Tonight he had invited Gorben to his tent, promising him an evening of entertainment, but the king was in a surly, argumentative mood, and Bodasen trod warily.
“You thought the Panthians and the chariots would fail, did you not?” asked Gorben. The question was loaded with menace. If the answer was yes, the Emperor would ask why Bodasen had not stated his view. Was he not the Emperor’s military advisor? What was the use of an advisor who gave no advice? If the answer was no, then his military judgement would prove to be lacking.
“We have fought many wars over the years, my lord,” he said. “In most of them we have suffered reverses. You have always said “Unless we try we will never know how to succeed”.”
“You think we should send in my Immortals?” asked Gorben. Always before the Emperor had called them your Immortals. Bodasen licked his lips and smiled.
“There is no doubt they could clear the pass swiftly. The Drenai are fighting well. They are disciplined. But they know they cannot withstand the Immortals. But that decision is yours alone, my lord. Only you have the divine mastery of tactics. Men like myself are mere reflections of your greatness.”
“Then where are the men who can think for themselves?” snapped the Emperor.
“I must be honest with you, sire,” said Bodasen quickly. “You will not find such a man.”
“Why?”
“You seek men who can think as rapidly as you yourself, with your own penetrating insight. Such men do not exist. You are supremely gifted, sire. The gods would visit such wisdom on only one man in ten generations.”
“You speak truly,” said Gorben. “But there is little joy in being a man apart, separated from his fellows by his god-given gifts. I am hated, you know,” he whispered, eyes darting to the sentries beyond the tent entrance.
“There will always be those that are jealous, sire,” said Bodasen.
“Are you jealous of me, Bodasen?”
“Yes, sire.”
Gorben rolled to his side, eyes gleaming. “Speak on.”
“In all the years I have served and loved you, lord, I have always wished I could be more like you. For then I could have served you better. A man would be a fool not to be jealous of you. But he is insane if he hates you because you are what he never can be.”
“Well said. You are an honest man. One of the few I can trust. Not like Druss, who promised to serve me, and now thwarts my destiny. I want him dead, my general. I want his head brought to me.”
“It shall be done, sire,” said Bodasen.
Gorben leaned back, gazing around him at the tent and its contents. “Your quarters are almost as lavish as my own,” he said.
“Only because they are filled with gifts from you, sire,” answered Bodasen swiftly.
Faces and armour blackened by dirt mixed with oil, Druss and fifty swordsmen silently waded the narrow stream under a moonless sky. Praying the clouds would not part, Druss led the men single-file towards the eastern bank, axe in hand, blackened shield held before him. Once ashore Druss squatted at the centre of the small group, pointing towards two dozing sentries by a dying fire. Diagoras and two others ghosted from the group, approaching the sentries silently, daggers in hand. The men died without a sound. Removing torches hastily constructed from the wicker shields of Panthian warriors, Druss and the soldiers approached the sentries’ fire.
Stepping over the bodies, Druss lit his torch and ran towards the nearest tent. His men followed suit, racing from tent to tent, until flames leapt thirty feet into the night sky.
Suddenly all was chaos, as screaming men burst from blazing canopies to fall before the swords of the Drenai. Druss raced ahead, cutting a crimson path through the confused Ventrians, his eyes fixed on the tent ahead, its glowing griffin outlined in the towering flames. Close behind came Certak and a score of warriors bearing torches. Wrenching open the flaps, Druss leapt inside.
“Damn,” he grunted, “Gorben’s not here! Curse it!”
Setting torch to silk, Druss shouted for his men to regroup, then led them back towards the stream. No concerted effort was made to stop them, as Ventrians milled in confusion, many of them half-clothed, others filling helmets with water, forming human chains to battle the fierce inferno racing on the wings of the wind throughout the Ventrian camp.
A small group of Immortals, swords in hand, collided with Druss as he raced towards the stream. Snaga leapt forward, braining the first. The second died as Diagoras back-handed a slash across his throat. The battle was brief and bloody, but the element of surprise was with the Drenai. Bursting through the front line of swordsmen, Druss crashed his axe through one man’s side before reversing a slashing swipe across another’s shoulder.
Bodasen ran from his tent, sword in hand. Swiftly gathering a small group of Immortals, he raced past the flames towards the battle. A Drenai warrior loomed before him. The man aimed a thrust at Bodasen’s unprotected body. The Ventrian parried and launched a devastating riposte that tore open the man’s throat. Bodasen stepped over the body and led his men forward.
Druss killed two men, then bellowed for the Drenai to fall back.
The pounding of feet from behind caused him to swivel and face the new force. With the fire behind them Druss could not make out faces.
Nearby Archytas despatched a warrior, then saw Druss standing alone.
Without thinking, he raced towards the Immortals. In that instant Druss charged. His axe rose and fell, shearing through armour and bone. Diagoras and Certak joined him, with four other Drenai warriors. The battle was brief. Only one Ventrian broke clear, hurling himself to the right and rolling to his feet behind Archytas. The tall Drenai turned on his heel and engaged the man. Archytas grinned as their swords met. The man was old, though skilful, and no match for the young Drenai. Their swords glittered in the firelight: parry, riposte, counter, thrust and block. Suddenly the Ventrian seemed to trip. Archytas leapt forward. His opponent ducked and rolled to his feet in one flowing movement, his sword ramming into Archytas’ groin.
