The slaves who dug and toiled to create the pulley beds were protected from archers by movable screens of stretched oxhide. But many were slain by rocks hurled from the walls above. This was of no concern to Khitan. What did concern him was possible damage to the pulleys, and these were not protected by iron casing.
With one last lingering look at the walls, he made his way back to his quarters in order to brief the engineers. Druss watched him until he entered the city of tents which now filled the valley for over two miles.
So many tents. So many warriors. Druss ordered the defenders to stand down and relax while they could, seeing in their faces the pinched edge of fear, the wide eyes of barely controlled panic. The sheer scale of the enemy had cut into morale. He cursed softly, stripped off his black leather jerkin, stepped back from the battlements and lowered his huge frame to the welcoming grass beyond. Within moments he was asleep. Men nudged one another and pointed; those closest to him chuckled as the snoring began. They were not to know that was his first steep for two days, nor that he lay there for fear that his legs would not carry him back to his quarters. They knew only he was Druss: the Captain of the Axe.
And that he held the Nadir in contempt.
Bowman, Hogun, Orrin and Caessa also left the walls for the shade of the mess hall, the green-clad archer pointing at the sleeping giant.
‘Was there ever such a one?’ he said.
‘He just looks old and tired to me,’ said Caessa. ‘I can’t see why you regard him with such reverence.’
‘Oh yes, you can,’ said Bowman. ‘You are just being provocative as usual, my dear. But then that’s the nature of your gender.’
‘Not so,’ said Caessa, smiling. ‘What is he after all? He is a warrior. Nothing more, nothing less. What has he ever done to make him such a hero? Waved his axe? Killed men? I have killed men. It is no great thing. No one has written a saga about me.’
‘They will, my lovely, they will,’ said Bowman. ‘Just give them time.’
‘Druss is more than just a warrior,’ said Hogun, softly. ‘I think he always has been. He is a standard, an example if you like . . .’
‘Of how to kill people?’ offered Caessa.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. Druss is every man who has refused to quit; to surrender when life offered no hope; to stand aside when the alternative was to die. He is a man who has shown other men there is no such thing as guaranteed defeat. He lifts the spirit merely by being Druss, and being seen to be Druss.’
‘Just words!’ said Caessa. ‘You men are all the same. Always lofty words. Would you sing the praises of a fanner who fought for years against failed crops and floods?’
‘No,’ admitted Hogun. ‘But then it is the life of a man like Druss which inspires the fanners to battle on.’
‘Garbage!’ sneered Caessa. ‘Arrogant garbage! The farmer cares nothing for warriors or war.’
‘You will never win, Hogun,’ said Bowman, holding open the mess hall door. ‘Give up now, while you can.’
‘There is a fundamental error in your thinking, Caessa,’ said Orrin suddenly, as the group seated themselves around a trestle table. ‘You are ignoring the simple fact that the vast majority of our troops here are farmers. They have signed on for the duration of this war.’ He smiled gently and waved his hand for the mess servant.
‘Then the more fool them,’ said Caessa.
‘We are all fools,’ agreed Orrin. ‘War is a ridiculous folly, and you are right: men love to prove themselves in combat. I don’t know why, for I have never desired it myself. But I have seen it too often in others. But even for me Druss is, as Hogun describes him, an example.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I cannot put it into words, I’m afraid.’
‘Of course you can.’
Orrin smiled and shook his head. He filled their goblets with white wine, then broke the bread and passed it round. For a while they ate in silence, then Orrin spoke again.