‘I do not find you in good health, my lord,’ said Druss.
‘Still the blunt speaker, I see! No, you do not. I am dying, Druss.’ He patted the young soldier’s arm. ‘Ease me into that chair by the sunlight, Mendar.’ The young man pulled the chair into place. Once settled, the Earl smiled his thanks and dismissed him to fetch wine. ‘You frightened the boy, Druss. He was shaking more than I – and I have good reason.’ He stopped speaking and began to take deep, shuddering breaths. His arms trembled. Druss leaned forward, resting a huge hand on the frail shoulder, wishing he could pour strength into the man. ‘I will not last another week. But Vintar came to me in a dream yesterday. He rides with The Thirty and my Virae. They will be here within the month.’
‘So will the Nadir,’ said Druss, pulling up a high-backed chair to sit opposite the dying Earl.
‘True. In the interim I would like you to take over the Dros. Prepare the men. Desertions are high. Morale is low. You must. . . take over.’ Once more the Earl paused to breathe.
‘I cannot do that – even for you. I am no general, Delnar. A man must know his limitations. I am a warrior – sometimes a champion, but never a Gan. I understand little of the clerk’s work involved in running this city. No, I cannot do that. But I will stay and fight – that will have to be enough.’
The Earl’s fever-sick eyes focused on the ice-blue orbs of the axeman. ‘I know your limitations, Druss, and I understand your fears. But there is no one else. When The Thirty arrive they will plan and organise. Until then, it is as a warrior that you will be needed. Not to fight, although the gods know how well you do that, but to train: to pass on your years of experience. Think of the men here as a rusty weapon which needs a warrior’s firm hand. It needs to be sharpened, honed, prepared. It’s useless else.’
‘I may have to kill Gan Orrin,’ said Druss.
‘No! You must understand that he is not evil, nor even wilful. He is a man out of his depth, and struggling hard. I don’t think he lacks courage. See him and then judge for yourself.’
A racking cough burst from the old man’s lips, his body shuddering violently. Blood frothed at his mouth as Druss leapt to his side. The Earl’s hand fluttered towards his sleeve and the cloth held there. Druss pulled it clear and dabbed the Earl’s mouth, easing him forward and gently tapping his back. At last the fit subsided.
‘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.’