“Don’t go!” she pleaded. “Stay with me a little while… just a little while?”
“I’ll always be with you,” he said softly.
“Darishan will die tomorrow. On the walls. I saw it; it was a vision. He was here today and I saw him die. My Talent is coming back. Give me your hand! Let me see our future.”
“No!” he said, rising and moving back from her. “A man’s fate is his own. You read my future once. Once was enough, Pahtai.”
“I predicted your death, didn’t I?” she said, but it was not a question for she knew the answer even before he spoke.
“You told me about my dreams, and you mentioned my brother, Narin. I don’t remember much of it now. We’ll talk later.”
“Why did you mention Druss? You think that if you die I will just go to him, and take up a life I know nothing of? If you die, I will have nothing to live for.” Her eyes locked to his. “And I will not live,” she said.
A figure moved out of the shadows. “Michi, why are you keeping us all waiting?” Rowena saw her husband flinch and glanced up to see Narin striding towards them.
“I sent you away,” said Michanek.. “What are you doing here?”
“I made it as far as the hills, but the Ventrians are everywhere. I came in through the sewers; the guards there recognised me, thank the gods. What is the matter with you? Are you not pleased to see me?”
Michanek did not answer. Turning to Rowena he smiled, but she saw the fear in his eyes. “I’ll not be long, my love. We’ll talk again later.”
She remained on the seat as the two men walked away. Closing her eyes she thought of the axeman, picturing the pale grey eyes and the broad, flat face. But even as she pictured him, another image came to her:
The face of a terrible beast, with talons of steel and eyes of fire.
Gorben leaned back on his couch and watched with appreciation the sword jugglers before the huge fire, the five razor-sharp blades spinning in the air between the two men. It was a display of rare skill as the jugglers deftly caught the swords, before sending them soaring back across the open ground. The men were clad in loincloths, their skin shone red-gold in the firelight. Around them sat more than five hundred Immortals, enjoying the martial display.”
Beyond the dancing flames of the camp-fire Gorben could see the walls of Resha, and the few defenders there. It was all but over. Against all the odds he had won.
Yet there was no sense of joy in his heart. The years of battle, the stresses and the fears had taken their toll on the young Emperor. For every victory he had seen childhood friends cut down: Nebuchad at Ectanis, Jasua in the mountains above Porchia, Bodasen before the gates of Resha. He glanced to his right where Bodasen was lying on a raised bed, his face pale. The surgeons said he would live, and they had managed to re-inflate his collapsed lung. You are like my Empire, thought Gorben, wounded almost unto death. How long would it take to rebuild Ventria? Years? Decades?
A great roar went up from the watching men as the sword jugglers completed their performance. The men bowed to the Emperor. Gorben rose and tossed them a pouch full of gold pieces. There was great laughter when the first of the jugglers reached out and failed to catch the pouch.
“You are better with blades than coins,” said Gorben.
“Money has always slipped through his fingers, Lord,” said the second man.
Gorben returned to his seat and smiled down at Bodasen. “How are you feeling, my friend?”
“My strength is returning, Lord.” The voice was weak, his breathing ragged as Gorben reached out and patted his shoulder. The heat of the skin and the sharpness of the bone beneath his hand almost made him recoil. Bodasen’s eyes met his. “Do not concern yourself about me, Lord. I’ll not die on you.” The swordsman’s eyes flickered to the left, and he smiled broadly. “By the gods, there’s a sight to gladden the eyes!”
Gorben turned to see Druss and Sieben walking towards them. The poet dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Druss gave a perfunctory bow.
“Well met, axeman,” said Gorben, stepping forward and embracing Druss. Turning, he took Sieben’s arm and raised him to his feet. “And I have missed your talents, saga-master. Come, join us.”
Servants brought two couches for the Emperor’s guests, and golden goblets filled with fine wine. Druss moved to Bodasen. “You look as weak as a three-day kitten,” he said. “Are you going to live?”
“I’ll do my best, axeman.”
“He cost me two hundred wagons of food,” said Gorben. “I blame myself for believing him to be unbeatable.”
“How good is this Michanek?” asked Druss.
“Good enough to leave me lying here scarce able to breathe,” answered Bodasen. “He’s fast, and he’s fearless. The best I ever met. I tell you truly, I wouldn’t want to face him again.”
Druss turned to Gorben. “You want me to take him?”
“No,” said Gorben. “The city will fall in the next day or two - there is no need for single combat to decide the issue. The walls are undermined. Tomorrow, if the wind is good, we will fire them. Then the city will be ours and this ghastly war will be over. Now, tell me about your adventures. I hear you were held captive?”
“I escaped,” Druss told him, then drained his goblet. A servant ran forward to refill it.
Sieben laughed. “I will tell you, Lord,” he said, and launched into a richly embroidered account of Druss’s time in the dungeons of Cajivak.
The huge camp-fire was burning low and several men moved forward to throw logs upon it. Suddenly the ground heaved beneath one of them, pitching him to the earth. Gorben looked up, and watched the man struggle to rise. All around the fire the seated men were scrambling back. “What is happening?” asked Gorben, rising and
