The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend (50 page)

“What do you think?”

“I think they’re preparing the ground for chariots,” said Druss.

“Horses will never attack a solid line. They’ll pull up short,” the Earl pointed out.

“Take a look yonder,” muttered the axeman.

On the far side of the stream, the Ventrian army had parted, making way for the gleaming bronze chariots of the Tantrians. With their huge wheels bearing sickle blades, serrated and deadly, each chariot was drawn by two horses and manned by a driver and a spear carrier.

For an hour the clearing of bodies continued, while the chariots formed a line in the valley below. As the Panthians withdrew, Delnar ordered forward thirty men carrying the wicker shields retrieved from the battle the day before. The shields were spread in a line across the pass and doused with lantern oil.

Delnar placed his hand on Druss’s shoulder. “Take the line fifty paces forward, beyond the shields. When they attack, break formation left and right and make for the cover of the rocks. Once they are through we will fire the shields. Hopefully that
will stop them. The second rank will engage the chariots while your line holds the following infantry.”

“Sounds good,” said Druss.

“If it doesn’t work we won’t try it again,” said Delnar.

Druss grinned.

Along the line of chariots the drivers were pulling silken hoods over the eyes of the horses. Druss led his two hundred men forward, hurdling the wall of wicker shields, Diagoras, Certak, and Archytas beside him.

The thunder of hooves on the valley floor echoed through the crags as two hundred charioteers whipped their horses into the gallop.

With the chariots almost upon them Druss bellowed the order to break ranks. As men raced to the safety of the mountain walls on either side, the enemy thundered on toward the second line. Flaming torches were flung upon the wall of oil-soaked wicker shields. Black smoke billowed instantly, followed by dancing flames. The breeze carried the smoke toward the east, burning the flaring nostrils of the hooded horses. Whinnying their terror, they tried to turn, ignoring the biting whips of the charioteers.

Instantly all was confusion. The second line of chariots tore into the first, horses falling, vehicles overturning, hurling screaming men to the jagged rocks.

And into the milling chaos leaped the Drenai, hurdling the dying flames to fall upon the Ventrian spearmen, whose lances were useless at such close quarters.

Gorben, from his vantage point a half mile away, ordered a legion of infantry into the fray.

Druss and the two hundred Drenai swordsmen re-formed across the pass, locking shields against the new attack, presenting a glittering wall of blades to the silver-armored infantry.

Crushing the skull of one man and gutting a second, Druss stepped back, casting a lightning glance to left and right.

The line held.

More Drenai fell in this attack than on the previous day, but their numbers were few compared with the losses suffered by the Ventrians.

Only a handful of chariots burst back through the Drenai front line, there to crash and cut a path through their own infantry in their desire to be free of the pass.

Hour upon bloody hour the battle continued, savagely fought by both sides, with no thought of quarter.

The silver-clad Ventrian infantry continued to press their attack, but by dusk their efforts lacked conviction and weight.

Furious, Gorben ordered their general forward into the pass.

“Lead them hard, or you’ll beg to be allowed to die,” he promised.

The general’s body fell within the hour, and the infantry slunk back across the stream in the gathering gloom of twilight.

Ignoring the dancing troupe performing before him, Gorben lay back on the silk-covered couch, conversing in low tones with Bodasen. The Emperor wore full battle dress, and behind him stood the massively muscled Panthian bodyguard who for the last five years had been Gorben’s executioner. He killed with his hands, sometimes by strangling his victims slowly, at other times gouging his thumbs through the eye sockets of the hapless prisoners. All executions were performed before the Emperor, and scarcely a week passed without such a grisly scene.

The Panthian had once killed a man by crushing his skull between his hands, to the applause of Gorben and his courtiers.

Bodasen was sickened by it all, but he was caught within a web of his own making. Through the years, naked ambition had driven him to the heights of power. He now commanded the Immortals and was, under Gorben, the most powerful man in Ventria. But the position was perilous. Gorben’s paranoia was such that few of his generals survived for long, and Bodasen had begun to feel the Emperor’s eyes upon him.

Tonight he had invited Gorben to his tent, promising him an evening of entertainment, but the king was in a surly, argumentative mood, and Bodasen trod warily.

“You thought the Panthians and the chariots would fail, did you not?” asked Gorben. The question was loaded with menace. If the answer was yes, the Emperor would ask why Bodasen had not stated his view. Was he not the Emperor’s military advisor? What was the use of an advisor who gave no advice? If the answer was no, then his military judgment would prove to be lacking.

“We have fought many wars over the years, my lord,” he said. “In most of them we have suffered reverses. You have always said, ‘Unless we try we will never know how to succeed.’ ”

“You think we should send in my Immortals?” asked Gorben.
Always before the Emperor had called them
your
Immortals. Bodasen licked his lips and smiled.

“There is no doubt they could clear the pass swiftly. The Drenai are fighting well. They are disciplined. But they know they cannot withstand the Immortals. But that decision is yours alone, my lord. Only you have the divine mastery of tactics. Men like myself are mere reflections of your greatness.”

“Then where are the men who can think for themselves?” snapped the Emperor.

“I must be honest with you, sire,” said Bodasen quickly. “You will not find such a man.”

“Why?”

“You seek men who can think as rapidly as you yourself, with your own penetrating insight. Such men do not exist. You are supremely gifted, sire. The gods would visit such wisdom on only one man in ten generations.”

“You speak truly,” said Gorben. “But there is little joy in being a man apart, separated from his fellows by his god-given gifts. I am hated, you know,” he whispered, eyes darting to the sentries beyond the tent entrance.

“There will always be those that are jealous, sire,” said Bodasen.

“Are you jealous of me, Bodasen?”

“Yes, sire.”

Gorben rolled to his side, eyes gleaming. “Speak on.”

“In all the years I have served and loved you, lord, I have always wished I could be more like you. For then I could have served you better. A man would be a fool not to be jealous of you. But he is insane if he hates you because you are what he never can be.”

“Well said. You are an honest man. One of the few I can trust. Not like Druss, who promised to serve me, and now thwarts my destiny. I want him dead, my general. I want his head brought to me.”

“It shall be done, sire,” said Bodasen.

Gorben leaned back, gazing around him at the tent and its contents. “Your quarters are almost as lavish as my own,” he said.

“Only because they are filled with gifts from you, sire,” answered Bodasen swiftly.

*   *   *

Faces and armor blackened by dirt mixed with oil, Druss and fifty swordsmen silently waded the narrow stream under a moonless sky.

Praying the clouds would not part, Druss led the men single file toward the eastern bank, axe in hand, blackened shield held before him. Once ashore Druss squatted at the center of the small group, pointing toward two dozing sentries by a dying fire. Diagoras and two others ghosted from the group, approaching the sentries silently, daggers in hand. The men died without a sound. Removing torches hastily constructed from the wicker shields of Panthian warriors, Druss and the soldiers approached the sentries’ fire.

Stepping over the bodies, Druss lit his torch and ran toward the nearest tent. His men followed suit, racing from tent to tent, until flames leaped thirty feet into the night sky.

Suddenly all was chaos, as screaming men burst from blazing canopies to fall before the swords of the Drenai. Druss raced ahead, cutting a crimson path through the confused Ventrians, his eyes fixed on the tent ahead, its glowing griffin outlined in the towering flames. Close behind came Certak and a score of warriors bearing torches. Wrenching open the flaps, Druss leaped inside.

“Damn,” he grunted, “Gorben’s not here! Curse it!”

Setting torch to silk, Druss shouted for his men to regroup, then led them back toward the stream. No concerted effort was made to stop them, as Ventrians milled in confusion, many of them half-clothed, others filling helmets with water, forming human chains to battle the fierce inferno racing on the wings of the wind throughout the Ventrian camp.

A small group of Immortals, swords in hand, collided with Druss as he raced toward the stream. Snaga leaped forward, braining the first. The second died as Diagoras backhanded a slash across his throat. The battle was brief and bloody, but the element of surprise was with the Drenai. Bursting through the front line of swordsmen, Druss crashed his axe through one man’s side before reversing a slashing swipe across another’s shoulder.

Bodasen ran from his tent, sword in hand. Swiftly gathering a small group of Immortals, he raced past the flames toward the battle. A Drenai warrior loomed before him. The man aimed a thrust at Bodasen’s unprotected body. The Ventrian parried and launched a devastating riposte that tore open the man’s throat. Bodasen stepped over the body and led his men forward.

Druss killed two men, then bellowed for the Drenai to fall back.

The pounding of feet from behind caused him to swivel and face the new force. With the fire behind them Druss could not make out faces.

Nearby, Archytas dispatched a warrior, then saw Druss standing alone.

Without thinking, he raced toward the Immortals. In that instant Druss charged. His axe rose and fell, shearing through armor and bone. Diagoras and Certak joined him, with four other Drenai warriors. The battle was brief. Only one Ventrian broke clear, hurling himself to the right and rolling to his feet behind Archytas. The tall Drenai turned on his heel and engaged the man. Archytas grinned as their swords met. The man was old, though skillful, and no match for the young Drenai. Their swords glittered in the firelight: parry, riposte, counter, thrust, and block. Suddenly the Ventrian seemed to trip. Archytas leaped forward. His opponent ducked and rolled to his feet in one flowing movement, his sword ramming into Archytas’s groin.

“You live and learn, boy,” hissed Bodasen, dragging his blade clear. Bodasen turned as more Immortals ran forward. Gorben wanted Druss’s head. Tonight he would give it to him.

Druss wrenched his axe from a man’s body and sprinted for the stream and the relative sanctuary of the pass.

A warrior leaped into his path. Snaga sang through the air, smashing the man’s sword to shards. A backhand cut shattered his ribs. As Druss passed him, the man reached out, grabbing his shoulder. In the gleam of the flames, the axeman saw it was Bodasen. The dying Immortal general gripped Druss’s jerkin, trying to slow him. Druss kicked him aside and ran on.

Bodasen fell heavily and rolled, watching the burly figure of the axeman and his companions fording the stream.

The Ventrian’s vision swam. He closed his eyes. Weariness settled on him like a cloak. Memories danced in his mind. He heard a great noise like the crashing of the sea, and saw again the corsair ship bearing down upon them, gliding out of the past. Once more he raced with Druss to board her, carrying the fight to the aft deck.

Damn! He should have realized Druss would never change.

Attack. Always attack.

He opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. Druss was safely on the other side of the stream now, leading the warriors back to the Drenai line.

Bodasen tried to move, but agony lanced him. Carefully he probed the wound in his side, his sticky fingers feeling the broken ribs and the rush of arterial blood from the gaping gash.

It was over.

No more fear. No more insanity. No more bowing and scraping to the painted madman.

In a way he was relieved.

His whole life had been an anticlimax after that battle with Druss against the corsairs. In that one towering moment he had been alive, standing with Druss against …

They brought his body to the Emperor in the pink light of dawn.

And Gorben wept.

Around them the camp was a shambles. Gorben’s generals stood beside the throne, uneasy and silent. Gorben covered the body with his own cloak and dried his eyes on a white linen towel. Then he turned his attention to the man kneeling before him, flanked by Immortal guards.

“Bodasen dead. My tent destroyed. My camp in flames. And you, you pathetic wretch, were the officer of the guard. A score of men invade my camp, killing my beloved general, and you still live. Explain yourself!”

“My lord, I sat with you in Bodasen’s tent—by your order.”

“So now it is my fault the camp was attacked!”

“No, sire …”

“No, sire,” mimicked Gorben. “I should think not. Your sentries were sleeping. Now they are dead. Do you not think it fitting for you to join them?”

“Sire?”

“Join them, I say. Take your blade and slice your veins.”

The office drew his ornamental dagger, reversed it, then plunged the blade into his belly. For a moment there was no movement. Then the man began to scream and writhe. Gorben drew his sword, slashing the blade through the man’s neck.

“He couldn’t even do that right,” said Gorben.

Druss entered Sieben’s tent and hurled his axe to the floor. The poet was awake, but lying silently watching the stars when Druss arrived. The axeman sat down on the floor, his great head slumped to his chest, staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The poet sensed his despair. He struggled to
sit up, the ache in his chest becoming a stabbing pain. He grunted. Druss’s head came up, his back straightened.