“You are Gan Orrin?” asked Druss.
“I am. You must be Druss. Come in, my dear fellow, and have a seat. You have seen the earl? Yes, of course you have. Of course you have. I expect he has told you about our problems here. Not easy. Not easy at all. Have you eaten?” The man was sweating and ill at ease, and Druss felt sorry for him. He had served under countless commanders in his lifetime. Many were fine, but as many were incompetent, foolish, vain, or cowardly. He did not know as yet into which category Orrin fell, but he sympathized with his problems.
On a shelf by the window stood a wooden platter bearing black bread and cheese. “I will have some of that, if I may,” said Druss.
“But of course.” Orrin passed it to him. “How is the earl? A bad business. Such a fine man. A friend of his, weren’t you? At Skeln together. Wonderful story. Inspiring.”
Druss ate slowly, enjoying the gritty bread. The cheese was good, too, mellow and full-flavored. He rethought his original plan to tackle Orrin by pointing out the shambles into which the Dros had fallen, the apathy, and the ramshackle organization. A man must know his limitations, he thought. If he exceeds them, nature has a way of playing cruel tricks. Orrin should never have accepted gan rank, but in peacetime he would be easily absorbed. Now he stood out like a wooden horse in a charge.
“You must be exhausted,” Druss said at last.
“What?”
“Exhausted. The work load here is enough to break a lesser man. Organization of supplies, training, patrols, strategy, planning. You must be completely worn out.”
“Yes, it is tiring,” said Orrin, wiping the sweat from his brow, his relief evident. “Not many people realize the problems of command. It’s a nightmare. Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you. Would it help if I took some of the weight from your shoulders?”
“In what way? You are not asking me to stand down, are you?”
“Great Missael, no,” said Druss with feeling. “I would be lost. No, I meant nothing of that kind.
“But time is short, and no one can expect you to bear this burden alone. I would suggest you turn over to me the training and all the responsibility for preparing the defense. We need to block those tunnels behind the gates and set work parties to razing the buildings from Wall Four to Wall Six.”
“Block the tunnels? Raze the buildings? I don’t understand you, Druss,” said Orrin. “They are all privately owned. There would be an uproar.”
“Exactly!” said the old warrior gently. “And that is why you must appoint an outsider to take the responsibility. Those tunnels behind the gates were built so that a small rear-guard could hold an enemy force long enough to allow the defenders to move back to the next wall. I propose to destroy the buildings between Walls Four and Six and use the rubble to block the tunnels. Ulric will expend a lot of men in order to breach the gates. And it will avail him nothing.”
“But why destroy the buildings?” asked Orrin. “We can bring rubble in from the south of the pass.”
“There is no killing ground,” said the old warrior. “We must get back to the original plan of the Dros. When Ulric’s men breach the first wall, I want every archer in the Dros peppering them. Every yard of open ground will be littered with Nadir dead. We’re outnumbered five hundred to one, and we have to level the odds somehow.”
Orrin bit his lip and rubbed his chin, his mind working furiously. He glanced at the white-bearded warrior seated calmly before him. As soon as he had heard Druss had arrived, he had prepared for the certainty that he would be replaced, sent back to Drenan in disgrace. Now he was being offered a lifeline. He should have thought of razing the buildings and blocking the tunnels; he knew it, just as he knew he was miscast as a gan. It was a hard fact to accept.
Throughout the last five years, since his elevation, he had avoided self-examination. However, only days before he had sent Hogun and two hundred of his legion lancers into the outlands. At first he had held to the belief that it was a sensible military decision. But as the days had passed and no word came, he had agonized over his orders. It had little to do with strategy but everything to do with jealousy. Hogun, he had realized with sick horror, was the best soldier in the Dros. When he had returned and told Orrin that his decision had proved a wise one, far from bolstering Orrin, it had finally opened his eyes to his own inadequacy. He had considered resigning but could not face the disgrace. He had even contemplated suicide but could not bear the thought of the dishonor it would bring to his uncle, Abalayn. All he could do was die on the first wall. And this he was prepared for. He had feared Druss would rob him even of that.
“I have been a fool, Druss,” he said at last.
“Enough of that talk!” snapped the old man. “Listen to me. You are the gan. From this day on no man will speak ill of you. What you fear, keep to yourself, and believe in me. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone fails at something. The Dros will hold, for I will be damned if I will let it fall. If I had felt you were a coward, Orrin, I would have tied you to a horse and sent you packing. You have never been in a siege or led a troop into battle. Well, now you will do both and do it well, for I will be beside you.
“Get rid of your doubts. Yesterday is dead. Past mistakes are like smoke in the breeze. What counts is tomorrow and every tomorrow until Woundweaver gets here with reinforcements. Make no mistake, Orrin. When we survive and the songs are sung, you will be worth your place in them and no one will sneer. Not a soul. Believe it!
“Now I have talked enough. Give me your seal on parchment and I will start today with my duties.”
“Will you want me with you today?”
“Best not,” said Druss. “I have a few heads to crack.”
Minutes later Druss marched toward the officers’ mess flanked by two legion guards, tall men and well disciplined. The old man’s eyes blazed with anger, and the guards exchanged a glance as they marched. They could hear the sounds of singing coming from the mess and were set to enjoy the sight of Druss the Legend in action.
He opened the door and stepped into the lavishly furnished interior. A trestle bar had been set up against the far wall, stretching out into the center of the room. Druss pushed his way past the revelers, ignoring the complaints, then placed one hand beneath the trestle and hurled it into the air, scattering bottles, goblets, and food to shower on the officers. Stunned silence was followed by an angry surge of oaths and curses. One young officer pushed his way to the front of the crowd; dark-haired, sullen-eyed, and haughty, he confronted the white-bearded warrior.
“Who the hell do you think you are, old man?” he said.
Druss ignored him, his eyes scanning the thirty or so men in the room. A hand grabbed his jerkin.
“I said who—” Druss backhanded the man across the room to crash into the wall and slither to the floor, half-stunned.
“I am Druss. Sometimes called Captain of the Ax. In Ventria they call me Druss the Sender. In Vagria I am merely the Axman. To the Nadir I am Deathwalker. In Lentria I am the Silver Slayer.
“But who are you? You dung-eating lumps of offal! Who the hell are you?” The old man drew Snaga from its sheath at his side. “I have a mind to set an example today. I have a mind to cut the fat from this ill-fated fortress. Where is Dun Pinar?”
The young man pushed himself from the back of the crowd, a half smile on his face, a cool look in his dark eyes. “I am here, Druss.”
“Gan Orrin has appointed me to take charge of the training and preparation of the defenses. I want a meeting with all officers on the training ground in an hour. Pinar, you organize it. The rest of you clear up this mess and get yourselves ready. The holiday is over. Any man who fails me will curse the day he was born.” Beckoning Pinar to follow him, he walked outside. “Find Hogun,” he said, “and bring him to me at once in the main hall of the keep.”
“Yes, sir! And sir …”
“Out with it, lad.”
“Welcome to Dros Delnoch.”
The news flashed t
hrough the town of Delnoch like a summer storm, from tavern to shop to market stall. Druss was here! Women passed the message to their men; children chanted his name in the alleys. Tales of his exploits were retold, growing by the minute. A large crowd gathered before the barracks, watching the officers milling at the parade ground. Children were lifted high, perched on men’s shoulders to catch a glimpse of the greatest Drenai hero of all time.
When he appeared, a huge roar went up from the crowd and the old man paused and waved.
They could not hear what he told the officers, but the men moved with a purpose as he dismissed them. Then, with a final wave, he returned to the keep.
Within the main hall once more, Druss removed his jerkin and relaxed in a high-backed chair. His knee was throbbing, and his back ached like the devil. And still Hogun had not appeared.
He ordered a servant to prepare him a meal and inquired after the earl. The servant told him the earl was sleeping peacefully. He returned with a huge steak, lightly done, which Druss wolfed down, following it with a bottle of finest Lentrian red. He wiped the grease from his beard and rubbed his knee. After seeing Hogun, he would have a hot bath, ready for tomorrow. He knew his first day would tax him to his limits—and he must not fail.
“Gan Hogun, sir,” announced the servant. “And Dun Elicas.”
The two men who entered lifted Druss’s heart. The first—it had to be Hogun—was broad-shouldered and tall, clear-eyed, with a square jaw.
And Elicas, though slimmer and shorter, had the look of eagles about him. Both men wore the black and silver of the legion without badges of rank. It was a long-standing custom, going back to the days when the Earl of Bronze had formed them for the Vagrian Wars.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Druss.
Hogun pulled up a chair, reversing it in order to lean on the back. Elicas perched himself on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest.
Elicas watched the two men carefully. He had not known what to expect from Druss, but he had begged Hogun to allow him to be present at the meeting. He worshiped Hogun, but the grim old man seated before him had always been his idol.
“Welcome to Delnoch, Druss,” said Hogun. “You have lifted morale already. The men speak of nothing else. I am sorry to have missed you earlier, but I was at the first wall, supervising an archery tourney.”
“I understand you have already met the Nadir,” said Druss.
“Yes. They will be here in less than a month.”
“We shall be ready. But it will need hard work. The men are badly trained—if trained at all. That must change. We have only ten surgeons, no medical orderlies, no stretcher-bearers, and only one hospital—and that is at Wall One, which is no good to us. Comments?”
“An accurate appraisal. All I can add is that, apart from my men, there are only a dozen officers of worth.”
“I have not yet decided the worth of any man here. But let us stay positive for the moment. I need a man of mathematical persuasion to take charge of the food stores and to prepare ration rotas. He will need to shift his equations to match our losses. He must also be responsible for liaison and administration with Gan Orrin.” Druss watched as the two men exchanged glances but said nothing of it.
“Dun Pinar is your man,” said Hogun. “He virtually runs the Dros now.”
Druss’s eyes were cold as he leaned toward the young general. “There will be no more comments like that, Hogun. It does not become a professional soldier. We start today with a clean slate. Yesterday is gone. I shall make my own judgments, and I do not expect my officers to make sly comments about each other.”
“I would have thought you would want the truth,” interposed Elicas before Hogun could answer.
“The truth is a strange animal, laddie. It seems to vary from man to man. Now keep silent. Understand me, Hogun, I value you. Your record is a good one. But from now on no one speaks ill of the first gan. It is not good for morale, and what is not good for our morale is good for the Nadir. We have enough problems.” Druss stretched out a length of parchment and pushed it to Elicas with a quill and ink. “Make yourself useful, boy, and take notes. Put Pinar at the top; he is our quartermaster. Now, we will need fifty medical orderlies and two hundred stretcher-bearers. The first Calvar Syn can choose from volunteers, but the bearers will need someone to train them. I want them to be able to run all day. Missael knows they will need to when the action gets warm. These men will need stout hearts. It is no easy thing to run about on a battlefield lightly armed. For they will not be able to carry swords and stretchers.
“So who do you suggest to pick and train them?”
Hogun turned to Elicas, who shrugged.
“You must be able to suggest someone,” said Druss.
“I don’t know the men of Dros Delnoch that well, sir,” said Hogun, “and no one from the legion would be appropriate.”
“Why not?”
“They are warriors. We shall need them on the wall.”
“Who is your best ranker?”
“Bar Britan. But he’s a formidable warrior, sir.”
“That is why he is the man. Listen well: The stretcher-bearers will be armed with daggers only, and they will risk their lives as much as the men battling on the walls. But it is not a glorious task, so the importance of it must be highlighted. When you name your best ranker as the man to train the bearers and work with them during the battle, this will come home to them. Bar Britan must also be given fifty men of his choice as a moving troop to protect the bearers as best he can.”
“I bow to your logic, Druss,” said Hogun.
“Bow to nothing, son. I make mistakes as well as any man. If you think me wrong, be so good as to damn well say so.”
“Put your mind at rest on that score, Axman!” snapped Hogun.
“Good! Now, as to training. I want the men trained in groups of fifty. Each group is to have a name; choose them from legends, names of heroes, battlefields, whatever, as long as the names stir the blood.
“There will be one officer to each group and five rankers, each commanding ten men. These underleaders will be chosen after the first three days training. By then we should have taken their mark. Understood?”
“Why names?” asked Hogun. “Would it not be simpler if each group had a number? Gods, man, that’s 180 names to find!”
“There is more to warfare, Hogun, than tactics and training. I want proud men on those walls. Men who know their comrades and can identify with them. Group Karnak will be representing Karnak the One-Eyed, where Group Six would be merely identified.
“Throughout the next few weeks we will set one group against another in work, play, and mock combat. We will weld them into units—proud units. We will mock and cajole them, sneer at them even. Then, slowly, when they hate us more than they do the Nadir, we will praise them. In as short a time as possible we must make them think of themselves as an elite force. That’s half the battle. These are desperate, bloody days, days of death. I want men on those walls, strong men, fit men—but most of all, proud men.
“Tomorrow you will choose the officers and allocate the groups. I want the groups running until they drop and then running again. I want sword practice and wall scaling. I want demolition work done by day and night. After ten days we will move on to unit work. I want the stretcher-bearers running with loads of rock until their arms burn and their muscles tear.
“I want every building from Wall Four to Wall Six razed to the ground and the tunnels blocked.
“I want one thousand men at a time working on the demolition in three-hour shifts. That should straighten backs and strengthen sword arms.
“Any questions?”
Hogun spoke: “No. Everything you wish for will be done. But I want to know this: Do you believe the Dros can hold until the autumn?”
“Of course I do, laddie,” lied Druss easily. “Why else would I bother? The point is, do you believe it?”
“Oh, yes,” lied Hogun smoothly. “Without a doubt.”
The two men grinned.
“Join me in a glass of Lentrian red,” said Druss. “Thirsty work, this planning business!”
11
In a wooden loft, its window in the shadow of the great keep, a man waited, drumming his fingers on the broad table. Behind him, pigeons ruffled their feathers within a wickerwork coop. The man was nervous. On edge.
Footsteps on the stairs made him reach for a slender dagger. He cursed and wiped his sweating palm on his woolen trousers.
A second man entered, pushed the door shut, and sat opposite the first.
The newcomer spoke: “Well? What orders are there?”
“We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here.”
“One man can make no difference,” said the newcomer.
“Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks.”
“Five? I thought …”
“I know,” said the first man. “But Ulric’s firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days, and it’s a bad omen for Ulric.”
“Bad omens can’t stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress.”
“What is Druss planning?”
“He means to seal the tunnels. That’s all I know so far.”
“Come back in three days,” said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then reread what he had written:
Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher.
“Perhaps we should kill Druss,” said the newcomer, rising.
“If we are told to,” said the first man. “Not before.”
“I will see you in three days, then.”
At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.
He was a Drenai dun.
Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats’ tails that dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four … An endless, mindless agony of effort.
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