The day before, as the Earl of Bronze made his dramatic entrance on to the walls, Gilad had nudged Togi and pointed.
‘New armour – it suits him,’ said the Rider.
‘It looks old,’ said Gilad.
Togi merely shrugged. ‘So long as it does the job . . .’
That day Togi’s sabre had snapped six inches above the hilt. He had hurled himself on the leading Nadir and rammed the broken blade into his neck, snatching the man’s short sword and laying about him ferociously. His speed of thought and quicksilver movements amazed Gilad. Later, during a lull between assaults, he had retrieved a second sabre from a dead soldier.
‘You fight well,’ Gilad had said.
‘I’m alive,’ answered Togi.
‘Is that the same thing?’
‘It is on these walls, though good men have fallen. But that is a matter of luck. The bad or the clumsy do not need bad luck to kill them, and even good luck wouldn’t save them for long.’
Now Togi stowed the whetstone in his pouch and wiped the curving blade with an oiled cloth. The steel shone blue-white in the gathering light.
Further along the line Druss was chatting to the warriors, lifting their spirits with jests. He made his way towards them and Gilad pushed himself to his feet, but Togi remained where he was. Druss, white beard ruffled by the breeze, stopped and spoke quietly to Gilad.
‘I’m glad you stayed,’ he said.
‘I had nowhere to go,’ answered Gilad.
‘No. Not many men appreciate that,’ said the old warrior. He glanced down at the crouching Rider. ‘I see you there, Togi, you young pup. Still alive, then?’
‘So far,’ he said, looking up.
‘Stay that way,’ said Druss and he walked on along the line.
‘That is a great man,’ said Togi. ‘A man to die for.’
‘You knew him before this?’
‘Yes.’ Togi would say no more and Gilad was about to press him when the blood-chilling sound of the Nadir war chant signalled the dawn of one more red day.
Below the walls, among the Nadir, was a giant called Nogusha. Ulric’s champion for ten years, he had been sent forward with the first wave and with him as personal bodyguards were twenty Wolfshead tribesmen. Their duty was to protect him until he could meet and kill Deathwalker. Strapped to his back was a three-foot sword, the blade six inches wide; by his side were two daggers in twin sheaths. An inch over six feet, Nogusha was the tallest warrior in the Nadir ranks and the most deadly: a veteran of three hundred hand-to-hand contests.
The horde reached the walls. Ropes swirled over the battlements, ladders rattled on the grey stone. Nogusha barked commands to the men around him and three tribesmen climbed above him, the others swarming alongside. The bodies of the first two above him plummeted down to the rocks below, but the third created a space for Nogusha before being hacked to death. Gripping the battlements with one huge hand, Nogusha’s sword flashed into the air while on either side of him the bodyguards closed in. The massive sword cleaved a passage as the group formed a wedge driving towards Druss some twenty paces distant. Although the Drenai closed in behind Nogusha’s band, blocking the wall, none could approach the giant tribesman. Men died beneath his flashing broadsword. On either side of him his bodyguards were faring less well: one by one they fell until at last only Nogusha still stood. By now he was only paces away from Druss, who turned and saw him, battling alone and soon to fall. Their eyes met and understanding was there instantly. This was a man Druss would be hard put not to recognise: Nogusha the Swordsman, Ulric’s executioner, a man whose deeds were the fabric of fresh Nadir legends – a living, younger, counterpart to Druss himself.
The old man leapt lightly from the ramparts to the grass beyond, where he waited. He made no move to halt the attack on the Nadir warrior. Nogusha saw Druss waiting, slashed a path and jumped clear. Several Drenai warriors made to follow him, but Druss waved them back.
‘Well met, Nogusha,’ said the old man.