The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘Yes, sir.’ The officers arrived, saluted, then removed their helms, holding them under their arms. Marlham looked terribly tired, the iron-grey stubble on his cheeks adding ten years to him. Premian, though much younger, also looked weary, with dark rings under his pale blue eyes.

‘How is morale?’ Gargan asked the older man.

‘Better now we are here,’ he said. ‘The Nadir are not known for their defensive abilities. Most of the men believe that once we have reached the ramparts they will run.’

‘Probably true,’ said Gargan. ‘I want Lancers ringing the walls. They must not be allowed to escape – not one of them. You understand me?’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I do not believe they will run,’ put in Premian. ‘They will fight to the death. This Shrine is their one great holy place.’

‘That is not the Nadir way,’ sneered Gargan. ‘You don’t understand these vermin – cowardice is built into them! You think they will care about Oshikai’s bones once the arrows fly and cold steel scores their flesh? They won’t.’

Premian drew in a deep breath. ‘Okai will. He is no coward. He is a trained tactician – the best we ever saw at Bodacas.’

Gargan surged to his feet. ‘Do not praise him!’ he roared. ‘The man murdered my son!’

‘I grieved for your loss, general; Argo was a friend of mine. But that evil deed does not change Okai’s talents. He will have banded those men together and he understands discipline and morale. They won’t run.’

‘Then let them stand and die,’ shouted Gargan. ‘I never yet met any ten Nadir who could outfight a single Gothir swordsman. How many men do they have? Two hundred. By dusk we’ll have twice that many infantry storming the walls. Whether they stand or run is immaterial.’

‘They also have the man, Druss,’ said Premian.

‘What are you saying? Is Druss a demi-god? Will he cast mountains down upon us?’

‘No, sir,’ said Premian evenly, ‘but he is a legend among his own people. And we know, to our cost, that he can fight. He slew seven of our Lancers when they attacked the renegade camp. He is a fearsome warrior, and the men are already talking about him. No-one relishes going up against that axe.’

Gargan looked hard at the young man. ‘What are you suggesting, Premian? That we go home?*

‘No, sir. We have our orders, and they must be carried out. All I am saying is that we should treat them with a little more respect. In an hour our infantry will assault the walls. If they believe – wrongly – that the defence will be no more than token they will be in for a terrible surprise. We could lose a hundred men before dusk. They are already tired and thirsty; it would mean a bitter blow to morale.’

‘I disagree, sir,’ said Marlham. ‘If we tell them that the assault will be murderous, then we risk instilling a fear of defeat in them. Such fears can prove self-fulfilling prophecies.’

‘That’s not what I am saying,’ insisted Premian. ‘Tell them the defenders are ready to lay down their lives, and that the battle will not be easy. Then impress upon them that they are Gothir soldiers, and no-one can stand against them.’

Gargan returned to the bed, where he sat in silence for several minutes. At last he looked up. ‘I still think they will run. However, it would be a foolhardy general who did not allow for a margin of error. Do it, Premian. Warn them and lift them.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘When the hour is up, release the prisoner. Send him towards their walls. When he is close enough for the defenders to see him, have three mounted archers cut him down.’

Premian saluted and replaced his helm.

‘No words of condemnation, Premian ?’ asked Gargan.

‘No, sir. I have no taste for such things, but the sight of him will unnerve the defenders. Of that there is no doubt.’

‘Good. You are learning.’

Sieben gazed out at the Gothir army, and felt the cold touch of panic in his belly. ‘I think I’ll wait in the hospital, old horse,’ he told Druss.