Druss’s head bowed, and he toppled forward.
Druss the Legend was dead.
28
Six hundred Drenai warriors watched silently as the Nadir gathered about the body of Druss and lifted it gently, bearing it back through the gates he had striven to hold. Ulric was the last man to pass the portals. In the shadow of the broken timbers he turned, his violet eyes scanning the men at the wall, stopping at last to rest on a figure of bronze. Ulric lifted his hand as if in greeting, then slowly pointed at Rek. The message was clear enough.
First the Legend, now the Earl.
Rek made no reply, but merely watched as the Nadir warlord strode into the shadows of the gate and out of sight.
‘He died hard,’ said Hogun as Rek turned and sat back on the ramparts, lifting his helm visor.
‘What did you expect?’ asked Rek, rubbing tired eyes with weary fingers. ‘He lived hard.’
‘We will follow him soon,’ said Hogun. ‘There’s not a day’s fighting left in the men we have. The city is deserted now: even the camp baker has left.’
‘What of the Council?’ asked Rek.
‘Gone, all of them. Bricklyn should be back in the next day or two with words from Abalayn. I think he will be bringing his message direct to Ulric – he’ll be based in the Keep by then.’
Rek did not answer – there was no need. It was true: the battle was over. Only the massacre remained.
Serbitar, Vintar and Menahem approached silently, their white cloaks tattered and bloody. But there was no mark of wounds upon them. Serbitar bowed.
‘The end is come,’ he said. ‘What are your orders?’
Rek shrugged. ‘What would you have me say?’
‘We could fall back to the Keep,’ offered Serbitar, ‘but we have not enough men to hold even that.’
Then we will die here,’ said Rek. ‘One place is as good as another.’
‘Truly,’ said Vintar, gently. ‘But I think we have a few hours’ grace.
‘Why?’ asked Hogun, loosening the bronze brooch at his shoulder and removing his cloak.
‘I think the Nadir will not attack again today. Today they have slain a mighty man, a legend even among their ranks. They will feast and celebrate. Tomorrow, when we die, they will feast again.’
Rek removed his helm, welcoming the cool breeze on his sweat-drenched head. Overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun golden. He drew in a deep breath of clear mountain air, feeling its power soaking into tired limbs. His mind flew back to days of joy with Horeb in the inn at Drenan – long-gone days, never to be revisited. He swore aloud, then laughed.
‘If they don’t attack, we should have a party of our own,’ he said. ‘Gods, a man can die but once in a lifetime! Surely it’s worth celebrating?’ Hogun grinned and shook his head but Bowman, who had approached unnoticed, clapped Rek on the shoulder.
‘Now that is my kind of language,’ he said. ‘But why not do it properly, go the whole way?’
‘The whole way?’ asked Rek.
‘We could join the Nadir party,’ said Bowman. ‘Then they would have to buy the drinks.’
‘There’s some truth in that, Earl of Bronze,’ said Serbitar. ‘Shall we join them?’
‘Have you gone mad?’ said Rek, looking from one to the other.
‘As you said, Rek, we only die once,’ suggested Bowman. ‘We have nothing to lose. Anyway, we should be protected by the Nadir laws of hospitality.’
‘This is insanity!’ said Rek. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Bowman. ‘I think I would like to pay my last respects to Druss. And it will make a grand exit for Nadir poets to sing about in later years. Drenai poets are almost bound to pick it up too. I like the idea – it has a certain poetic beauty to it. Dining in the dragon’s lair.’
‘Damn it, I’m with you then,’ said Rek. “Though I think my mind must be unhinged. When should we leave?’
*
Ulric’s ebony throne had been set outside his tent, and the Nadir warlord sat upon it dressed in eastern robes of gold thread upon silk. Upon his head was the goatskin-fringed crown of the Wolfshead tribe, and his black hair was braided after the fashion of the Ventrian kings. Around him, in a vast circle many thousands strong, sat his captains; beyond them were many other circles of men. At the centre of each circle Nadir women danced in a frenzy of motion, in tune to the rippling rhythms of a hundred drums. In the circle of captains, the women danced around a funeral pyre ten feet high on which lay Druss the Legend, arms crossed and axe upon his chest.