The mining under the walls had stopped now and soon, when the winds permitted, the Ventrians would fire the timbers in the tunnel. He gazed out over the Ventrian camp. At least eleven thousand warriors were now gathered before Resha, and the defenders numbered only eight hundred. Glancing to left and right, Michanek saw the Naashanite soldiers sitting slumped by the battlements. There was little conversation, and much of the food that had just been carried up from the city was left untouched.
Michanek moved to the nearest soldier, a young man who was sitting with his head resting on his knees. His helm was beside him; it was split across the crown, dislodging the white horsehair plume.
‘Not hungry, lad?’ asked Michanek.
The boy looked up. His eyes were dark brown, his face beardless and feminine. ‘Too tired to eat, general,’ he said.
‘The food will give you strength. Trust me.’
The boy lifted a hunk of salted beef and stared down at it. ‘I’m going to die,’ he said, and Michanek saw a tear spill to his dust-stained cheek.
The general laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Death is merely another journey, lad. But you won’t be walking that road alone – I’ll be with you. And who knows what adventures wait?’
‘I used to believe that,’ said the soldier sadly, ‘but I’ve seen so much death. I saw my brother die yesterday, his guts spilling out. His screams were terrible. Are you frightened of dying, sir?’
‘Of course. But we are soldiers of the Emperor. We knew the risks when we first strapped on the breastplate and greaves. And what is better, lad, to live until we are toothless and mewling, our muscles like rotted string, or to face down our enemies in the fullness of our strength? We are all destined to die one day.’
‘I don’t want to die; I want to get out of here. I want to marry and father children. I want to watch them grow.’ The boy was openly weeping now and Michanek sat beside him, taking him in his arms and stroking his hair.
‘So do I,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
After a while the sobbing ceased and the boy drew himself up. ‘I’m sorry, general. I won’t let you down, you know.’
‘I knew that anyway. I’ve watched you, and you’re a brave lad: one of the best. Now eat your ration and get some sleep.’
Michanek rose and walked back to Shurpac. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’d like to sit in the garden with Pahtai and watch the stars.’
*
Druss lay still, his eyes closed, allowing the buzz of conversation to drift over him. He could not remember feeling so low – not even when Rowena was taken. On that dreadful day his anger had been all-consuming, and since then his desire to find her had fuelled his spirit, giving him a strength of purpose that bound his emotions in chains of steel. Even in the dungeon he had found a way to fend off despair. But now his stomach was knotted, his emotions unravelling.
She was in love with another man. He formed the words in his mind, and they ground into his heart like broken glass in a wound.
He tried to hate Michanek, but even that was denied him. Rowena would never love a worthless or an evil man. Druss sat up and stared down at his hands. He had crossed the ocean to find his love, and these hands had killed, and killed, and killed in order that Rowena could be his once more.
He closed his eyes. Where should I be? he asked himself. In the front rank as they storm the walls? On the walls defending Rowena’s city? Or should I just walk away?
Walk away.
The tent entrance flapped as Sieben ducked under it. ‘How are you faring, old horse?’ asked the poet.
‘She loves him,’ said Druss, his voice thick, the words choking him.
Sieben sat alongside the axeman. He took a deep breath. ‘If her memories were taken, then what she has done is no betrayal. She does not know you.’
‘I understand that. I bear her no ill-will – how could I? She is the most . . . beautiful . . . I can’t explain it, poet. She doesn’t understand hatred, or greed, or envy. Soft but not weak, caring but not stupid.’ He swore and shook his head. ‘As I said, I can’t explain it.’