“What a man you chose to follow!” said Druss, his voice booming in the sudden silence. “He stands with his feet in your stew, too frightened to face a man who has been locked in his dungeon and fed on scraps. You want the axe?” he asked Cajivak. “I say again, Come and get it.” Twisting the weapon, he slammed it down into the boards of the dais where it stood quivering, the points of the butterfly blades punching deep into the wood. Druss stepped away from the axe and the warriors waited.
Suddenly Cajivak moved, taking two running steps and leaping towards the dais. He was a huge man, with immense shoulders and powerful arms; but he leapt into a straight left from the former champion of Mashrapur which smashed his lips into his teeth, and a right cross that hit his jaw like a thunderbolt. Cajivak fell to the dais and rolled back to the floor, landing on his back. He was up fast, and this time he slowly mounted the steps to the dais.
“I’ll break you, little man! I’ll rip out your entrails and feed them to you!”
“In your dreams!” mocked Druss. As Cajivak charged, Druss stepped in to meet him, slamming a second straight left into Cajivak’s heart. The larger man grunted, but then sent an overhand right that cannoned against Dross’s brow, forcing him back. Cajivak’s left hand snapped forward with fingers extended to rip out Dross’s eyes. Dross dropped his head so that the fingers stabbed into his brow, the long nails gashing the skin. Cajivak grabbed for him, but as his hands closed around Dross’s shirt the rotted material gave way. As Cajivak staggered back, Druss stepped in to thunder two blows to his belly. It felt as if he were beating his hands against a wall. The giant warlord laughed and struck out with an uppercut that almost lifted Dross from his feet. His nose was broken and streaming blood, but as Cajivak leapt in for the kill Dross side-stepped, tripping the larger man. Cajivak hit the floor hard, then rolled and came up swiftly.
Dross was tiring now, the sudden surge of power from the axe fading away from his muscles. Cajivak lunged forward, but Dross feinted with a left and Cajivak swayed back from it - straight into the path of a right hook that hammered into his mouth, impaling his lower lip on his teeth. Dross followed this with a left, then another right. A cut opened above Cajivak’s right eye, blood spilling to the cheek, and he fell back. Then he pulled the punctured lip from his teeth - and gave a bloody grin. For a moment Dross was nonplussed, then Cajivak leaned over and dragged Snaga from the boards.
The axe shone red in the lantern light. “Now you die, little man!” Cajivak snarled.
He raised the axe as Druss took one running step and leapt, his right foot coming down hard on Cajivak’s knee. The joint gave way with an explosive crack and the giant fell screaming to the ground, losing his hold on the axe. The weapon twisted in the air-then plunged down, the twin points striking the warlord just below the shoulder-blades, lancing through the leather jerkin and the skin beyond. Cajivak twisted and the axe ripped clear of his body. Dross knelt and retrieved the weapon.
Cajivak, his face twisted in pain, pushed himself into a sitting position and stared at the axeman with undisguised hatred. “Let the blow be a clean one,” he said softly.
Still kneeling Druss nodded, then swept Snaga in a horizontal arc. The blades bit into Cajivak’s bull neck, slicing through the muscle, sinew and bone. The body toppled to the right, the head falling left where it bounced once on the dais before rolling to the hall floor below. Dross stood and turned to face the stunned warriors. Suddenly weary, he sat down on Cajivak’s throne. “Someone bring me a goblet of wine!” he ordered.
Sieben grabbed a pitcher and a goblet and moved slowly to where the axeman sat.
“You took your damned time getting here,” said Druss.
Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend
Chapter Four
From the back of the Hall Varsava watched the scene with fascination. Cajivak’s body lay on the dais, blood staining the floor around it. In the Hall itself the warriors stood with their eyes locked to the man sitting slumped on Cajivak’s throne. Varsava glanced up at the gallery where Eskodas waited, an arrow still strung to his bow.
What now, thought Varsava, scanning the Hall. There must be over a hundred killers here. His mouth was dry. At any moment the unnatural calm would vanish. What then? Would they rush the dais? And what of Druss? Would he take up his axe and attack them all?
I don’t want to die here, he thought, wondering what he would do if they did attack Druss. He was close to the rear door - no one would notice if he just slipped away into the night. After all, he owed the man nothing. Varsava had done more than his share, locating Sieben and setting up the rescue attempt. To die now, in a meaningless skirmish, would be nonsense.
Yet he did not move but stood silently, waiting, with all the other men, and watched Druss drain a third goblet of wine. Then the axeman rose and wandered down into the hall, leaving his axe on the dais. Druss moved to the first table and tore a chunk of bread from a fresh-baked loaf. “None of you hungry?” he asked the men.
A tall, slim warrior wearing a crimson shirt stepped forward. “What are your plans?” he asked.
“I’m going to eat,” Druss told him. “Then I’m going to bathe. After that I think I’ll sleep for a week.”
“And then?” The Hall was silent, the warriors milling closer to hear the axeman’s answer.
“One thing at a time, laddie. When you sit in a dungeon, in the dark, with only rats for company, you learn never to make too many plans.”
“Are you seeking to take his place?” persisted the warrior, pointing to the severed head.
Druss laughed. “By the gods, look at him! Would you want to take his place?” Chewing on the bread, Druss returned to the dais and sat. Then he leaned forward and addressed the men. “I am Druss,” he said. “Some of you may remember me from the day I was brought here. Others may know of my service with the Emperor. I have no ill-will towards any of you… but if any man here wishes to die, then let him take up his weapons and approach me. I’ll oblige him.” He stood and hefted the axe. “Anyone?” he challenged. No one moved and Druss nodded. “You are all fighting men,” he said, “but you fight for pay. That is sensible. Your leader is dead - best you finish your meal, and then choose another.”
“Are you putting yourself forward?” asked the man in the crimson shirt.
“Laddie, I’ve had enough of this fortress. And I have other plans.”
Druss turned back to Sieben, and Varsava could not hear their conversation. The warriors gathered together in small groups, discussing the various merits and vices of Cajivak’s under-leaders, and Varsava strolled out of the Hall, confused by what he had seen. Beyond the Hall was a wide antechamber where the bladesman sat on a long couch - his feelings mixed, his heart heavy. Eskodas joined him.
“How did he do it?” asked Varsava. “A hundred killers, and they just accepted his murder of their leader. Incredible!”
Eskodas shrugged and smiled. “That’s Druss.”
Varsava swore softly. “You call that an answer?”
“It depends what you are looking for,” responded the bowman. “Perhaps you should be asking yourself why you are angry. You came here to rescue a friend, and now he is free. What more did you want?”
Varsava laughed, but the sound was dry and harsh. “You want the truth? I half desired to see Druss broken. I wanted confirmation of his stupidity! The great herol He rescued an old man and child - that’s why he’s spent a year or more in this cesspit. You understand? It was meaningless. Meaningless!”
“Not for Druss.”
“What is so special about him?” stormed Varsava. “He’s not blessed with a fine mind, he has no intellect to speak of. Any other man who has just done what he did would be ripped to pieces by that mangy crew. But no, not Druss! Why? He could have become their leader - just like that! They would have accepted it.”
“I can give you no definitive answers,” said Eskodas. “I watched him storm a ship filled with blood-hungry corsairs - they threw down thei
r weapons. It is the nature of the man, I suppose. I had a teacher once, a great bowman, who told me that when we see another man we instinctively judge him as either threat or prey. Because we are hunting, killing animals. Carnivores. We are a deadly breed, Varsava. When we look at Druss we see the ultimate threat - a man who does not understand compromise. He breaks the rules. No, more than that, I think. For him there are no rules. Take what happened back there. An ordinary man might well have killed Cajivak - though I doubt it. But he would not have hurled aside the axe and fought the monster hand to hand. And when he’d slain the leader he would have looked out at all those killers and, in his heart, he would have expected death. They would have sensed it… and they would have killed him. But Druss didn’t sense it; he didn’t care. One at a time, or all at once. He’d have fought them all.”
“And died,” put in Varsava.
“Probably. But that’s not the point. After he killed Cajivak he sat down and called for a drink. A man doesn’t do that if he expects further battles. That left them confused, uncertain - no rules, you see. And when he walked down among them he left the axe behind. He knew he wouldn’t need it - and they knew too. He played them like a harp. But he didn’t do it consciously, it is just the nature of the man.”
“I can’t be like him,” said Varsava sadly, remembering the peacemaker and the terrible death he suffered.
“Few can,” agreed Eskodas. “That’s why he is becoming a legend.”
Laughter echoed from the Hall. “Sieben is entertaining them again,” said Eskodas. “Come on, let’s go and listen. We can get drunk.”
“I don’t want to get drunk. I want to be young again. I want to change the past, wipe a wet rag over the filthy slate.”
“It’s a fresh day tomorrow,” said Eskodas softly.
“What does that mean?”
“The past is dead, bladesman, the future largely unwritten. I was on a ship once with a rich man when we hit a storm, and the ship went down. The rich man gathered as much gold as he could carry. He drowned. I left behind everything I owned. I survived.”
“You think my guilt weighs more than his gold?”
“I think you should leave it behind,” said Eskodas, rising. “Now, come and see Druss - and let’s get drunk.”
“No,” said Varsava sadly. “I don’t want to see him.” He stood and placed his wide leather hat upon his head. “Give him my best wishes, and tell him… tell him…” His voice faded away.
“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 knelt 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 half-way up. They would have taken a bearing and know that if they hold to a level course they would 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 ceiling 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 draught 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 defence.”
“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 towards 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 leapt 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 has 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 towards 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 leapt down. Michanek bowed as he recognised 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.”
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