breastplate of iron.”

“It will lift the morale among the men.” Taking her hand he kissed her palm, then rose and moved toward the door. At the doorway he paused and spoke without looking back. “I have left something for you—in my study. It is wrapped in velvet.”

And then he was gone.

Within minutes Pudri appeared, bearing a tray which he laid down beside her. There were three honey-cakes and a goblet of apple juice. “The Lord looks very magnificent today,” said the little man, and Rowena saw that his expression was sorrowful.

“What is wrong, Pudri?”

“I don’t like battles,” he told her. “So much blood and pain. But it is even worse when the reasons for battle have long been overtaken by events. Men will die today for no reason. Their lives will be snuffed out like midnight candles. And for why? And will it end here? No. When Gorben is strong enough he will lead a vengeance invasion against the people of Naashan. Futile and stupid!” He shrugged. “Maybe it is because I am a eunuch that I do not understand such matters.”

“You understand them very well,” she said. “Tell me, was I a good seeress?”

“Ah, you must not ask me this, my lady. That was yesterday, and it has flown away into the past.”

“Did the Lord Michanek ask you to withhold my past from me?”

He nodded glumly. “It was for love that he asked this of me. Your Talent almost killed you and he did not wish for you to suffer again. Anyway, your bath is prepared. It is hot and steaming, and I managed to find some rose oil for the water.”

An hour later Rowena was walking through the garden when she saw that the window to Michanek’s study was open. This was unusual, for there were many papers here and the summer breezes would often scatter them around the room. Moving inside, she opened the door and pulled shut the small window. Then she saw the package on the oak desk. It was small and, as Michanek had said, was wrapped in purple velvet.

Slowly she unwrapped the velvet to find a small, unadorned wooden box with a hinged lid, which she opened. Within lay a brooch that was simply, even crudely, made, of soft copper strands surrounding a moonstone. Her mouth was suddenly dry. A part of her mind told her the brooch was new to her, but a tiny warning bell was ringing in the deep recesses of her soul.

This is mine!

Her right hand dropped slowly toward the brooch, then stopped, the fingers hovering just above the moonstone. Rowena drew back, then sat down. She heard Pudri enter the room.

“You were wearing that when I first saw you,” he said gently. She nodded, but did not answer. The little Ventrian approached and handed her a letter, sealed with red wax. “The Lord asked me to give you this when you had seen his … gift.”

Rowena broke the seal and opened the letter. It was written in Michanek’s bold, clear script.

The letter fell from her hands, floating to the floor. Pudri stepped forward swiftly and placed his slender arm around her shoulders. “Take the brooch, my lady!”

She shook her head. “He’s going to die.”

“Yes,” admitted the Ventrian. “But he bade me urge you to take the brooch. It was his great wish. Do not deny him!”

“I’ll take the brooch,” she said solemnly, “but when he dies, I shall die with him.”

Druss sat in the near deserted camp and watched the attack on the walls. From this distance it seemed that the attackers were insects, swarming up tiny ladders. He watched bodies topple and fall, heard the sound of battle horns and the occasional high-pitched scream that drifted on the shifting breeze. Sieben was beside him.

“The first time I’ve ever seen you miss a fight, Druss. Are you mellowing in your old age?”

Druss did not answer. His pale eyes watched the fighting and saw the smoke seeping out from under the wall. The timber and brushwood in the tunnels were burning now, and soon the foundations of the wall would disappear. As the smoke grew thicker the attackers fell back and waited.

Time passed slowly now in the great silence that descended over the plain. The smoke thickened, then faded. Nothing happened.

Druss gathered his axe and stood. Sieben rose with him. “It didn’t work,” said the poet.

“Give it time,” grunted Druss and he marched forward, Sieben following until they were within thirty yards of the wall. Gorben was waiting there with his officers around him. No one spoke.

A jagged line, black as a spider’s leg, appeared on the wall, followed by a high screeching sound. The crack widened and a huge block of masonry dislodged itself from a nearby tower, thundering
down to crash on the rocks before the wall. Druss could see defenders scrambling back. A second crack appeared … then a third. A huge section of wall crumbled and a high tower pitched to the right, smashing down on the ruined wall and sending up an immense cloud of dust. Gorben covered his mouth with his cloak, and waited until the dust settled.

Where moments before there had been a wall of stone, there were now only jagged ruins like the broken teeth of a giant.

The battle horns sounded. The black line of the Immortals surged forward.

Gorben turned to Druss. “Will you join them in the slaughter?”

Druss shook his head. “I have no stomach for slaughter,” he said.

The courtyard was littered with corpses and pools of blood. Michanek glanced to his right where his brother Narin was lying on his back with a lance jutting from his chest, his sightless eyes staring up at the crimson-stained sky.

Almost sunset, thought Michanek. Blood ran from a wound in his temple and he could feel it trickling down his neck. His back hurt, and when he moved he could feel the arrow that was lodged above his left shoulder blade gouging into muscle and flesh. It made holding the heavy shield impossible, and Michanek had long since abandoned it. The hilt of his sword was slippery with blood. A man groaned to his left. It was his cousin Shurpac; he had a terrible wound in his belly, and was attempting to stop his entrails from gushing forth.

Michanek transferred his gaze to the enemy soldiers surrounding him. They had fallen back now, and were standing in a grim circle. Michanek turned slowly. He was the last of the Naashanites still standing. Glaring at the Immortals, he challenged them. “What’s the matter with you? Frightened of Naashanite steel?” They did not move. Michanek staggered and almost fell, but then righted himself.

All pain was fading now.

It had been quite a day. The undermined wall had collapsed, killing a score of his men, but the rest had regrouped well and Michanek was proud of them. Not one had suggested surrender. They had fallen back to the second line of defense and met the
Ventrians with arrow, spears, and even stones. But there were too many, and it had been impossible to hold a line.

Michanek had led the last fifty warriors toward the inner Keep, but they were cut off and forced down a side road that led to the courtyard of Kabuchek’s old house.

What were they waiting for?

The answer came to him instantly:
They are waiting for you to die
.

He saw a movement at the edge of the circle, the men moving aside as Gorben appeared—dressed now in a robe of gold, a seven-spiked crown upon his head. He looked every inch the Emperor. Beside him was the axeman, the husband of
Pahtai
.

“Ready for another duel … my Lord?” called Michanek. A racking cough burst from his lungs, spraying blood into the air.

“Put up your sword, man. It is over!” said Gorben.

“Do I take it you are surrendering?” Michanek asked. “If not, then let me fight your champion!”

Gorben turned to the axeman, who nodded and moved forward. Michanek steadied himself, but his mind was wandering. He remembered a day with
Pahtai
, by a waterfall. She had made a crown of white water lilies which she placed on his brow. The flowers were wet and cool; he could feel them now …

No. Fight! Win!

He looked up. The axeman seemed colossal now, towering above him, and Michanek realized he had fallen to his knees. “No,” he said, the words slurring, “I’ll not die on my knees.” Leaning forward he tried to push himself upright, but fell again. Two strong hands took hold of his shoulders, drawing him upright, and he looked into the pale eyes of Druss the Axeman.

“Knew … you would … come,” he said. Druss half carried the dying warrior to a marble bench at the wall of the courtyard, laying him gently on the cool stone. An Immortal removed his own cloak and rolled it into a pillow for the Naashanite general.

Michanek gazed up at the darkening sky, then turned his head. Druss was kneeling alongside him, and beyond the axeman the Immortals waited. At an order from Gorben they drew their swords and held them high, saluting their enemy.

“Druss! Druss!”

“I am here.”

“Treat … her … gently.”

Michanek did not hear his answer.

He was sitting on the grass by a waterfall, the cool petals of a water-lily crown against his skin.

There was no looting in Resha, nor any organized slaughter among the population. The Immortals patrolled the city, having first marched through to the center past cheering crowds who were waving banners and hurling flower petals beneath the feet of the soldiers. In the first hours there were isolated outbursts of violence, as angry citizens gathered in mobs to hunt down Ventrians accused of collaborating with the Naashanite conquerors.

Gorben ordered the mobs dispersed, promising judicial inquiries at a later date to identify those who could be accused of treason. The bodies of the slain were buried in two mass graves beyond the city walls, and the Emperor ordered a monument built above the Ventrian fallen, a huge stone lion with the names of the dead carved into the base. Above the Naashanite grave there was to be no stone. Michanek, however, was laid to rest in the Hall of the Fallen, below the Great Palace on the Hill that stood like a crown at the center of Resha.