Druss returned to his pack, removing the crumpled letter from Delnar. He walked to the window for better light and smoothed the parchment open.
The script was writ large and Druss chuckled again. He was no reader, and Delnar knew it.
My Dearest Comrade,
Even as I write I receive messages about the Nadir army being gathered at Gulgothir. It is plain that Ulric is ready to expand south. I have written to Abalayn, pleading for more men. There are none to be had. I have sent Virae to Vintar – you remember the Abbot of Swords? – to request The Thirty. I clutch at straws, my friend.
I do not know in what health this letter will find you, but it is written in desperation. I need a miracle, or the Dros will fall. I know you swore never again to enter the gates, but old wounds heal and my wife is dead. As is your friend Sieben. You and I are the only men living to know the truth of the matter. And I have never spoken of it.
Your name alone will stop the desertions and restore morale. I am plagued on all sides by poor officers, politically appointed, but my heaviest load is Gan Orrin, the commander. He is Abalayn’s nephew and a martinet. He is despised and yet I cannot replace him. In truth, I no longer command.
I have a cancer. It consumes me daily.
It is unfair of me to tell you of it, for I know I am using my own impending death to ask of you a favour.
Come and fight with us. We need you, Druss. Without you, we are lost. Just as at Skeln. Come as soon as you can.
Your comrade in arms.
Earl Delnar
Druss folded the letter, pushing it into a deep pocket inside his leather jerkin.
‘An old man with a swollen knee and arthritic back. If you’ve pinned your hopes on a miracle, my friend, you will need to seek elsewhere.’
A silvered mirror stood next to a wash-basin on an oak chest and Druss stared hard at his reflection. The eyes were piercing blue, the beard square-cut, the jaw beneath it firm. He pulled his leather helm from his head and scratched the thick mat of grey hair. His thoughts were sombre as he replaced the helm and strode downstairs.
At the long bar he ordered ale and listened to the talk around him.
‘They say Ulric has a million men,’ said one tall youngster. ‘And you heard what he did at Gulgothir. When the city refused to surrender, and he had taken it, he had every second defender hanged and quartered. Six thousand men. They say the air was black with crows. Imagine! Six thousand!’
‘Do you know why he did it?’ Druss asked, breaking into the conversation. The men looked at one another, then back at Druss.
‘Of course I know. He’s a bloodthirsty savage, that’s why.’
‘Not at all,’ said Druss. ‘Join me in a drink?’ He called the innkeeper and ordered more ale. ‘He did it so that men like you could spread the word to other cities. Wait! Mistake me not,’ said Druss, as the man’s anger flushed his face. ‘I do not criticise you for telling the story. It is natural for these tales to be passed on. But Ulric is a canny soldier. Assume he took the city and treated the defenders heroically? Other cities would defend just as hard. But this way he sends fear ahead of him. And fear is a great ally.’
‘You talk like an admirer,’ said another man, shorter, with a curling blond moustache.
‘But I am,’ said Druss, smiling. ‘Ulric is one of the greatest generals of the age. Who else in a thousand years has united the Nadir? And with such simplicity. It is the Nadir way to fight anyone not of their tribe. With a thousand tribes thinking this way, they could never become a nation. Ulric took his own tribe, the Wolfshead, and changed the style of Nadir war. To each tribe he conquered, he offered a choice: join him or die. Many chose to die, but many more chose to live. And his army grew. Each tribe keeps its own customs, and they are honoured. You cannot take such a man lightly.’