David Gemmell - Legend Страница 19

"Get out of my head, you whore-son!" bellowed the old man, rolling from the bed.

"I am of The Thirty. We are travelling to Dros Delnoch to aid you. Listen to me!"

"Get out of my head!"

Serbitar had no choice, for the pain was incredible. He released the old warrior and returned to the ship.

Druss staggered to his feet, fell and rose again. The door opened and Calvar Syn moved swiftly to him.

"I told you not to get up before noon," he snapped.

"Voices," said Druss. "Voices… Inside my head!"

"Lie down. Now listen. You are the Captain and you expect men to obey you. That's what discipline is about. I am the Surgeon and I expect to be obeyed by my patients. Now tell me about the voices."

Druss laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. His head ached abominably and his stomach was still queasy. "There was only one voice. It said my name. Then it said it was from The Thirty and that they were coming to aid us."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. What is happening to me, Calvar? I've never had this before from a blow on the head."

"It could be the blow; concussion can cause some very strange effects — including seeing visions and hearing voices. But they rarely last. Take my advice, Druss. The worst thing you can do at the moment is get over-excited. You could black out… or worse. Blows to the head can be fatal, even after a period of several days. I want you to rest and relax, and if the voice comes again listen to it — even reply to it. But do not become alarmed. Understand?"

"Of course I understand," said Druss. "I don't normally panic, doctor, but some things I do not like."

"I know that, Druss. Do you need something to help you sleep now?"

"No. Wake me at noon. I have to judge a contest of swordsmanship. And don't fret," he said, seeing the gleam of annoyance in the surgeon's one good eye, "I shall not get excited, and I will come straight back to bed afterwards."

Outside the room, Hogun and Orrin waited. Calvar Syn joined them, signalled for silence and beckoned them to a nearby office.

"I'm not happy," he told them. "He's hearing voices, and believe me, that is not a good sign. But he's strong as a bull."

"Is he in any danger?" asked Hogun.

"It's hard to say. This morning I didn't think so. But he has been under a lot of strain recently and that may not help his condition. And, although it is easy to forget, he is no longer a young man."

"What about the voices?" said Orrin. "Could he go mad?"

"I think I would bet against that," replied Calvar. "He said it was a message from The Thirty. Earl Delnar told me he had sent Virae to them with a message and it could be that they have a Speaker among them. Or it could be someone of Ulric's; he also has Speakers among his shaman. I have told Druss to relax and listen to any future voices, and report them to me."

"That one old man is vital to us," said Orrin, softly.

"Do everything you can, Calvar. It would be a hammer blow to morale if anything happened to him."

"Do you think I don't know that?" snapped the surgeon.

The banquet to celebrate the Open Swords was a raucous affair. All who had reached the Last Hundred were invited; officers and enlisted men were seated side by side, swapping jests, tales and tall, tall, stories.

Gilad was seated between Bar Britan, who had beaten him soundly, and Dun Pinar who had in turn vanquished Britan. The black-bearded Bar was cursing Pinar good-humouredly, and complaining that the latter's wooden sword lacked the balance of his own cavalry sabre.

"I'm surprised you didn't ask to be allowed to fight on horseback," said Pinar.

"But I did," protested Britan, "and they offered me the target pony." The three men burst into laughter which others joined as the joke spread around the table. The target pony was a saddle, tied to a moving rail and pulled by ropes. It was used for archery practice and jousting.

As the wine flowed Gilad relaxed. He had seriously considered missing the banquet, fearing that his background would leave him ill at ease with the officer class. He had only agreed to come when the men of his group had lobbied him, pointing out that he was the only member of Karnak who had reached the Last Hundred. Now he was glad he had been persuaded. Bar Britan was a dry, witty companion, while Pinar, despite his breeding — or perhaps because of it — made Gilad feel among friends.

At the far end of the table sat Druss, flanked by Hogun and Orrin, while beside them sat the archer leader from Skultik. Gilad knew nothing about the man, save that he had brought 600 bowmen to the Dros.

Hogun, in full Legion dress armour of silver breastplate edged with ebony, and black and silver mail-shirt, stared at the silver sword lying on the table before Druss.

The final had been watched by more than five thousand soldiers as Hogun and Orrin took their places. The first strike had been Hogun's, a neat parry and riposte after a four-minute duel. The second had been Orrin's, following a feint to the head. Hogun had blocked swiftly, but a subtle twist of the wrist sent his opponent's wooden blade down to touch Hogun's side. After some twenty minutes Hogun led by two strikes to one — one strike from victory.

During the first break Druss strolled to where Hogun and his seconds sat drinking watered wine in the shade of Wall One.

"Nice work," said Druss. "He's good, though."

"Yes," said Hogun, wiping the sweat from his brow with a white towel. "But he is not as strong on the right."

"True. But you are slow against the leg cut."

"A Lancer's main fault. It comes from too much work in the saddle," said Hogun. "He is shorter than I, which gives him an advantage in that respect."

"True. It has done Orrin good to reach the final. His cheers outnumber yours, I think?"

"Yes, but that will not disturb me," said Hogun.

"I hope it does not," said Druss. "Still, nothing could be better for morale than seeing the Fortress Gan perform so well." Hogun glanced up, holding Druss's gaze, then the old warrior smiled and moved back to his judge's seat.

"What was that about?" asked Elicas, walking behind Hogun and kneading the muscles of his neck and shoulder. "Encouraging words?"

"Yes," said Hogun. "Do some work on the forearm, will you? The muscles are knotted there."

The young general grunted as Elicas probed the flesh with his powerful thumbs. Was Druss asking him to lose? Surely not. And yet…

It would do no harm for Orrin to win the Silver Sword and would certainly increase his growing standing with the troops.

"What are you thinking?" asked Elicas.

"I'm thinking that he's weak on the right."

"You will take him, Hogun," said the young officer. "Try that vicious parry-riposte you used on me."

At two strikes even Hogun's wooden blade snapped. Orrin stepped back, allowing a replacement, and offered his opponent a swift practice with the new weapon. Hogun was unhappy with the balance and changed the sword again. He needed time to think. Had Druss suggested he lose?

"You're not concentrating," said Elicas sternly. "What's the matter with you? The Legion has a lot of wages tied up in this tourney."

"I know."

His mind cleared. No matter what the reason, he could not fight to lose.

He threw everything he could into the last attack, blocked a back-hand sweep and lunged. Just before his blade thudded against Orrin's belly, however, the Gan's sword tapped his neck. Orrin had read the move and lured him in. In real combat both men would have died, but this was not real combat and Orrin had won. The two men shook hands as the cheering soldiers swarmed forward.

"That's my money gone," said Elicas. "Still, there is a bright side."

"What's that?" said Hogun, rubbing at his burning forearm.

"I cannot afford to settle our own bet. You will have to stand for the wine. It's the least you can do, Hogun, after letting down the Legion!"

The banquet lifted Hogun's spirits and the speeches from Bar Britan on behalf of the soldiers and Dun Pinar for the officers were witty and short; the food was good, the wine and ale plentiful, and the camaraderie reassuring. It is hardly the same Dros, thought Hogun.

Outside at the portcullis gates, Bregan stood sentry duty with a tall young Cul from Group Fire. Bregan didn't know his name and couldn't ask, since sentries were forbidden to talk on duty. A strange rule, thought Bregan, but there to be obeyed.

The night was chill but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were back in the village with Lotis and the children. Sybad had received a letter that day, and all was well. Legan, Bregan's five-year-old son, was mentioned. It seemed that when he climbed a tall elm and couldn't get down, he had cried and called for his father. Bregan had asked Sybad to write a few words for him in his next letter home. He had wanted him to say how much he loved and missed them all, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Sybad to pen such endearments. Instead, he asked him to tell Legan to be a good boy and obey his mother. Sybad took notes from all the villagers and spent the early evening composing the letter, which was sealed in wax and delivered to the mail room. A rider would carry it south with other letters and army despatches for Drenan.

Lotis would have banked the fire by now and doused the lamps, Bregan thought. She would be lying in their rush-filled bed, probably asleep. Legan would be asleep beside her, he knew, for Lotis always found it difficult to sleep alone when Bregan was away.

"You will stop the savages, daddy, won't you?"

"Yes," Bregan had told him. "But they probably won't come. The politicians will sort it out, just like they have always done before/ "

"Will you be home soon?"

"I'll be back for Harvest Supper."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

The banquet over, Druss invited Orrin, Hogun, Elicas and Bowman to the Earl's study above the great hall. The servant Arshin brought them wine and Druss introduced the outlaw to the fortress leaders. Orrin shook hands coolly, his eyes showing his distaste. For two years he had sent patrols into Skultik with orders to catch and hang the outlaw leader. Hogun was less concerned with Bowman's pedigree and more interested in the skills the outlaws could bring. Elicas had no preconceived opinion, but instinctively liked the blond archer.

Once seated, Bowman cleared his throat and told them the size of the Nadir horde gathered at Gulgothir.

"How do you come by this intelligence?" asked Orrin.

"Three days ago we… met… some travellers in Skultik. They were journeying from Dros Purdol to Segril and had come across the northern desert.

"They were waylaid near Gulgothir and taken into the city, where they stayed for four days. Because they were Vagrian merchants they were treated civilly, but questioned by a Nadir officer called Surip. One of them is a former Vagrian officer, and he made the estimate of their strength."

"But half a million?" said Orrin. "I thought the figure was exaggerated."

"Underplayed, if anything," said Bowman. "Outlying tribes were still coming in when he left. I'd say you will have quite a battle on your hands."

"I don't wish to be pedantic," said Hogun, "but do you not mean we have a battle on our hands?"

Bowman glanced at Druss. "Have you not told them, old horse? No? Ah, what a deliriously embarrassing moment, to be sure."

"Told us what?" asked Orrin.

"That they are mercenaries," said Druss, uneasily. "They stay only until the fall of Wall Three. It has been agreed."

"And for this… this pitiful aid they expect pardons!" shouted Orrin, rising to his feet. "I will see them swing first."

"After Wall Three we will have less need of archers," said Hogun calmly. "There is no killing ground."

"We need archers, Orrin," said Druss. "We need them badly. And this man has 600 of the finest. We know walls will fall, and we will need every shaft. The postern gates will be sealed by then. I don't like this situation either, but needs must… Better to have cover for the first three walls than to have none at all. Do you agree?"

"And if I don't?" said the Gan, still angry.

"Then I shall send them away," said Druss. Hogun began an angry outburst, but was silenced by a wave of Druss's hand. "You are the Gan, Orrin. It is your decision."

Orrin sat down, breathing deeply. He had made many mistakes before Druss arrived — he knew that now. This situation angered him deeply, but he had no choice but to back the axeman and Druss knew it too. The two men exchanged glances and smiled.

"They shall stay," said Orrin.

"A wise decision," said Bowman. "How soon will the Nadir arrive, do you think?"

"Too damned soon," muttered Druss. "Some time within the next three weeks, according to our scouts. Ulric lost a son, which has given us a few more days. But it's still not enough."

For some time the men discussed the many problems facing the defenders. Finally Bowman spoke, this time hesitantly.

"Look here, Druss, there is something I feel I should mention, but I don't want to be thought… strange. I've been toying with the idea of not mentioning it, but…"

"Speak on, laddie. You're among friends… mostly."

"I had a strange dream last night and you appeared in it. I would have dismissed it — but seeing you today made me think again. I dreamed I was woken from a deep sleep by a warrior in silver armour. I could see right through him, as if he was a ghost. He told me that he had been trying to contact you, but without success. When he spoke it was like a voice in my mind. He said that his name was Serbitar and that he was travelling with his friends and a woman called Virae.

"He said it was important for me to tell you to collect inflammables and containers, since Ulric has built great siege towers. He also suggested fire gullies across the spaces between walls. In my mind he showed me a vision of you being attacked. He told me a name: Musar.

"Does any of it make any sense?"

For a moment no one spoke, although Druss seemed hugely relieved.

"Indeed it does, laddie. Indeed it does!"

Hogun poured a fresh glass of Lentrian and passed it to Bowman.

"What did this warrior look like?" he asked.

"Tall, slender. I think his hair was white, though he was young."

"It is Serbitar," said Hogun. "The vision is a true one."

"You know him?" asked Druss.

"Of him only. He is the son of Earl Drada of Dros Segril. It is said that the boy was fey and had a demon; he could read men's thoughts. He is an albino, and as you know the Vagrians consider this an ill omen. He was sent to the Temple of The Thirty, south of Drenan, when he was about thirteen. It is also said that his father tried to smother him when he was a babe, but that the child sensed him coming and hid outside his bedroom window. These, of course, are but stories."

"Well, his talents have grown, it seems," said Druss, "But I don't give a damn. He'll be useful here — especially if he can read Ulric's mind."

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