A boulder crashed through the wall ten paces away from him, scattering men like sand in the wind. Miraculously, only one failed to rise, the rest rejoining their comrades. Druss raised his arm to signal Orrin. A trumpet sounded, and Bowman and the rest of the men surged forward. Each archer carried five quivers of twenty arrows as they raced across the open ground, over the fire-gully bridges, and on toward the battlements.
With a roar of hate almost tangible to the defenders, the Nadir swept toward the wall in a vast black mass, a dark tide set to sweep the Dros before it. Thousands of the barbarians began to haul the huge siege towers forward, while others ran with ladders and ropes. The plain before the walls seemed alive as the Nadir poured forward, screaming their battle cries.
Breathless and panting, Bowman arrived to stand beside Druss, Rek, and Serbitar. The outlaws spread out along the wall.
“Shoot when you’re ready,” said Druss. The green-clad outlaw swept a slender hand through his blond hair and grinned.
“We can hardly miss,” he said. “But it will be like spitting into a storm.”
“Every little bit helps,” said the axman.
Bowman strung his yew bow and notched an arrow. To the left and right of him the move was repeated a thousand times. Bowman sighted on a leading warrior and released the string, the shaft slashing the air to slice and hammer through the man’s leather jerkin. As he stumbled and fell, a ragged cheer went up along the wall. A thousand arrows followed, then another thousand and another. Many Nadir warriors carried shields, but many did not. Hundreds fell as the arrows struck, tripping the men behind. But still the black mass kept coming, trampling the wounded and dead beneath them.
Armed with his Vagrian bow, Rek loosed shaft after shaft into the horde, his lack of skill an irrelevant factor since, as Bowman had said, one could hardly miss. The arrows were a barbed mockery of the clumsy ballistae attack so recently used against them. But they were taking a heavier toll.
The Nadir were close enough now for individual faces to be clearly seen. Rough-looking men, thought Rek, but tough and hardy, raised to war and blood. Many of them lacked armor, others wore mail shirts, but most were clad in black breastplates of lacquered leather and wood. Their screaming battle cries were almost bestial. No words could be heard; only their hate could be felt. Like the angry scream of some vast, inchoate monster, thought Rek as the familiar sensation of fear gripped his belly.
Serbitar raised his helm visor and leaned over the battlements, ignoring the few arrows that flashed up and by him.
“The ladder men have reached the walls,” he said softly.
Druss turned to Rek. “The last time I stood beside an Earl of Dros Delnoch in battle, we carved a legend,” he said.
“The odd thing about sagas,” offered Rek, “is that they very rarely mention dry mouths and full bladders.”
A grappling hook whistled over the wall.
“Any last words of advice?” asked Rek, dragging his sword free from its scabbard.
Druss grinned, drawing Snaga. “Live!” he said.
More grappling irons rattled over the walls, jerking taut instantly and biting into the stone as hundreds of hands applied pressure below. Frantically the defenders lashed razor-edged blades at the vine ropes until Druss bellowed at the men to stop.
“Wait until they’re climbing!” he shouted. “Don’t kill ropes—kill men!”
Serbitar, a student of war since he was thirteen, watched the progress of the siege towers with detached fascination. The obvious idea was to get as many men on the walls as possible by using ropes and ladders and then to pull in the towers. The carnage below among the men pulling the tower ropes was horrific as Bowman and his archers peppered them with shafts. But more always rushed in to fill the places of the dead and dying.
On the walls, despite the frenzied slashing of ropes, the sheer numbers of hooks and throwers had enabled the first Nadir warriors to gain the battlements.
Hogun, with five thousand men on Musif, Wall Two, was sorely tempted to forget his orders and race to the aid of Wall One. But he was a professional soldier, reared on obedience, and he stood his ground.
Tsubodai waited at the bottom of the rope as the tribesmen slowly climbed above him. A body hurtled by him to splinter on the jagged rocks, and blood splashed his lacquered leather breastplate. He grinned, recognizing the twisted features of Nestzan, the race runner.
“He had it coming to him,” he said to the man beside him. “Now, if he’d been able to run as fast as he fell, I wouldn’t have lost so much money!”
Above them the climbing men had stopped now as the Drenai defenders forced the attackers back toward the ramparts. Tsubodai looked up at the man ahead of him.
“How long are you going to hang there, Nakrash?” he called. The man twisted his body and looked down.
“It’s these Green Steppe dung eaters,” he shouted. “They couldn’t gain a foothold on a cowpat.”
Tsubodai laughed happily, stepping away from the rope to see how the other climbers were moving. All along the wall it was the same: the climbing had stopped, the sounds of battle echoing down from above. As bodies crashed to the rocks around him, he dived back into the lee of the wall.
“We’ll be down here all day,” he said. “The Khan should have sent the Wolfshead in first. These Greens were useless at Gulgothir, and they’re even worse here.”
His companion grinned and shrugged. “Line’s moving again,” he said.
Tsubodai grasped the knotted rope and pulled himself up beneath Nakrash. He had a good feeling about today. Maybe he could win the horses Ulric had promised to the warrior who would cut down the old graybeard everyone was talking about.
“Deathwalker.” A potbellied old man without a shield.
“Tsubodai,” called Nakrash. “You don’t die today, hey? Not while you still owe me on that footrace.”
“Did you see Nestzan fall?” Tsubodai shouted back. “Like an arrow. You should have seen him swinging his arms. As if he wanted to push the ground away from him.”
“I’ll be watching you. Don’t die, do you hear me?”
“You watch yourself. I’ll pay you with Deathwalker’s horses.”
As the men climbed higher, more tribesmen filled the rope beneath him. Tsubodai glanced down.
“Hey, you!” he called. “Not a lice-ridden Green, are you?”
“From the smell you must be Wolfshead,” replied the climber, grinning.
Nakrash scaled the battlements, dragging his sword clear and then turning to pull Tsubodai alongside him. The attackers had forced a wedge through the Drenai line, and still neither Tsubodai nor Nakrash could join the action.
“Move away! Make room!” called the man behind them.
“You wait there goat breath,” said Tsubodai. “I’ll just ask the round eyes to help you over. Hey, Nakrash, stretch those long legs of yours and tell me where Deathwalker is.”
Nakrash pointed to the right. “I think you will soon get a chance at those horses. He looks closer than before.” Tsubodai leapt lightly to the ramparts, straining to see the old man in action.
“Those Greens are just stepping up and asking for his ax, the fools.” But no one heard him above the clamor.
The thick wedge of men ahead of them was thinning fast, and Nakrash leapt into a gap and slashed open the throat of a Drenai soldier who was trying desperately to free his sword from a Nadir belly. Tsubodai was soon beside him, hacking and cutting at the tall round-eyed southerners.
Battle lust swept over him, as it had during ten years of warfare under Ulric’s banner. He had been a youngster when the first battle had begun, tending his father’s goats on the granite steppes far to the north. Ulric had been a war leader for only a few years at that time. He had subdued the Long Monkey tribe and offered its men the chance to ride with his forces under their own banner. They had refused and died to a man. Tsubodai remembered that day: Ulric had personally tied their chieftain to two horses and ordered him torn apa
rt. Eight hundred men had been beheaded, and their armor handed over to youngsters like Tsubodai.
On the next raid he had taken part in the first charge. Ulric’s brother, Gat-sun, had praised him highly and given him a shield of stretched cowhide edged with brass. He had lost it in a knucklebone game the same night, but he still remembered the gift with affection. Poor Gat-sun! Ulric had had him executed the following year for trying to lead a rebellion. Tsubodai had ridden against him and had been among the loudest to cheer as his head fell. Now, with seven wives and forty horses Tsubodai was, by any reckoning, a rich man. And still to see thirty.
Surely the gods loved him.
A spear grazed his shoulder. His sword snaked out, half severing the arm. Oh, how the gods loved him! He blocked a slashing cut with his shield.
Nakrash came to his rescue, disemboweling the attacker, who fell screaming to the ground to vanish beneath the feet of the warriors pushing from behind.
To his right the Nadir line gave way, and he was pushed back as Nakrash took a spear in the side. Tsubodai’s blade slashed the air, taking the lancer high in the neck; blood spurted, and the man fell back. Tsubodai glanced at Nakrash, lying at his feet writhing, his hands grasping the slippery lance shaft.
Leaning down, he pulled his friend clear of the action. There was nothing more he could do, for Nakrash was dying. It was a shame and put a pall on the day for the little tribesman. Nakrash had been a good companion for the last two years. Looking up, he saw a black-garbed figure with a white beard cleaving his way forward, a terrible ax of silver steel in his blood-splashed hands.
Tsubodai forgot about Nakrash in an instant. All he could see were Ulric’s horses. He pushed forward to meet the ax-man, watching his movements, his technique. He moved well for one so old, thought Tsubodai as the old man blocked a murderous cut and backhanded his ax across the face of a tribesman, who was hurled screaming over the battlements.
Tsubodai leapt forward, aiming a straight thrust for the old man’s belly. From then on it seemed to him that the scene was taking place under water. The white-bearded warrior turned his blue eyes on Tsubodai, and a chill of terror seeped into his blood. The ax seemed to float against his sword blade, sweeping the thrust aside, then the blade reversed and with an agonizing lack of speed cleaved Tsubodai’s chest.
His body slammed back into the ramparts and slid down to rest beside Nakrash. Looking down, he saw bright blood replaced by dark arterial gore. He pushed his hand into the gash, wincing as a broken rib twisted under his fist.
“Tsubodai?” said Nakrash softly. Somehow the sound carried to him.
He hunched his body over his friend, resting his head on his chest.
“I hear you, Nakrash.”
“You almost had the horses. Very close.”
“Damn good, that old man, hey?” said Tsubodai.
The noise of the battle receded. Tsubodai realized it had been replaced by a roaring in his ears, like the sea gathering shingle.
He remembered the gift Gat-sun had given him and the way he had spit in Ulric’s eye on the day of his execution.
Tsubodai grinned. He had liked Gat-sun.
He wished he had not cheered so loudly.
He wished …
Druss hacked at a rope and turned to face a Nadir warrior who was scrambling over the wall. Batting aside a sword thrust, he split the man’s skull, then stepped over the body and tackled a second warrior, gutting him with a backhand slash. Age vanished from him now. He was where he was always meant to be—at the heart of a savage battle. Behind him Rek and Serbitar fought as a pair, the slim albino’s slender rapier and Rek’s heavy longsword cutting and slashing.
Druss was joined now by several Drenai warriors, and they cleared their section of the wall. Along the wall on both sides similar moves were being repeated as the five thousand warriors held. The Nadir could feel it, too, as slowly the Drenai inched them back. The tribesmen fought with renewed determination, cutting and killing with savage skill. They had only to hold on until the siege tower ledges touched the walls, then thousands more of their comrades could swarm in to reinforce them. And they were but a few yards away.
Druss glanced behind. Bowman and his archers were fifty paces back, sheltering behind small fires that had been hastily lit. Druss raised his arm and waved at Hogun, who ordered a trumpet sounded.
Along the wall several hundred men pulled back from the fighting to gather up wax-sealed clay pots and hurl them at the advancing towers. Pottery smashed against wooden frames, splashing dark liquid to stain the wood.
Gilad, with sword in one hand and clay pot in the other, parried a thrust from a swarthy axman, crashed his sword into the other’s face, and threw his globe. He just had time to see it shatter in the open doorway at the top of the tower, where Nadir warriors massed, before two more invaders pressed forward to tackle him. The first he gutted with a stabbing thrust, only to find his sword trapped in the depths of the dying man’s belly. The second attacker screamed and slashed at Gilad, who released his grip on his sword hilt and leapt backward. Instantly another Drenai warrior intercepted the Nadir, blocked his attack, and all but beheaded him with a reverse stroke. Gilad tore his sword free of the Nadir corpse and smiled his thanks to Bregan.
“Not bad for a farmer!” yelled Gilad, forcing his way back into the battle and slicing through the guard of a bearded warrior carrying an iron-pitted club.
“Now, Bowman!” shouted Druss.
The outlaws notched arrows whose tips were partially covered by oil-soaked cloth and held them over the flames of the fires. Once the arrows were burning, they fired them over the battlements to thud into the siege tower walls. Flames sprang up instantly, and black smoke, dense and suffocating, was whipped upward by the morning breeze. One flaming arrow flashed through the open doorway of the tower where Gilad’s globe of oil had struck to pierce the leg of a Nadir warrior whose clothes were oil-drenched. Within seconds the man was a writhing, screaming human torch, blundering into his comrades and setting them ablaze.
More clay pots sailed through the air to feed the flames on the twenty towers, and the terrible stench of burning flesh was swept over the walls by the breeze.
With the smoke burning his eyes, Serbitar moved among the Nadir, his sword weaving an eldritch spell. Effortlessly he slew, a killing machine of deadly, awesome power. A tribesman reared up behind him, knife raised, but Serbitar twisted and opened the man’s throat in one smooth motion.
“Thank you, Brother,” he pulsed to Arbedark on Wall Two.
Rek, while lacking Serbitar’s grace and lethal speed, used his sword to no less effect, gripping it two-handed to bludgeon his way to victory beside Druss. A hurled knife glanced from his breastplate, slicing the skin over his bicep. He cursed and ignored the pain as he ignored other minor injuries received that day: the gashed thigh and the ribs bruised by a Nadir javelin that had been turned aside by his breastplate and mail shirt.
Five Nadir burst through the defenses and raced on toward the defenseless stretcher-bearers. Bowman skewered the first from forty paces, and Caessa the second, then Bar Britan raced to intercept them with two of his men. The battle was brief and fierce, the blood from Nadir corpses staining the earth.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a change was coming over the battle. Fewer tribesmen were gaining the walls, for their comrades had been forced back to the battlements and there was little room to gain purchase. The Nadir now fought not to conquer but to survive. The tide of war—fickle at best—had turned, and they had become the defenders.
But the Nadir were grim men and brave. For they neither cried out nor sought to surrender but stood their ground and died fighting.
One by one they fell, until the last of the warriors was swept from the battlements to lie broken on the rocks below.
Silently now the Nadir army retired from the field, stopping out of bowshot range to slump to the ground and stare back at the Dros with dull, unremitting hatred. Black plumes of smoke rose from the
smoldering towers, and the stink of death filled their nostrils.
Rek leaned on the battlements and rubbed his face with a bloodied hand. Druss walked forward, wiping Snaga clean with a piece of torn cloth. Blood flecked the iron gray of the old man’s beard, and he smiled at the new earl.
“You took my advice then, laddie?”
“Only just,” said Rek. “Still, we didn’t do too badly today.”
“This was just a sortie. The real test will come tomorrow.”
Druss was wrong. Three times more the Nadir attacked that day before dusk sent them back to their campfires, dejected and temporarily defeated. On the battlements weary men slumped to the bloody ground, tossing aside helmets and shields. Stretcher-bearers carried wounded men from the scene, while the corpses were left to lie for the time being, their needs no longer being urgent. Three teams were detailed to check the bodies of Nadir warriors. The dead were hurled from the battlements, and the living were dispatched with speed, their bodies pitched to the plain below.
Druss rubbed his tired eyes. His shoulder burned with fatigue, his knee was swollen, and his limbs felt leaden. But he had come through the day better than he had hoped. He glanced around. Some men lay sprawled asleep on the stone. Others merely sat with their backs to the walls, eyes glazed and minds wandering. There was little conversation. Farther along the wall the young earl was talking to the albino. They had both fought well, and the albino seemed fresh; only the blood that spattered his white cloak and breastplate gave evidence of his day’s work. Regnak, though, seemed tired enough for both. His face, gray with exhaustion, looked older, the lines more deeply carved. Dust, blood, and sweat merged together on his features, and a rough bandage on his forearm was beginning to drip blood to the stones.
“You’ll do, laddie,” said Druss softly.
“Druss, old horse, how are you feeling?” Bowman asked.
“I have had better days,” snarled the old man, lurching upright and gritting his teeth against the pain from his knee. The young archer almost made the mistake of offering Druss an arm to lean on but checked himself in time. “Come and see Caessa,” he said.
Legend Page 24