David Gemmell - Legend

"I take your point," said Rek, "and it is a good one…"

"You may think so. Others may not!" snapped Virae.

"It is a good one," continued Rek smoothly. "These meetings are no place for sabre-rattling speeches. We must, as you say, examine realities. The first reality is this: we are well-trained, well-supplied and we hold the mightiest fortress ever built. The second reality is that Magnus Wound-weaver needs time to train and build an army to resist the Nadir even if Delnoch falls. There is no point in discussing surrender at this time, but we will bear it in mind for future meetings.

"Now is there any other town business to discuss, for the hour is late and we have kept you overlong, my dear Bricklyn?"

"No, my lord, I think we have concluded our business," answered the burgher.

"Then may I thank you for your help — and your sage counsel — and bid you goodnight."

The burgher stood, bowed to Rek and Virae and left the room. For several seconds they listened to his departing footsteps. Virae, flushed and angry, was about to speak when Serbitar broke the silence.

"That was well said, my lord Earl, he will be a thorn in our side."

"He is a political animal," said Rek. "He cares nothing for morality, honour or pride. But he has his place and his uses. What of tomorrow, Serbitar?"

"The Nadir will begin with at least three hours of ballistae bombardment. Since they cannot advance their army while such an assault is in progress, I would suggest we retire all but fifty men to Musif an hour before dawn. When the barrage ceases we will move forward.

"And what," said Orrin, "if they launch their second assault at dawn? They will be over the walls before our force can reach the battlements."

"They do not plan such a move," said the albino simply.

Orrin was unconvinced, but felt uncomfortable in the presence of Serbitar. Rek noted his concern.

"Believe me, my friend, The Thirty have powers beyond the ken of normal men. If he says it, then it is so."

"We shall see, my lord," said Orrin doubtfully.

"How is Druss?" asked Virae. "He looked quite exhausted when I saw him at dusk."

"The woman Caessa tended to him," said Hogun, "and she says he will be well. He is resting at the hospital."

Rek wandered to the window, opened it and breathed in the crisp night air. From here he could see far down into the valley, where the Nadir camp-fires blazed. His eyes rested on the Eldibar hospital, where lamps still burned.

"Who would be a surgeon?" he said.

At Eldibar Calvar Syn, waist wrapped in a bloody leather apron, moved like a sleepwalker. Fatigue bit deep into his bones as he moved from bed to bed, administering potions.

The day had been a nightmare — more than a nightmare — for the bald, one-eyed surgeon. In thirty years he had seen death many times. He had watched men die who should have lived and seen men survive wounds which should have slain them outright. And often his own very special skills had thwarted death where others could not even staunch the wound. But today had been the worst day of his life. Four hundred strong young men, this morning fit and in their prime, were now rotting meat. Scores of others had lost limbs or fingers. Those with major wounds had been transferred to Musif. The dead had been carted back behind Wall Six for burial beyond the gates.

Around the weary surgeon orderlies flung buckets of salted water to the bloody floor, brushing away the debris of pain.

Calvar Syn walked silently into Druss's room and gazed down on the sleeping figure. By the bedside hung Snaga, the silver slayer. "How many more, you butcher?" said Calvar. The old man stirred, but did not wake.

The surgeon stumbled into the corridor and made his way to his own room. There he hurled the apron across a chair and slumped to his bed, lacking even the energy to pull a blanket across his body. Sleep would not come. Nightmare images of agony and horror flitted across his mind and he began to sob. A face entered his mind, elderly and gentle. The face grew, absorbing his anguish and radiating harmony. Larger and larger it became, until like a warm blanket it covered his pain. And he slept, deep and dreamless.

"He rests now," said Vintar, as Rek turned away from the window in the Keep.

"Good," said Rek. "He won't rest much tomorrow. Serbitar, have you had any more thoughts about our traitor?"

The albino shook his head. "I don't know what we can do. We are watching the food and the wells. There is no other way he can affect us. You are guarded, as is Druss and Virae."

"We must find him," said Rek. "Can you not enter the mind of every man in the fortress?"

"Of course! We would surely have an answer for you within three months."

"I take the point," Rek said, smiling ruefully.

Khitan stood silently watching the smoke billow up from his towers. His face was expressionless, his eyes dark and shrouded. Ulric approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"They were just wood, my friend."

"Yes, my lord. I was thinking that in future we need a false-fronted screen of soaking hides. It should not be too difficult, though the increased weight could prove a problem in terms of stability."

Ulric laughed. "I thought to find you broken with grief. And yet already you plan."

"I feel stupid, yes," answered Khitan. "I should have foreseen the use of the oil. I knew the timbers would never burn merely from fire arrows, and gave no thought to other combustibles. No one will beat us like that again."

"Most assuredly, my learned architect," said Ulric, bowing.

Khitan chuckled. "The years are making me pompous, my lord. Deathwalker did well today. He is a worthy opponent."

"Indeed he is — but I don't think today's plan was his. They have white templars among them, who destroyed Nosta Khan's acolytes."

"I thought there was some devilry in that," muttered Khitan. "What will you do with the defenders when we take the fortress?"

"I have said that I will slay them."

"I know. I wondered if you had changed your mind. They are valiant."

"And I respect them. But the Drenai must learn what happens to those who oppose me."

"So, my lord, what will you do?"

"I shall burn them all on one great funeral pyre — all save one who shall live to carry the tale."

An hour before dawn, Caessa slipped silently into Druss's room and approached the bedside. The warrior was sleeping deeply, lying on his belly with his massive forearms cradling his head. As she watched him Druss stirred. He opened his eyes, focusing on her slender legs clad in thigh-length doeskin boots. Then his gaze travelled upwards. She wore a body-hugging green tunic with a thick, silver-studded leather belt that accentuated her small waist. By her side hung a short sword with an ebony handle. He rolled over and met her gaze — there was anger in her tawny eyes.

"Finished your inspection?" she snapped.

"What ails you, girl?"

All emotion left her face, withdrawing like a cat into shadows.

"Nothing. Turn over, I want to check your back."

Skilfully she began to knead at the muscles of his shoulder-blade, her fingers like steel pins, causing him to grunt occasionally through gritted teeth.

"Turn over again."

With Druss once more on his back she lifted his right arm, locked her own arms around it and gave a sharp pull and twist. A violent cracking sound followed and for a fraction of a second Druss thought she had broken his shoulder. Releasing his arm, she rested it on his left shoulder, then crossed his left arm to sit on the right shoulder. Leaning forward to pull him on his side, she placed her clenched fist under his spine between the shoulder-blades, then rolled him back. Suddenly she threw her weight across his chest, forcing his spine into her fist. Twice more he grunted as alarming sounds filled the air which he identified as a kind of crunching snap. Sweat beaded his forehead.