‘There is no justice when such as you must die like this,’ said Druss, hating the feeling of helplessness that overwhelmed him.
‘None of us . . . can choose . . . the manner of our passing. No, that is not true . . . For you are here, old warhorse. I see that you at least have chosen wisely.’
Druss laughed, loud and heartily. The young officer, Mendar, returned with a flagon of wine and two crystal goblets. He poured for the Earl, who produced a small bottle from a pocket in his purple tunic; he uncorked it and poured several drops of dark liquid into his wine. As he drank, a semblance of colour returned to his face.
‘Darkseed,’ he said. ‘It helps me.’
‘It is habit forming,’ said Druss, but the Earl chuckled.
‘Tell me, Druss,’ he said, ‘why did you laugh when I said you had chosen your death?’
‘Because I am not ready to give in to the old bastard yet. He wants me, but I will make it damned hard for him.’
‘You have always seen death as your own personal enemy. Does he exist, do you think?*
‘Who knows? I like to think so. I like to think this is all a game. All life is a test between him and me.’
‘But is it?’
‘No. But it gives me an edge. I have six hundred archers joining us within fourteen days.’
‘That is wonderful news. How in heavens did you manage it? Woundweaver sent word he could spare not a man.’
‘They are outlaws and I have promised them a pardon – and five gold Raq a head.’
‘I don’t like it, Druss. They are mercenaries and not to be trusted.’
‘You have asked me to take over,’ said Druss. ‘So trust me; I won’t let you down. Order the pardons to be drawn up and prepare notes against the treasury in Drenan.’ He turned to the young officer standing patiently by the window. ‘You, young Mendar!’
‘Sir?’
‘Go, and tell . . . ask . . . Gan Orrin if he will see me in an hour. My friend and I have much to talk over, but tell him that I would be grateful for a meeting. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get on with it.’ The officer saluted and left. ‘Now, before you tire, my friend, let us get down to business. How many fighting men have you?’
‘Just over nine thousand. But six thousand of those are recruits, and only a thousand – The Legion -are battle-hardened warriors.’
‘Surgeons?’
‘Ten, led by Calvar Syn. You remember him?’
‘Aye. A point on the credit side.’
For the rest of the hour Druss questioned the Earl, and by the end of the time he was visibly weaker. He began to cough blood once more, eyes squeezed shut against the pain that wracked him. Druss lifted him from his chair. ‘Where is your room?’ he asked. But the Earl was unconscious.
Druss strode from the hall, bearing the limp form of the Warden of the North. He hailed a passing soldier, gained directions and ordered Calvar Syn to be summoned.
Druss sat at the foot of the Earl’s bed as the elderly surgeon ministered to the dying man. Calvar Syn had changed little; his shaven head still gleamed like polished marble, and his black-eye-patch looked even more tattered than Druss remembered.
‘How is he?’ asked Druss.
‘How do you think he is, you old fool?’ answered the surgeon. ‘He is dying. He cannot last another two days.’
‘I see you have retained your good humour, doctor,’ said Druss, grinning.
‘What is there to be good-humoured about?’ queried the surgeon. ‘An old friend is dying, and thousands of young men will follow him within the next few weeks.’
‘Perhaps. It is good to see you, anyway,’ said Druss, rising.
‘Well it’s not good to see you,’ said Calvar Syn, a gleam in his eye and a faint smile on his lips. ‘Where you go, the crows gather. Anyway, how is it that you seem so ridiculously healthy?’
‘You’re the doctor – you tell me.’
‘Because you are not human! You were carved out of stone on a winter’s night and given life by a demon. Now get out! I have work to do.’