Druss strode like a giant along the ramparts day after day, defying all advice to rest, daring his weary body to betray him, drawing on hidden reserves of strength from his warrior’s soul. Rek also was building a name, though he cared not. Twice his baresark attacks had dismayed the Nadir and shattered their line. Orrin still fought with the remnants of Karnak, now only eighteen strong. Gilad fought beside him on the right and on his left was Bregan, still using the captured axe. Hogun had gathered fifty of the Legion about him and stood back from the rampart line, ready to fill in any gap that developed.
The days were full of agony and the screams of the dying. And the list in the Hall of the Dead grew longer at every sunrise. Dun Pinar fell, his throat torn apart by a jagged dagger. Bar Britan was found under a mound of Nadir bodies, a broken lance jutting from his chest. Tall Antaheim of The Thirty was struck by a javelin in the back. Elicas of the Legion was trapped by the rampart towers as he hurled himself at the Nadir screaming defiance and fell beneath a score of blades. Jorak, the huge outlaw, had his brains dashed out by a club – and, dying, grabbed two Nadir warriors and threw himself from the battlements, dragging them screaming to their deaths on the rocks below.
Amid the chaos of slashing swords many deeds of individual heroism passed unseen. One young soldier battling back to back with Druss saw an enemy lancer bearing down on the old man. Unthinking he threw himself in the way of the flashing steel point, to die writhing among the other broken bodies on the ramparts. Another soldier, an officer named Portitac, leapt into the breach near the gate tower and stepped on to the ramparts, where he seized the top of a ladder and flung himself forward, pulling the ladder out from the wall. Twenty Nadir near the top died with him on the rocks and five others broke limbs. Many were such tales of bravery.
And still the battles raged. Rek now sported a slanting scar from eyebrow to chin, gleaming red as he battled on. Orrin had lost three fingers from his left hand, but after only two days behind the lines had joined his men once more on the wall.
From the capital at Drenan the messages came endlessly:
Hold on.
Give Woundweaver time.
Just one more month.
And the defenders knew they could not hold.
But still they fought on.
*
Twice the Nadir tried night attacks, but on both occasions Serbitar warned the defenders and the assailants paid dearly for their efforts. At night handholds were difficult to find and the long climb to the battlements was fraught with peril. Hundreds of tribesmen died without need for the touch of Drenai steel or a black-shafted arrow.
Now the nights were silent and in some ways as bad as the days. For the peace and tranquillity of the moon darkness acted as a weird counterpoint to the crimson agonies of the sunlight. Men had time to think: to dream of wives, children, farms, and even more potently of a future that might have been.
Hogun and Bowman had taken to walking together on the battlements at night, the grim Legion general and the bright witty outlaw. Hogun found that in Bowman’s company he could forget the loss of Elicas; he could even laugh again. For his part, Bowman felt a kinship with the Gan, for he too had a serious side although he kept it well hidden.
But on this particular night Bowman was in a more melancholy mood and his eyes were distant.
‘What ails you, man?’ asked Hogun.
‘Memories,’ answered the archer, leaning over the ramparts to stare at the Nadir camp-fires below.
‘They must be either very bad or very good to touch you so.’
‘These are very bad, my friend. Do you believe in gods?’
‘Sometimes. Usually when my back is against a wall and the enemy surrounds me,’ said Hogun.
‘I believe in the Twin Powers of Growth and Malevolence. I believe that on rare occasions each of these powers chooses a man, and in different ways destroys him.’