‘We will see later,’ said Menahem, smiling. ‘I am sorry, friend Rek, for my testing of you. It was a mistake.’
‘Please forget it – and what I said. The words were spoken in anger.’
‘That is gracious. Before you joined us we were talking of the Dros. It is our belief that under existing leadership it cannot last a week. Morale is low and their leader Orrin is overwhelmed by his position and responsibility. We need a fair wind and no delays.’
‘You mean it could be over before we arrive?’ said Rek, his heart leaping.
‘I think not,’ said Vintar. ‘But the end may be near. Tell me, Regnak, why do you travel to Delnoch?’
‘The possibility of stupidity can never be ruled out,’ Rek told him, without humour. ‘Anyway, we might not lose. Surely there is at least a faint chance?’
‘Druss will be there soon,’ said Vintar. ‘Much will depend on his reception. If it is good, and we can arrive while the first wall holds, we should be able to harness the strengths of the defenders and guarantee resistance for about a month. I cannot see a mere 10,000 men holding for longer.’
‘Woundweaver may send reinforcements,’ said Menahem.
‘Perhaps,’ said Serbitar. ‘But unlikely. Already his marshals are scouring the empire. Virtually the entire army is gathered at Delnoch, with 3,000 men holding Dros Purdol and another thousand at Corteswain.
‘Abalayn has been foolish these last years, running down the army and cultivating trade agreements with Ulric. It was folly. Had it not been the Nadir attacking now, it would have been Vagria before long.
‘My father would love to humble the Drenai. He has dreamed about it long enough.’
‘Your father?’ queried Rek.
‘Earl Drada of Dros Segril. Did you not know?’ said Serbitar.
‘No, I didn’t. But Segril is only eighty miles west of Delnoch. Surely he will send men when he knows you are there?’
‘No. My father and I are not friends; my talent unnerves him. However, if I am killed he will be in blood feud with Ulric. That means he will swing his forces to Woundweaver. It may help the Drenai -but not Dros Delnoch.’
Menahem tossed twigs to the fire, holding his dark-skinned hands towards the blaze. ‘Abalayn has at least got one thing right. This Lentrian Woundweaver is quality. A warrior of the old school, tough, determined, and practical.’
‘There are times, Menahem,’ Vintar said, smiling gently, age sitting heavily on him following the hard ride, ‘when I doubt you will achieve your aim. Warriors of the old school, indeed!’
Menahem grinned broadly. ‘I can admire a man for his talents, while debating his principles,’ he said.
‘Indeed you can, my boy. But did I not note the merest hint of empathy?’ asked Vintar.
‘You did, master Abbot. But only a hint, I assure you.’
‘I hope so, Menahem. I would not want to lose you before the Journey. Your soul must be sure.’
Rek shivered. He had no idea what they were talking about. On reflection he had no wish to know.
*
Dros Delnoch’s first line of defence was the wall Elbidar, spreading snakelike for almost a quarter of a mile across the Delnoch Pass. Forty-eight feet high when viewed from the north, a mere five feet from the south, like a giant step carved from the heart of a mountain in seamed granite.
Cul Gilad sat on the battlements, gazing sombrely past the few trees towards the northern plains. His eyes scanned the shimmering distant horizon, searching for the tell-tale dust clouds that would herald the invasion. There was nothing to see. His dark eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an eagle high in the morning sky. Gilad smiled.
‘Fly, you great golden bird. Live!’ he shouted. Gilad pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. His legs were long and slim, his movements fluid, graceful. The new army shoes were half a size too large and packed with paper. His helm, a wondrous thing of bronze and silver, slipped over one eye. Cursing, he hurled it to the floor. One day he would write a battle hymn about army efficiency, he thought. His belly rumbled and he cast his eyes about for his friend Bregan, gone to fetch their mid-morning food: black bread and cheese – bound to be. Endless wagons of supplies arriving daily at Delnoch, yet the mid-morning meal was always black bread and cheese. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out Bregan’s tubby form ambling from the mess hall bearing two platters and a jug. Gilad smiled. Good-natured Bregan. A farmer, a husband, a father. All these things he did well in his own soft, kindly, easygoing way. But a soldier?