Outside the circles countless fires blazed and the smell of burning meat filled the air. Everywhere camp women carried yokes bearing buckets of Lyrrd, an alcohol brewed from goat’s milk. Ulric himself drank Lentrian Red in honour of Druss. He didn’t like the drink; it was too thin and watery for a man reared on the more potent of liquors brewed on the northern steppes. But he drank it anyway. It would be bad manners to do less, for the spirit of Druss had been invited among them: a spare goblet was filled to the brim beside Ulric’s own, and a second throne had been set to the right of the Nadir warlord.
Ulric stared moodily over the rim of his goblet, focusing his gaze on the body atop the pyre.
‘It was a good time to die, old man,’ he said softly. ‘You will be remembered in our songs, and men will talk of you around our camp-fires for generations to come.’
The moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the stars gleamed like distant candles. Ulric sat back and gazed into eternity. Why this black mood? What was the weight his soul carried? Rarely before had he felt this way, and certainly never on the eve of such a victory.
Why?
His gaze returned to the body of the axeman.
‘You have done this to me, Deathwalker,’ he said. ‘For your heroics have made me the dark shadow.’
In all legends, Ulric knew, there were bright heroes and dark, dark evil. It was the very fabric of each tale.
‘I am not evil,’ he said. ‘I am a warrior born, with a people to protect and a nation to build.’ He swallowed another mouthful of Lentrian and refilled his goblet.
‘My Lord, is something wrong?’ asked his carle-captain, Ogasi, the thickset steppe rider who had slain Virae.
‘He accuses me,’ said Ulric, pointing to the body.
‘Shall we light the pyre?’
Ulric shook his head. ‘Not until midnight. The Gates must be open when he arrives.’
‘You do him great honour, Lord. Why then does he accuse you?’
‘With his death. Nogusha carried a poisoned blade – I had the story from his tent servant.’
‘That was not at your command, Lord. I was there.’
‘Does it matter? Am I no longer responsible for those who serve me? I have tainted my legend in order to end his. A dark, dark deed, Ulric Wolfshead.’
‘He would have died tomorrow anyway,’ said Ogasi. ‘He lost only a day.’
‘Ask yourself, Ogasi, what that day meant. Men like Deathwalker come perhaps once in twenty lifetimes. They are rare. So what is that day worth to ordinary men? A year? Ten years? A lifetime? Did you see him die?’
‘I did, Lord.’
‘And will you forget it?’
‘No, Lord.’
‘Why not? You have seen brave men die before.’
‘He was special,’ said Ogasi. ‘Even when he fell at the last, I thought he would rise. Even now some of the men cast fearful glances at his pyre, expecting to see him stand again.’
‘How could he have stood against us?’ asked Ulric. ‘His face was blue with gangrene. His heart should have stopped long since. And the pain . . .’
Ogasi shrugged. ‘While men compete in war, there will be warriors. While there are warriors, there will be princes among warriors. Among the princes will be kings, and among the kings an emperor. You said it yourself, my Lord. Such as he come once in twenty lifetimes. You would expect him to die in his bed?’
‘No. I had thought to let his name die. Soon I will control the mightiest empire known to men. History will be as I write it.
‘I could erase him from the memory of men, or worse still sully his name until his legend reeks. But I shall not. I will have a book written about his life and men shall know how he thwarted me.’
‘I would expect nothing less from Ulric,’ said Ogasi, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.
‘Ah, but then you know me, my friend. There are others among the Drenai who will be expecting me to dine on Druss’s mighty heart. Eater of Babies, the Plague That Walks, the Barbarian of Gulgothir.’