"He died hard," said Hogun as Rek turned and sat back on the ramparts, lifting his helm visor.
"What did you expect?" asked Rek, rubbing tired eyes with weary fingers. "He lived hard."
"We will follow him soon," said Hogun. "There's not a day's fighting left in the men we have. The city is deserted now: even the camp baker has left."
"What of the Council?" asked Rek.
"Gone, all of them. Bricklyn should be back in the next day or two with words from Abalayn. I think he will be bringing his message direct to Ulric — he'll be based in the Keep by then."
Rek did not answer — there was no need. It was true: the battle was over. Only the massacre remained.
Serbitar, Vintar and Menahem approached silently, their white cloaks tattered and bloody. But there was no mark of wounds upon them. Serbitar bowed.
"The end is come," he said. "What are your orders?"
Rek shrugged. "What would you have me say?"
"We could fall back to the Keep," offered Serbitar, "but we have not enough men to hold even that."
"Then we will die here," said Rek. "One place is as good as another."
"Truly," said Vintar, gently. "But I think we have a few hours' grace.
"Why?" asked Hogun, loosening the bronze brooch at his shoulder and removing his cloak.
"I think the Nadir will not attack again today. Today they have slain a mighty man, a legend even among their ranks. They will feast and celebrate. Tomorrow, when we die, they will feast again."
Rek removed his helm, welcoming the cool breeze on his sweat-drenched head. Overhead the sky was clear and blue, the sun golden. He drew in a deep breath of clear mountain air, feeling its power soaking into tired limbs. His mind flew back to days of joy with Horeb in the inn at Drenan — long-gone days, never to be revisited. He swore aloud, then laughed.
"If they don't attack, we should have a party of our own," he said. "Gods, a man can die but once in a lifetime! Surely it's worth celebrating?" Hogun grinned and shook his head but Bowman, who had approached unnoticed, clapped Rek on the shoulder.
"Now that is my kind of language," he said. "But why not do it properly, go the whole way?"
"The whole way?" asked Rek.
"We could join the Nadir party," said Bowman. "Then they would have to buy the drinks."
"There's some truth in that, Earl of Bronze," said Serbitar. "Shall we join them?"
"Have you gone mad?" said Rek, looking from one to the other.
"As you said, Rek, we only die once," suggested Bowman. "We have nothing to lose. Anyway, we should be protected by the Nadir laws of hospitality."
"This is insanity!" said Rek. "You're not serious?"
"Yes, I am," said Bowman. "I think I would like to pay my last respects to Druss. And it will make a grand exit for Nadir poets to sing about in later years. Drenai poets are almost bound to pick it up too. I like the idea — it has a certain poetic beauty to it. Dining in the dragon's lair."
"Damn it, I'm with you then," said Rek. "Though I think my mind must be unhinged. When should we leave?"
Ulric's ebony throne had been set outside his tent, and the Nadir warlord sat upon it dressed in eastern robes of gold thread upon silk. Upon his head was the goatskin-fringed crown of the Wolfshead tribe, and his black hair was braided after the fashion of the Ventrian kings. Around him, in a vast circle many thousands strong, sat his captains; beyond them were many other circles of men. At the centre of each circle Nadir women danced in a frenzy of motion, in tune to the rippling rhythms of a hundred drums. In the circle of captains, the women danced around a funeral pyre ten feet high on which lay Druss the Legend, arms crossed and axe upon his chest.
Outside the circles countless fires blazed and the smell of burning meat filled the air. Everywhere camp women carried yokes bearing buckets of Lyrrd, an alcohol brewed from goat's milk. Ulric himself drank Lentrian Red in honour of Druss. He didn't like the drink; it was too thin and watery for a man reared on the more potent of liquors brewed on the northern steppes. But he drank it anyway. It would be bad manners to do less, for the spirit of Druss had been invited among them: a spare goblet was filled to the brim beside Ulric's own, and a second throne had been set to the right of the Nadir warlord.
Ulric stared moodily over the rim of his goblet, focusing his gaze on the body atop the pyre.
"It was a good time to die, old man," he said softly. "You will be remembered in our songs, and men will talk of you around our camp-fires for generations to come."
The moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the stars gleamed like distant candles. Ulric sat back and gazed into eternity. Why this black mood? What was the weight his soul carried? Rarely before had he felt this way, and certainly never on the eve of such a victory.
Why?
His gaze returned to the body of the axeman.
"You have done this to me, Deathwalker," he said. "For your heroics have made me the dark shadow."
In all legends, Ulric knew, there were bright heroes and dark, dark evil. It was the very fabric of each tale.
"I am not evil," he said. "I am a warrior born, with a people to protect and a nation to build." He swallowed another mouthful of Lentrian and refilled his goblet.
"My Lord, is something wrong?" asked his carle-captain, Ogasi, the thickset steppe rider who had slain Virae.
"He accuses me," said Ulric, pointing to the body.
"Shall we light the pyre?"
Ulric shook his head. "Not until midnight. The Gates must be open when he arrives."
"You do him great honour, Lord. Why then does he accuse you?"
"With his death. Nogusha carried a poisoned blade — I had the story from his tent servant."
"That was not at your command, Lord. I was there."
"Does it matter? Am I no longer responsible for those who serve me? I have tainted my legend in order to end his. A dark, dark deed, Ulric Wolfshead."
"He would have died tomorrow anyway," said Ogasi. "He lost only a day."
"Ask yourself, Ogasi, what that day meant. Men like Deathwalker come perhaps once in twenty lifetimes. They are rare. So what is that day worth to ordinary men? A year? Ten years? A lifetime? Did you see him die?"
"I did, Lord."
"And will you forget it?"
"No, Lord."
"Why not? You have seen brave men die before."
"He was special," said Ogasi. "Even when he fell at the last, I thought he would rise. Even now some of the men cast fearful glances at his pyre, expecting to see him stand again."
"How could he have stood against us?" asked Ulric. "His face was blue with gangrene. His heart should have stopped long since. And the pain…"
Ogasi shrugged. "While men compete in war, there will be warriors. While there are warriors, there will be princes among warriors. Among the princes will be kings, and among the kings an emperor. You said it yourself, my Lord. Such as he come once in twenty lifetimes. You would expect him to die in his bed?"
"No. I had thought to let his name die. Soon I will control the mightiest empire known to men. History will be as I write it.
"I could erase him from the memory of men, or worse still sully his name until his legend reeks. But I shall not. I will have a book written about his life and men shall know how he thwarted me."
"I would expect nothing less from Ulric," said Ogasi, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"Ah, but then you know me, my friend. There are others among the Drenai who will be expecting me to dine on Druss's mighty heart. Eater of Babies, the Plague That Walks, the Barbarian of Gulgothir."
"Names you yourself invented, my Lord, I think."
"True. But then a leader must know all the weapons of war. And there are many which owe nothing to the lance and sword, the bow and the sling. The Word steals men's souls, while the sword kills only their bodies. Men see me and know fear — it is a potent device."