‘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.’
‘The man is a treacherous cur,’ offered a man from another group of speakers. ‘He signed a treaty with us. Now he is to break it.’
‘I am not defending his morals,’ said Druss equably. ‘Merely pointing out that he’s a good general. His troops worship him.’
‘Well, I don’t like the way you speak, old man,’ said the tallest of the listeners.
‘No?’ said Druss. ‘Are you a soldier, then?’
The man hesitated, glanced at his companions, then shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Forget it.’
‘Are you a deserter, then?’
‘I said to forget it, old man,’ stormed the youngster.
‘Are you all deserters?’ asked Druss, leaning back against the bar and scanning the thirty or so men gathered there.
‘No, not all,’ said one young man, emerging from the throng. He was tall and slim, dark hair braided beneath a helm of bronze. ‘But you cannot blame those who are.’
‘Don’t bother with it, Pinar,’ said one. ‘We have talked it over.’
‘I know. Interminably,’ said Pinar. ‘But it doesn’t change the situation. The Gan is a pig. Worse, he is incompetent. But in leaving, you are just making sure your comrades have no chance at all.’
‘They haven’t any chance anyway,’ said the short one with the blond moustache. ‘If they had any sense, they would leave with us.’
‘Dorian, you are being selfish,’ said Pinar gently. ‘When the fighting starts, Gan Orrin will have to forget his idiot rules. We will all be too busy to worry about them.’
‘Well, I’ve had enough of it already,’ said Dorian. ‘Shining armour. Dawn parades. Forced marches. Midnight inspections. Penalties for sloppy salutes, uncombed crests, talking after lights out. The man’s mad.’
‘If you’re caught, you will be hung,’ said Pinar.
‘He doesn’t dare to send anyone after us. They would desert too. I came to Dros Delnoch to fight the Nadir. I left a farm, a wife and two daughters. I didn’t come here for all that shining armour garbage.’
‘Then go, my friend,’ said Pinar. ‘I hope you do not live to regret it.’
‘I do regret it already. But my mind is set,’ said Dorian. ‘I am heading south to join Woundweaver. Now there’s a soldier!’
‘Is Earl Delnar still alive?’ asked Druss. The young warrior nodded absently. ‘How many men still hold their positions?’
‘What?’ said Pinar, realising Druss was speaking to him.
‘How many men have you at Delnoch?’
‘What concern is it of yours?’
‘It’s where I am heading.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have been asked, young laddie,’ said Druss. ‘And in more years than I care to remember, I have never turned down a request from a friend.’