But if the concept was simple, the practicalities had been plagued by complexities. Ceilings collapsed under the weight of armed men, walls gave way, wheels splintered, and worst of all, once it was over thirty feet high the structure was unstable and prone to tip.
Khitan recalled how for more than a year he had worked harder than his slaves, sleeping less than three hours a night. He had strengthened the ceilings, but this had merely made the entire structure more heavy and less stable. In despair he had reported to Ulric. The Nadir warlord had sent him to Ventria to study at the University of Tertullus. He felt that he had been disgraced, humiliated. Nevertheless he had obeyed; he would suffer anything to please Ulric.
But he had been wrong, and the year he had spent studying under Rebow, the Ventrian lecturer, had proved to be the most glorious time of his life.
He learned of mass centers, parallel vectors, and the need for equilibrium between external and internal forces. His appetite for knowledge was voracious, and Rebow found himself warming to the ugly Nadir tribesman. Before long the slender Ventrian invited Khitan to share his home, where studies could be carried on long into the night. The Nadir was tireless. Often Rebow would fall asleep in his chair, only to wake several hours later and find the small, one-armed Khitan still studying the exercises he had set him. Rebow was delighted. Rarely had a student showed such aptitude, and never had he found a man with such a capacity for work.
Every force, learned Khitan, had an equal and opposite reaction, so that, for example, a jib exerting a push at its top end also had to exert an equal and opposite push at the foot of its supporting post. This was his introduction to the world of creating stability through understanding the nature of stress.
For him the University of Tertullus was a kind of paradise.
On the day he had left for home, the little tribesman had wept as he embraced the stricken Ventrian. Rebow had begged him to reconsider, to take a post at the university, but Khitan had not the heart to tell him he was not in the least tempted. He owed his life to one man and dreamed of nothing but serving him.
At home once more, he set to work. Under construction the towers would be tiered, creating an artificial base five times the size of the structure. While a tower was being moved into position, only the first two levels would be manned, creating a mass weight low to the ground. Once it was positioned by a wall, ropes would be hurled from the center of the tower and iron pins hammered into the ground, creating stability. The wheels would be iron-spoked and rimmed, and there would be eight to a tower to distribute the weight.
Using his new knowledge, he designed catapults and ballistae. Ulric was well pleased, and Khitan was ecstatic.
Now, bringing his mind back to the present, Khitan climbed to the top of the tower, ordering the men to lower the hinged platform at the front. He gazed at the walls three hundred paces distant and saw the black-garbed Deathwalker leaning on the battlements.
The walls were higher than at Gulgothir, and Khitan had added a section to each tower. Ordering the platform to be raised once more, he tested the tension in the support ropes and climbed down through the five levels, stopping here and there to check struts or ties.
Tonight his four hundred slaves would go to work beneath the walls, chipping away at the rocky floor of the pass and placing the giant pulleys every forty paces. The pulleys, six feet high and cast around greased bearings, had taken months to design and years to construct to his satisfaction, finally being completed at the ironworks of Lentria’s capital a thousand miles to the south. They had cost a fortune, and even Ulric had blanched when the final figure was estimated. But they had proved their worth over the years.
Thousands of men would pull a tower to within sixty feet of a wall. Thereafter the line would shrink as the gap closed; the three-inch-diameter ropes could be curled around the pulleys, passed under the towers, and hauled from behind.
The slaves who dug and toiled to create the pulley beds were protected from archers by movable screens of stretched oxhide, but many were slain by rocks hurled from the walls above. This was of no concern to Khitan. What did concern him was possible damage to the pulleys, which were not protected by iron casing.
With one last lingering look at the walls, he made his way back to his quarters in order to brief the engineers. Druss watched him until he entered the city of tents that now filled the valley for over two miles.
So many tents. So many warriors. Druss ordered the defenders to stand down and relax while they could, seeing in their faces the pinched edge of fear, the wide eyes of barely controlled panic. The sheer scale of the enemy had cut into morale. He cursed softly, stripped off his black leather jerkin, stepped back from the battlements, and lowered his huge frame to the welcoming grass beyond. Within moments he was asleep. Men nudged one another and pointed; those closest to him chuckled as the snoring began. They were not to know that was his first sleep for two days or that he lay there for fear that his legs would not carry him back to his quarters. They knew only that he was Druss: The Captain of the Ax.
And that he held the Nadir in contempt.
Bowman, Hogun, Orrin, and Caessa also left the walls for the shade of the mess hall, the green-clad archer pointing at the sleeping giant.
“Was there ever such a one?” he said.
“He just looks old and tired to me,” said Caessa. “I can’t see why you regard him with such reverence.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” said Bowman. “You are just being provocative as usual, my dear. But then, that’s the nature of your gender.”
“Not so,” said Caessa, smiling. “What is he, after all? He is a warrior. Nothing more, nothing less. What has he ever done to make him such a hero? Waved his ax? Killed men? I have killed men. It is no great thing. No one has written a saga about me.”
“They will, my lovely, they will,” said Bowman. “Just give them time.”
“Druss is more than just a warrior,” said Hogun softly. “I think he always has been. He is a standard, an example if you like …”
“Of how to kill people?” offered Caessa.
“No, that’s not what I meant. Druss is every man who has refused to quit, to surrender when life offered no hope, to stand aside when the alternative was to die. He is a man who has shown other men there is no such thing as guaranteed defeat. He lifts the spirit merely by being Druss and being seen to be Druss.”
“Just words!” said Caessa. “You men are all the same. Always lofty words. Would you sing the praises of a farmer who fought for years against failed crops and floods?”
“No,” admitted Hogun. “But then, it is the life of a man like Druss which inspires the farmers to battle on.”
“Garbage!” Caessa sneered. “Arrogant garbage! The farmer cares nothing for warriors or war.”
“You will never win, Hogun,” said Bowman, holding open the mess hall door. “Give up now, while you can.”
“There is a fundamental error in your thinking, Caessa,” said Orrin suddenly as the members of the group seated themselves around a trestle table. “You are ignoring the simple fact that the vast majority of our troops here are farmers. They have signed on for the duration of this war.” He smiled gently and waved his hand for the mess servant.
“Then the more fool them,” said Caessa.
“We are all fools,” agreed Orrin. “War is a ridiculous folly, and you are right: men love to prove themselves in combat. I don’t know why, for I have never desired it myself. But I have seen it too often in others. But even for me Druss is, as Hogun describes him, an example.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I cannot put it into words, I’m afraid.”
“Of course you can.”
Orrin smiled and shook his head. He filled their goblets with white wine, then broke the bread and passed it around. For a while they ate in silence, then Orrin spoke again.
“There is a green leaf called Neptis. When chewed, it will relieve toothache or head pain. No one knows why; it just does
. I suppose Druss is like that. When he is around, fear seems to fade. That’s the best I can do to explain.”
“He doesn’t have that effect on me,” said Caessa.
On the tower battlements Bregan and Gilad watched the Nadir preparations. Along the wall Dun Pinar supervised the setting of notched poles to repel siege ladders, while Bar Britan oversaw the plugging of scores of pottery jugs containing oil. Once filled and plugged, the jugs were placed in wicker baskets at various points along the walls. The mood was grim. Few words were exchanged as men checked their weapons, sharpened already-sharp swords, oiled armor, or checked each shaft in their quivers.
Hogun and Bowman left the mess hall together, leaving Orrin and Caessa deep in conversation. They sat on the grass some twenty paces from the axman, Bowman lying on his side and resting on his elbow.
“I once read some fragments from the Book of Elders,” said the archer. “One line in particular strikes me now. ‘Come the moment, come the man.’ Never did a moment call for a man more desperately than this. And Druss has arrived. Providence, do you think?”
“Great gods, Bowman! You’re not turning superstitious, are you?” asked Hogun, grinning.
“I should say not. I merely wonder whether there is such a thing as fate that such a man should be supplied at such a time.”
Hogun plucked a stem of couch grass and placed it between his teeth. “All right, let us examine the argument. Can we hold for three months until Woundweaver gathers and trains his army?”
“No. Not with these few.”
“Then it matters not whether Druss’s arrival was a coincidence or otherwise. We may hold for a few more days because of his training, but that is not enough.”
“Morale is high, old horse, so best not repeat those sentiments.”
“Do you think me a fool? I will stand and die with Druss when the time comes, as will the other men. I share my thoughts with you because you will understand them. You are a realist, and moreover, you remain only until the third wall falls. With you I can be frank, surely.”
“Druss held Skeln Pass when all others said it would fall,” said Bowman.
“For eleven days—not three months. And he was fifteen years younger then. I don’t belittle what he did; he is worthy of his legends. Knights of Dros Delnoch! Have you ever seen such knights? Farmers, peasants, and raw recruits. Only the legion has seen real action, and they are trained for hit-and-run charges from horseback. We could fold on the first attack.”
“But we won’t, will we!” said Bowman, laughing. “We are Druss’s knights and the ingredients of a new legend.” His laughter sang out, rich and full of good humor. “Knights of Dros Delnoch! You and me, Hogun. They will sing about us in days to come. Good old Bowman, he came to the aid of an ailing fortress for love of liberty, freedom, and chivalry—”
“And gold. Don’t forget the gold,” said Hogun.
“A minor point, old horse. Let us not ruin the spirit of the thing.”
“Of course not. I do apologize. However, surely you have to die heroically before you can be immortalized in song and saga.”
“A moot point,” admitted Bowman. “But I’m sure I will find a way around it.”
Above them on Musif, Wall Two, several young culs were ordered to help fetch buckets for the tower well. Grumbling, they left the battlements to join the line of soldiers waiting by the stores.
Each armed with four wooden buckets, the men filed from the building toward the shallow cave beyond where the Musif well nestled in the cold shadows. Attaching the buckets to a complicated system of pulleys, they lowered them slowly toward the dark water below.
“How long is it since this has been used?” asked one soldier as the first bucket reappeared, covered in cobwebs.
“Probably about ten years,” answered the officer, Dun Garta. “The people who had homes here used the center well. A child died in here once, and the well was polluted for over three months. That and the rats kept most people away.”
“Did they ever get the body out?” asked the cul.
“Not as I heard. But don’t worry, lad. It’s only bones by now and won’t affect the taste. Go on, try some.”
“Funnily enough, I don’t feel very thirsty.”
Garta laughed and dipped his hands into the bucket, lifting the water to his mouth.
“Spiced with rat droppings and garnished with dead spiders!” he said. “Are you sure you won’t have some?”
The men grinned, but none stepped forward.
“All right, the fun’s over,” said Garta. “The pulleys are working, the buckets are ready, and I should say the job’s done. So let’s lock the gate and get back to work.”
Garta awoke in the night, pain ripping at him like an angry rat trapped in his belly. As he rolled from the bed and struggled to rise, his groaning woke the other three men sharing the room. One of them rushed to his side.
“What is it, Garta?” he said, turning the writhing man onto his back. Garta drew up his knees, his face purple. His hand snaked out, grabbing the other’s shirt.
“The … water! Water!” He started to choke.
“He wants water!” yelled the man supporting him.
Garta shook his head. Suddenly his back arched as pain seared him.
“Great gods! He’s dead,” said his companion as Garta slumped in his arms.
19
Rek, Serbitar, Virae, and Vintar sat around a small campfire an hour before dawn. The camp had been made late the night before in a secluded hollow on the south side of a wooded hill.
“Time is short,” said Vintar. “The horses are exhausted, and it is at least a five-hour ride to the fortress. We might get there before the water is issued and we might not. Indeed, it may already be too late. But we do have one other choice.”
“Well, what is it?” said Rek.
“It must be your decision, Rek. None other can make it.”
“Just tell me, Abbot. I am too tired to think.”
Vintar exchanged glances with the albino.
“We can—the Thirty can—join forces and seek to pierce the barrier around the fortress.”
“Then try it,” said Rek. “Where is the problem?”
“It will take all our powers and may not succeed. If it does not, we will not have the strength to ride on. Indeed, even if we do succeed, we will need to rest for most of the day.”
“Do you think you can pierce the barrier?” said Virae.
“I do not know. We can only try.”
“Think what happened when Serbitar tried,” said Rek.
“You could all be hurled into the … whatever. What then?”
“We die,” answered Serbitar softly.
“And you say it is my choice?”
“Yes,” answered Vintar, “for the rule of the Thirty is a simple one. We have pledged our service to the master of Delnoch; you are that master.”
Rek was silent for several minutes, his weary brain numbed by the weight of the decision. He found himself thinking of so many other worries in his life that at the time had seemed momentous. There had never been a choice like this. His mind clouded with fatigue, and he could not concentrate.
“Do it!” he said. “Break the barrier.” Pushing himself to his feet, he walked away from the fire, ashamed that such an order should be forced from him at a time when he could not think clearly.
Virae joined him, her arm circling his waist.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“For what I said when you told me about the letter.”
“It doesn’t matter. Why should you think well of me?”
“Because you are a man and you act like one,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“To apologize, you dolt! You struck me.”
He pulled her to him, lifting her from her feet, and kissed her.
“That wasn’t an apology,” she said. “And you scratched my face with your stubble.”
<
br /> “If I apologize, will you let me do it again?”
“Strike me, you mean?”
“No, kiss you!”
Back at the hollow the Thirty formed a circle around the fire, removing their swords and plunging them into the ground at their feet.
The communion began, their minds flowing, streaming into Vintar. He welcomed each by name in the halls of his subconscious.
And merged. The combined power rocked him, and he struggled to retain the memory of himself. He soared like a ghostly giant, a new being of incredible power. The tiny thing that was Vintar clung on inside the new colossus, forcing down the combined essence of twenty-nine personalities.
Now there was only one.
It called itself Temple and was born under the Delnoch stars.
Temple reared high under the clouds, stretching ethereal arms across the Delnoch crags.
He soared exultantly, new eyes drinking in the sights of the universe. Laughter welled within him. Vintar reeled at the center, driving himself deeper into the core.
At last Temple became aware of the abbot, more as a tiny thought niggling at the edge of his new reality.
“Dros Delnoch. West.”
Temple flew west, high over the crags. Beneath him the fortress lay silent, gray, and ghostly in the moonlight. He sank toward it and sensed the barrier.
Barrier?
To him?
He struck at it—and was hurled into the night, angry and hurt. His eyes blazed, and he knew fury: The barrier had touched him with pain.
Again and again Temple launched himself toward the Dros, striking blows of fearful power. The barrier trembled and changed.
Temple drew back, confused, watching.
The barrier drew in on itself like swirling mist, reforming. Then it darkened into a thick plume, blacker than the night. Arms emerged, legs formed, and a horned head grew with seven slanted red eyes.
Temple had learned much during his few minutes of life.
Joy, freedom, and knowledge of life had come first. Then pain and fury.