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Legend - David Gemmell
- Дата:20.06.2024
- Категория: Разная литература / Прочее
- Название: Legend
- Автор: David Gemmell
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Описание онлайн-книги Legend - David Gemmell:
Druss, Captain of the Axe, was the stuff of legends. But even as the stories grew in the telling, Druss himself grew older. He turned his back on his own legend and retreated to a mountain lair to await his old enemy, death. Meanwhile, barbarian hordes were on the march. Nothing could stand in their way. Druss reluctantly agreed to come out of retirement. But could even Druss live up to his own legends?
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"Thank you, brother," he pulsed to Arbedark on Wall Two.
Rek, while lacking Serbitar's grace and lethal speed, used his sword to no less effect, gripping it two-handed to bludgeon his way to victory beside Druss. A hurled knife glanced from his breastplate, slicing the skin over his bicep. He cursed and ignored the pain, as he ignored other minor injuries received that day: the gashed thigh and the ribs bruised by a Nadir javelin which had been turned aside by his breastplate and mail-shirt.
Five Nadir burst through the defences and raced on towards the defenceless stretcher-bearers. Bowman skewered the first from forty paces, and Caessa the second, then Bar Britan raced to intercept them with two of his men. The battle was brief and fierce, the blood from Nadir corpses staining the earth.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a change was coming over the battle. Fewer tribesmen were gaining the walls, for their comrades had been forced back to the battlements, and there was little room to gain purchase. The Nadir now fought not to conquer, but to survive. The tide of war — fickle at best — had turned and they had become the defenders.
But the Nadir were grim men, and brave. For they neither cried out nor sought to surrender, but stood their ground and died fighting.
One by one they fell, until the last of the warriors was swept from the battlements to lie broken on the rocks below.
Silently now the Nadir army retired from the field, stopping out of bowshot to slump to the ground and stare back at the Dros with dull, unremitting hatred. Black plumes of smoke rose from the smouldering towers and the stink of death filled their nostrils.
Rek leaned on the battlements and rubbed his face with a bloodied hand. Druss walked forward, wiping Snaga clean with a piece of torn cloth. Blood flecked the iron grey of the old man's beard and he smiled at the new Earl.
"You took my advice then, Laddie?"
"Only just," said Rek. "Still, we didn't do too badly today?"
"This was just a sortie. The real test will come tomorrow."
* * *Druss was wrong. Three time more the Nadir attacked that day before dusk sent them back to their camp fires, dejected and temporarily defeated. On the battlements weary men slumped to the bloody ground, tossing aside helmets and shields. Stretcher bearers carried wounded men from the scene, while the corpses were left to lie for the time being; their needs no longer being urgent. Three teams were detailed to check the bodies of Nadir warriors; the dead were hurled from the battlements, the living despatched with speed and their bodies pitched to the plain below.
Druss rubbed his tired eyes. His shoulder burned with fatigue, his knee was swollen and his limbs felt leaden. But he had come through the day better than he had hoped. He glanced around. Some men lay sprawled asleep on the stone. Others merely sat with their backs to the walls, eyes glazed and minds wandering. There was little conversation. Further along the wall the young Earl was talking to the albino. They had both fought well and the albino seemed fresh; only the blood which spattered his white cloak and breastplate gave evidence of his day's work. Regnak, though, seemed tired enough for both. His face, grey with exhaustion, looked older, the lines more deeply carved. Dust, blood and sweat merged together on his features, and a rough bandage on his forearm was beginning to drip blood to the stones.
"You'll do, laddie," said Druss softly.
"Druss, old horse, how are you feeling?" Bowman asked.
"I have had better days," snarled the old man, lurching upright and gritting his teeth against the pain from his knee. The young archer almost made the mistake of offering Druss an arm to lean on, but checked himself in time. "Come and see Caessa," he said.
"About the last thing I need now is a woman. I'll get some sleep," answered Druss. "Just here will be fine." With his back to the wall he slid gently to the ground, keeping his injured knee straight. Bowman turned and walked back to the mess hall where he found Caessa and explained the problem. After a short argument, she gathered some linen while Bowman sought a jug of water, and in the gathering twilight they walked back to the battlements. Druss was asleep, but he awoke as they approached him.
The girl was a beauty, no doubt about that. Her hair was auburn, but gold tinted in the moonlight, matching the tawny flecks in her eyes. She stirred his blood as few women had the power to do now. But there was something else about her: something unattainable. She crouched down by him, her slender fingers probing gently at the swollen knee. Druss grunted as she dug more deeply. Then she removed his boot and rolled up the trouser leg. The knee was discoloured and puffy, the veins in the calf below swollen and tender.
"Lie back," she told him. Moving alongside him, left hand curled around his thigh, she lifted the leg and held his ankle in her right hand. Slowly she flexed the joint.
"There is water on the knee," she said, as she set down his leg and began to massage the joint. Druss closed his eyes. The sharpness of the pain receded to a dull ache. The minutes passed and he dozed. She woke him with a light slap on the calf and he found his knee was tightly bandaged.
"What other problems do you have?" she asked, coolly.
"None," he said.
"Don't lie to me, old man. Your life depends on it."
"My shoulder burns," he admitted.
"You can walk now. Come with me to the hospital and I will ease the pain." She gestured to Bowman, who leaned forward and helped the axeman to his feet. The knee felt good, better than it had in weeks.
"You have real skill, woman," he said. "Real skill."
"I know. Walk slowly — it will feel a little sore by the time we get there."
In a side room at the hospital, she told him to remove his clothes. Bowman smiled, and leaned back against the door with arms folded across his chest.
"All of them?" asked Druss.
"Yes. Are you shy?"
"Not if you're not," said Druss, slipping from his jerkin and shirt, then sitting on the bed to remove his trousers and boots.
"Now what?" he asked.
Caessa stood before him, examining him critically, running her hands over his broad shoulders and probing his muscles.
"Stand up," she told him, "and turn round." He did so and she scrutinised his back. "Move your right arm above your head — slowly." As the examination continued Bowman watched the old warrior, marvelling at the number of scars he carried. Everywhere: front and back; some long and straight, others jagged; some stitched, others blotchy and overlapped. His legs too, showed evidence of many light wounds. But by far the greatest number were in the front. Bowman smiled. You have always faced your enemies, Druss, he thought.
Caessa told the warrior to lie on the bed, face down, and began to manipulate the muscles of his back, easing out knots, and pummelling crystals under the shoulder-blades.
"Get me some oil," she asked Bowman, without looking round. He fetched liniment from the stores, then left the girl to her work. For over an hour she massaged the old man, until at last her own arms burned with fatigue. Druss had fallen asleep long since, and she covered him with a blanket and silently left the room. In the corridor outside she stood for a moment, listening to the cries of the wounded in the makeshift wards and watching the orderlies assisting the surgeons. The smell of death was strong here and she made her way out into the night.
The stars were bright, like frozen snowflakes on a velvet blanket, the moon a bright silver coin at the centre. She shivered. Ahead of her a tall man in black and silver armour strode towards the mess hall. It was Hogun. He saw her and waved, changed direction and came towards her. She cursed under her breath; she was tired and in no mood for male company.
"How is he?" asked Hogun.
"Tough!" she said.
"I know that, Caessa. The whole world knows it. But how is he?"
"He's old, and he's tired — exhausted. And that's after only one day. Don't pin too many hopes on him. He has a knee which could collapse under him at any time, a bad back which will grow worse and too many crystals in too many joints."
"You paint a pessimistic picture," said the general.
"I tell it as it is. It is a miracle that he's alive tonight. I cannot see how a man of his age, with the physical injuries he's carrying, could fight all day and survive."
"And he went where the fighting was thickest," said Hogun. "As he will do tomorrow."
"If you want him to survive, make sure he rests the day after."
"He will never stand for it," said Hogun.
"Yes, he will. He may get through tomorrow — and that I doubt. But by tomorrow night he will hardly be able to move his arm. I will help him, but he will need to rest one day in three. And an hour before dawn tomorrow, I want a hot tub set up in his room here. I will massage him again before the battle begins."
"You're spending a lot of time over a man you described as 'old and tired,' and whose deeds you mocked only a short-time since?"
"Don't be a fool, Hogun. I am spending this time with him because he is old and tired, and though I do not hold him in the same reverence as you, I can see that the men need him. Hundreds of little boys playing at soldiers to impress an old man who thrives on war."
"I will see that he rests after tomorrow," said Hogun.
"If he survives," Caessa added grimly.
21
By midnight the final toll for the first day's battle was known. Four hundred and seven men were dead. One hundred and sixty-eight were wounded and half of those would not fight again.
The surgeons were still working and the head count was being double-checked. Many Drenai warriors had fallen from the battlements during the fighting, and only a complete roll call would supply their numbers.
Rek was horrified, though he tried not to show it during the meeting with Hogun and Orrin in the study above the great hall. There were seven present at this meeting: Hogun and Orrin representing the warriors; Bricklyn for the townsfolk; Serbitar, Vintar and Virae. Rek had managed to snatch four hours' sleep and felt fresher for it; the albino had slept not at all and seemed no different.
"These are grievous losses for one day's fighting," said Bricklyn. "At that rate, we could not hold out for more than two weeks." His greying hair was styled after the fashion of the Drenai court, swept back over his ears and tight-curled at the nape of the neck. His face, though fleshy, was handsome and he had a highly-practised charm. The man was a politician, and therefore not to be relied upon, thought Rek.
Serbitar answered Bricklyn. "Statistics mean nothing on the first day," he said. "The wheat is being separated from the chaff."
"What does that mean, Prince of Dros Segril?" asked the burgher, the question more sharp in the absence of his usual smile.
"No disrespect was intended to the dead," replied Serbitar. "It is merely a reality in war that the men with the least skill are those first to fall. Losses are always greater at the outset. The men fought well, but many of the dead lacked skill — that is why they are dead. The losses will diminish, but they will still be high."
"Should we not concern ourselves with what is tolerable?" asked the burgher, turning to Rek. "After all, if we should believe that the Nadir will breach the walls eventually, what is the point of continued resistance? Are lives worth nothing?"
"Are you suggesting surrender?" asked Virae.
"No, my lady," replied Bricklyn smoothly. "That is for the warriors to decide and I will back any decision they make. But I believe we must examine alternatives. Four hundred men died today and they should be honoured for their sacrifice. But what of tomorrow? And the day after. We must be careful that we do not put pride before reality."
"What is he talking about?" Virae asked Rek. "I cannot understand any of it."
"What are these alternatives you speak of?" said Rek. "As I see it, there are only two. We fight and win, or we fight and lose."
"These are the plans uppermost at this time," said Bricklyn. "But we must think of the future. Do we believe we can hold out here? If so, we must fight on by all means. But if not, then we must pursue an honourable peace, as other nations have done."
"What is an honourable peace?" asked Hogun, softly.
"It is where enemies become friends and quarrels are forgotten. It is where we receive the Lord Ulric into the city as an ally to Drenan, having first obtained from him the promise that no harm will come to the inhabitants. Ultimately all wars are so concluded — as evidenced by the presence here of Serbitar, a Vagrian price. Thirty years ago, we were at war with Vagria. Now we are friends. In thirty years' time, we may have meetings like this with Nadir princes. We must establish perspectives here."
"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."
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