Drenai Saga 01 - Legend (17 page)

“Dun Pinar is your man,” said Hogun. “He virtually runs the Dros now.”

Druss’s eyes were cold as he leaned toward the young general. “There will be no more comments like that, Hogun. It does not become a professional soldier. We start today with a clean slate. Yesterday is gone. I shall make my own judgments, and I do not expect my officers to make sly comments about each other.”

“I would have thought you would want the truth,” interposed Elicas before Hogun could answer.

“The truth is a strange animal, laddie. It seems to vary from man to man. Now keep silent. Understand me, Hogun, I value you. Your record is a good one. But from now on no one speaks ill of the first gan. It is not good for morale, and what is not good for our morale is good for the Nadir. We have enough problems.” Druss stretched out a length of parchment and pushed it to Elicas with a quill and ink. “Make yourself useful, boy, and take notes. Put Pinar at the top; he is our quartermaster. Now, we will need fifty medical orderlies and two hundred stretcher-bearers. The first Calvar Syn can choose from volunteers, but the bearers will need someone to train them. I want them to be able to run all day. Missael knows they will need to when the action gets warm. These men will need stout hearts. It is no easy thing to run about on a battlefield lightly armed. For they will not be able to carry swords and stretchers.

“So who do you suggest to pick and train them?”

Hogun turned to Elicas, who shrugged.

“You must be able to suggest someone,” said Druss.

“I don’t know the men of Dros Delnoch that well, sir,” said Hogun, “and no one from the legion would be appropriate.”

“Why not?”

“They are warriors. We shall need them on the wall.”

“Who is your best ranker?”

“Bar Britan. But he’s a formidable warrior, sir.”

“That is why he is the man. Listen well: The stretcher-bearers will be armed with daggers only, and they will risk their lives as much as the men battling on the walls. But it is not a glorious task, so the importance of it must be highlighted. When you name your best ranker as the man to train the bearers and work with them during the battle, this will come home to them. Bar Britan must also be given fifty men of his choice as a moving troop to protect the bearers as best he can.”

“I bow to your logic, Druss,” said Hogun.

“Bow to nothing, son. I make mistakes as well as any man. If you think me wrong, be so good as to damn well say so.”

“Put your mind at rest on that score, Axman!” snapped Hogun.

“Good! Now, as to training. I want the men trained in groups of fifty. Each group is to have a name; choose them from legends, names of heroes, battlefields, whatever, as long as the names stir the blood.

“There will be one officer to each group and five rankers, each commanding ten men. These underleaders will be chosen after the first three days training. By then we should have taken their mark. Understood?”

“Why names?” asked Hogun. “Would it not be simpler if each group had a number? Gods, man, that’s 180 names to find!”

“There is more to warfare, Hogun, than tactics and training. I want proud men on those walls. Men who know their comrades and can identify with them. Group Karnak will be representing Karnak the One-Eyed, where Group Six would be merely identified.

“Throughout the next few weeks we will set one group against another in work, play, and mock combat. We will weld them into units—proud units. We will mock and cajole them, sneer at them even. Then, slowly, when they hate us more than they do the Nadir, we will praise them. In as short a time as possible we must make them think of themselves as an elite force. That’s half the battle. These are desperate, bloody days, days of death. I want men on those walls, strong men, fit men—but most of all, proud men.

“Tomorrow you will choose the officers and allocate the groups. I want the groups running until they drop and then running again. I want sword practice and wall scaling. I want demolition work done by day and night. After ten days we will move on to unit work. I want the stretcher-bearers running with loads of rock until their arms burn and their muscles tear.

“I want every building from Wall Four to Wall Six razed to the ground and the tunnels blocked.

“I want one thousand men at a time working on the demolition in three-hour shifts. That should straighten backs and strengthen sword arms.

“Any questions?”

Hogun spoke: “No. Everything you wish for will be done. But I want to know this: Do you believe the Dros can hold until the autumn?”

“Of course I do, laddie,” lied Druss easily. “Why else would I bother? The point is, do
you
believe it?”

“Oh, yes,” lied Hogun smoothly. “Without a doubt.”

The two men grinned.

“Join me in a glass of Lentrian red,” said Druss. “Thirsty work, this planning business!”

11

I
n a wooden
loft, its window in the shadow of the great keep, a man waited, drumming his fingers on the broad table. Behind him, pigeons ruffled their feathers within a wickerwork coop. The man was nervous. On edge.

Footsteps on the stairs made him reach for a slender dagger. He cursed and wiped his sweating palm on his woolen trousers.

A second man entered, pushed the door shut, and sat opposite the first.

The newcomer spoke: “Well? What orders are there?”

“We wait. But that may change when word reaches them that Druss is here.”

“One man can make no difference,” said the newcomer.

“Perhaps not. We shall see. The tribes will be here in five weeks.”

“Five? I thought …”

“I know,” said the first man. “But Ulric’s firstborn is dead. A horse fell on him. The funeral rites will take five days, and it’s a bad omen for Ulric.”

“Bad omens can’t stop a Nadir horde from taking this decrepit fortress.”

“What is Druss planning?”

“He means to seal the tunnels. That’s all I know so far.”

“Come back in three days,” said the first man. He took a small piece of paper and began to write in tiny letters upon it. He shook sand on the ink, blew it, then reread what he had written:

Deathwalker here. Tunnels sealed. Morale higher
.

“Perhaps we should kill Druss,” said the newcomer, rising.

“If we are told to,” said the first man. “Not before.”

“I will see you in three days, then.”

At the door he adjusted his helm, sweeping his cloak back over his shoulder badge.

He was a Drenai dun.

Cul Gilad lay slumped on the short grass by the wall of the cookhouse at Eldibar, breath heaving from his lungs in convulsive gasps. His dark hair hung in lank rats’ tails that dripped sweat to his shoulders. He turned on his side, groaning with the effort. Every muscle in his body seemed to be screaming at him. Three times he and Bregan, with forty-eight others of Group Karnak, had raced against five other groups from Wall One to Wall Two, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Three, scaled the knotted ropes, moved to Wall Four … An endless, mindless agony of effort.

Only his fury kept him going, especially after the first wall. The white-bearded old bastard had watched him beat six hundred men to Wall Two, his burning legs and tired arms pumping and pulling in full armor. First man! And what did he say? “A staggering old man followed by staggering old women. Well, don’t just lie there, boy. On to Wall Three!”

Then he had laughed. It was the laugh that had done it.

Gilad could have killed him then—slowly. For five miserable endless days the soldiers of Dros Delnoch had run, climbed, fought, torn down buildings in the teeth of hysterical curses from the dispossessed owners, and trundled cart upon cart of rubble into the tunnels at Walls One and Two. Working by day and night, they were bone weary. And still that fat old man urged them on.

Archery tourneys, javelin contests, swordplay, dagger work, and wrestling in between the heavy work made sure that few of the culs bothered to frequent the taverns near the keep.

Damned legion did, though. They glided through the training with grim smiles and hurled scornful jests at the farmers who sought to keep up with them. Let them try working eighteen hours in the fields, thought Gilad. Bastards!

Grunting with pain, he sat up, pushing his back against the wall, and watched others training. He had ten minutes yet before the next shift was required to fill the rubble carts. Stretcher-bearers toiled across the open ground, bearing rocks twice the weight of an injured man. Many had bandaged hands. Alongside them the black-bearded Bar Britan shouted them on.

Bregan tottered toward him and slumped to the grass. His face was cherry red. Silently he handed Gilad an orange half; it was sweet and fresh.

“Thanks, Breg.” Gilad’s eyes moved over the other eight men in his group. Most were lying silently, though Midras had begun to retch. The idiot had a girl in the town and had visited her the night before, creeping back into barracks for an hour’s sleep before daybreak.

He was paying for it now. Bregan was bearing up well: a little faster, a little fitter. And he never complained, which was a wonder.

“Almost time, Gil,” he said. Gilad glanced toward the tunnel, where the work was slowing down. Other members of Group Kamak were moving toward the partly demolished homes.

“Come on, lads,” said Gilad. “Let’s be sitting up. Let’s start taking some deep breaths.” Groans followed the order, and there was scarcely a movement from the men. “Come on, now. Group Kestrian is already moving. Bastards!” Gilad pushed himself to his feet, pulling Bregan up with him. Then he moved to each of the men. Slowly they rose and began to move toward the tunnel.

“I think I’m dying,” said Midras.

“You will if you let us down today,” muttered Gilad. “If that old swine laughs at us one more time …”

“A pox on him,” said Midras. “You don’t see him working up a sweat, do you?”

At dusk the weary men trooped away from the tunnels toward the peace and relative sanctuary of the barracks. They hurled themselves onto narrow cots and began to unbuckle breastplates and greaves.

“I don’t mind the work,” said Baile, a stocky farmer from a village neighboring Gilad’s, “but I don’t see why we have to do it in full armor.”

No one answered him.

Gilad was almost asleep when a voice bellowed: “Group Karnak to the parade ground!”

Druss stood in the parade ground square, hands on hips, his blue eyes scanning the exhausted men who stumbled from the barracks, their eyes squinting against the torchlight. Flanked by Hogun and Orrin, he smiled grimly as the men shambled into ranks.

The fifty men of Group Karnak were joined by Group Kestrian and Group Sword.

Silently they waited for whatever foul idea Druss had now dreamed up.

“You three groups,” said Druss, “are to run the length of the wall and back. The last man’s group will run again. Go!”

As the men set off for the grueling half mile, someone yelled from the crowd: “What about you, fat man? Coming?”

“Not this time,” Druss yelled back. “Don’t be last.”

“They’re exhausted,” said Orrin. “Is this wise, Druss?”

“Trust me. When the attacks come, men will be dragged from sleep fast enough. I want them to know their limits.”

Three more days passed. Tunnel One was almost filled, and work had begun on Tunnel Two. No one cheered now as Druss walked by, not even among the townsfolk. Many had lost their homes; others were losing business. A deputation had visited Orrin, begging for demolition to cease. Others found that the sight of the clear ground between walls only emphasized that Druss expected the Nadir to take the Dros. Resentment grew, but the old warrior swallowed his anger and pushed on with his plan.

On the ninth day something happened that gave the men a fresh topic of conversation.

As Group Karnak assembled for its run, Gan Orrin approached Dun Mendar, the officer commanding.

“I shall be running with your group today,” he said.

“You are taking over, sir?” said Mendar.

“No, no. Just running. A gan must be fit, too, Mendar.”

A sullen silence greeted Orrin as he joined the ranks, his bronze and gold armor setting him apart from the waiting soldiers.