‘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 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 upwards 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 which had been turned aside by his breastplate and mail-shirt.
Five Nadir burst through the defences and raced on towards the defenceless 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 to slump to the ground and stare back at the Dros with dull, unremitting hatred. Black plumes of smoke rose from the smouldering 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 grey 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 time more the Nadir attacked that day before dusk sent them back to their camp fires, 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, the living despatched with speed and 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. Further along the wall the young Earl was talking to the albino. They had both fought well and the albino seemed fresh; only the blood which spattered his white cloak and breastplate gave evidence of his day’s work. Regnak, though, seemed tired enough for both. His face, grey 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.