“No. Let them stay in ranks for a while. Let the Drenai see their power and their strength.”
“Yes, sire.”
Bodasen backed away.
“Are you still loyal?” asked the Emperor, suddenly.
Bodasen’s mouth was dry. “As I have always been, lord.”
“Yet Druss was your friend.”
“Even though that is true, sire, I will see him dragged before you in chains. Or his head presented to you, should he be slain in the defence.”
The Emperor nodded, then turned his painted face to stare up at the pass. “I want them dead. All dead,” he whispered.
In the cool of the pre-dawn haze the Drenai formed their lines, each warrior bearing a rounded shield and a short stabbing sword. Their sabres had been put aside, for in close formation a swinging longsword could be as deadly to a comrade standing close as to an enemy bearing down. The men were nervous, constantly rechecking breastplate straps, or discovering the bronze greaves protecting their lower legs were too tight, too loose, too anything. Cloaks were removed and left in tight red rolls by the mountain wall behind the ranks. Both Druss and Delnar knew this was the time a man’s courage was under the greatest strain. Gorben could do many things. The dice were in his hands. All the Drenai could do was wait.
“Do you think he’ll attack immediately the sun comes up?” asked Delnar.
Druss shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’ll let the fear work for about an hour. But then again - you can never tell with him.”
The two hundred men in the front rank shared the same emotions now, with varying intensity. Pride, for they had been singled out as the best; fear, for they would be the first to die. Some had regrets. Many had not written home for weeks, others had left friends and relatives with bitter words. Many were the thoughts.
Druss made his way to the centre of the first line, calling for Diagoras and Certak to stand on either side of him.
“Move away from me a little,” he said. “Give me swinging room.” The line shuffled apart. Druss loosened his shoulders, stretching the muscles of his arms and back. The sky lightened. Druss cursed. The disadvantage for the defenders - apart from the numbers of the enemy - was that the sun rose in their eyes.
Across the stream the black-skinned Pahthians sharpened their spears. There was little fear among them. The ivory-skins facing them were few in number. They would be swept away like antelope before a veldt blaze. Gorben waited until the sun cleared the peaks, then gave the order to attack. The Panthians surged to their feet, a swelling roar of hatred rising from their throats, a wall of sound that hurtled up into the pass, washing over the defenders.
“Listen to that!” bellowed Druss. “That’s not strength you hear. That’s the sound of terror!”
Five thousand warriors raced towards the pass, their feet drumming a savage beat on the rocky slopes, echoing high into the peaks.
Druss hawked and spat. Then he began to laugh, a rich, full sound that brought a few chuckles from the men around him.
“Gods, I’ve missed this,” he shouted. “Come on, you cowsons!” he yelled at the Panthians. “Move yourselves!”
Delnar, at the centre of the second line, smiled and drew his sword.
With the enemy a bare hundred paces distant, the men of the third line looked to Archytas. He raised his arm. The men dropped their shields and stooped, rising with barbed javelins. Each man had five of them at his feet.
The Panthians were almost upon them.
“Now!” yelled Archytas.
Arms flew forward and two hundred shafts of death hurtled into the black mass.
“Again!” bellowed Archytas.
The front ranks of the advancing horde disappeared screaming, to be trampled by the men behind them. The charge faltered as the tribesmen tripped and fell over fallen comrades. The mountain walls, narrowing like an hour- glass, slowed the attack still further.
Then the lines clashed.
A spear lunged for Druss. Blocking it with his axe blades, he dragged a back-hand cut that sheared through the wicker shield and the flesh beyond. The man grunted as Snaga clove through his ribcage. Druss tore the weapon clear, parried another thrust and hammered his axe into his opponent’s face. Beside him Certak blocked a spear with his shield, expertly sliding his gladius into a gleaming black chest. A spear sliced his upper thigh, but there was no pain. He counter-thrust, and his attacker fell across the growing pile of corpses in front of the line.
The Panthians now found themselves leaping upon the bodies of their comrades in their desperation to breach the line. The floor of the pass became slippery with blood, but the Drenai held.
A tall warrior threw aside his wicker shield and hurdled the wall of dead, spear raised. He hurtled towards Druss. Snaga buried itself in his chest, but the weight of the man bore Druss back, tearing his axe from his hands. A second man leapt at him. Druss turned aside the thrusting spear with his mail-covered gauntlets, and smashed a cruel punch to the man’s jaw. As the warrior crumpled Druss grabbed him by the throat and groin and hoisted the body above his head, hurling him back over the corpse wall into the faces of the advancing warriors. Twisting, he wrenched his axe clear of the first man’s body.
“Come on, my lads,” he bellowed. “Time to send them home!”
Leaping up on the corpses, he cut left and right, opening up a space in the Panthian ranks. Diagoras couldn’t believe his eyes. He swore. Then leapt to join him.
