Druss donned his jerkin. ‘What about the city and your thousand gold pieces?’
Varsava shook his head in disbelief. “This . . . escapade . . . of yours has put paid to any plan of mine. I shall return to Lania and claim my hundred gold pieces for locating the boy. As to you, well, you can go where you like.’
‘You give up very easily, bladesman. So we cracked a few heads! What difference does that make? Cajivak has hundreds of men; he won’t interest himself in every brawl.’
‘It is not Cajivak who concerns me, Druss. It is you. I am not here to rescue maidens or kill dragons, or whatever else it is that makes heroes of myth. What happens when we walk into the city and you see some. . . some hapless victim? Can you walk by? Can you hold fast to a plan of action that will see us succeed in our mission?’
Druss thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I will never walk by.’
‘I thought not, damn you! What are you trying to prove, Druss? You want more songs about you? Or do you just want to die young?’
‘No, I have nothing to prove, Varsava. And I may die young, but I’ll never look in a mirror and be ashamed because I let an old man suffer or a child be raped. Nor will I ever be haunted by a peacemaker who died unjustly. Go where you will, Varsava. Take these people back to Lania. I shall go to the city.’
‘They’ll kill you there.’
Druss shrugged. ‘All men die. I am not immortal.’
‘No, just stupid,’ snapped Varsava and spinning on his heel, the bladesman strode away.
*
Michanek laid his bloody sword on the battlements and untied the chin-straps of his bronze helm, lifting it clear and enjoying the sudden rush of cool air to his sweat-drenched head. The Ventrian army was falling back in some disarray, having discarded the huge battering-ram which lay outside the gate, surrounded by corpses. Michanek walked to the rear of the ramparts and yelled orders to a squad of men below.
‘Open the gate and drag that damned ram inside,’ he shouted. Pulling a rag from his belt, he wiped his sword clean of blood and sheathed it.
The fourth attack of the day had been repulsed; there would be no further righting today. However, few of the men seemed anxious to leave the wall. Back in the city the plague was decimating the civilian population. No, he thought, it is worse than decimation. Far more than one in ten were now suffering the effects.
Gorben had not dammed the river. Instead he had filled it with every kind of corruption – dead animals, bloated and maggot-ridden, rotting food, and the human waste from an army of eleven thousand men. Small wonder that sickness had ripped into the population.
Water was now being supplied by artesian wells, but no one knew how deep they were or how long the fresh water would last. Michanek gazed up at the clear blue sky: not a cloud in sight, and rain had not fallen for almost a month.
A young officer approached him. ‘Two hundred with superficial wounds, sixty dead, and another thirty-three who will not fight again,’ he said.
Michanek nodded, his mind elsewhere. ‘What news from the inner city, brother?’ he asked.
‘The plague is abating. Only seventy dead yesterday, most of them either children or old people.’
Michanek stood and smiled at the young man. ‘Your section fought well today,’ he said, clapping his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I shall see that a report is placed before the Emperor when we return to Naashan.’ The man said nothing and their eyes met, the unspoken thought passing between them: if we return to Naashan. ‘Get some rest, Narin. You look exhausted.’
‘So do you, Michi. And I was only here for the last two attacks – you’ve been here since before dawn.’
‘Yes, I am tired. Pahtai will revive me; she always does.’
Narin chuckled. ‘I never expected love to last so long for you. Why don’t you marry the girl? You’ll never find a better wife. She’s revered in the city. Yesterday she toured the poorest quarter, healing the sick. It’s amazing; she has more skill than any of the doctors. It seems that all she needs to do is lay her hands upon the dying and their sores disappear.’