“He’s asleep in a tent.”
“He always knew when to avoid battles,” said Bodasen, forcing a smile. “And that’s what this is looking like unless commonsense prevails. Are you the leader?” he asked Delnar.
“I am. What message do you bring?”
“Merely this. Tomorrow morning my Emperor will ride through this pass. He would consider it a courtesy if you could remove your men from his path.”
“We will think on it,” said Delnar.
“I would advise you to think well,” said Bodasen, turning his mount. “I’ll be seeing you, Druss. Take care!”
“You too.”
Bodasen spurred the stallion back towards the stream and on through the Panthian ranks.
Druss beckoned Delnar aside, away from the men. “It’s pointless standing here all day staring at them,” he said. “Why don’t you order them to stand down and we’ll send half of them back to bring up some blankets and fuel?”
“You don’t think they’ll attack today?”
“No. Why should they? They know we’ll not be reinforced tonight. Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Druss tramped back to the camp, stopping in to see the poet. Sieben was asleep. Druss pulled up a chair and stared down at the poet’s lined face. Uncharacteristically he stroked the balding head. Sieben opened his eyes.
“Oh it’s you,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”
“The Ventrians tricked us. They’re on the other side of the mountain.”
Sieben swore softly. Druss chuckled. “You just lie here, poet, and I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve sent them running.”
“The Immortals are here too?” asked Sieben.
“Of course.”
“Wonderful. A nice little outing you promised me. A few speeches. And what do we get? Another War.”
“I saw Bodasen. He’s looking well.”
“Marvellous. Maybe after he’s killed us we can have a drink together and chat about old times.”
“You take things too seriously, poet. Rest now, and later I’ll have some men carry you up to the pass. You’d hate to miss the action, now, wouldn’t you?”
“Couldn’t you get them to carry me all the way back to Skoda?”
“Later,” grinned Druss. “Anyway, I must be getting back.”
The axeman walked swiftly up the mountain slopes and sat on a boulder at the mouth of the pass, gazing intently at the enemy camp.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Delnar, moving up to join him.
“I was remembering something I told an old friend a long time ago.”
“What was that?”
“If you want to win: Attack.”
Bodasen dismounted before the Emperor and knelt, pressing his forehead to the earth. Then he rose. From a distance the Ventrian looked as he always had, powerful, black-bearded and keen of eye. But he could no longer stand close inspection. His hair and beard showed the unhealthy sheen of heavy, dark dye, his painted face glowed with unnatural colour and his eyes saw treachery in every shadow. His followers, even those like Bodasen who had served him for decades, knew never to stare into his face, addressing all their remarks to the gilded griffin on his breastplate. No one was allowed to approach him bearing a weapon, and he had not granted a private audience to anyone in years. Always he wore armour - even, it was said, when he slept. His food was tasted by slaves, and he had taken to wearing gloves of soft leather, in the belief that poison might be spread on the outside of his golden goblets.
Bodasen waited for permission to speak, glancing up swiftly to read the expression on the Emperor’s face. Gorben was staring moodily.
“Was that Druss?” he asked.
“Aye, my lord.”
“So even he has turned against me.”
“He is a Drenai, my lord.”
“Do you dispute with me, Bodasen?”
“No, sire. Of course not.”
“Good. I want Druss brought before me for judgement. Such treachery must be answered with swift justice. You understand?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Will the Drenai give us the way?”
“I think not, sire. But it will not take long to clear the path. Even with Druss there. Shall I order the men to stand down and prepare camp?”
