concerning the siege-towers.”
“Go on.”
Bodasen cleared his throat. “He wants to attack them.”
Gorben stared hard at the general, observing the deep blush that was appearing on the warrior’s cheeks. “Attack them?”
“Yes, Lord. Tonight, under cover of darkness - attack the enemy camp and set fire to the towers.”
“You feel this is feasible?”
“No, Lord… well… perhaps. I watched this man attack a corsair trireme and force fifty men to throw down their weapons. I don’t know whether he can succeed this time, but…”
“I’m still listening.”
“We have no choice. They have thirty siege-towers, Lord. They’ll take the wall and we’ll not hold them.”
Gorben moved to a couch and sat. “How does he intend to set these fires? And what does he think the enemy will be doing while he does so? The timbers are huge, old, weathered. It will take a great flame to bring one of them down.”
“I appreciate that, Lord. But Druss says the Naashanites will be too busy to think of towers.” He cleared his throat. “He intends to attack the centre of the camp, kill Shabag and the other generals, and generally cause enough mayhem to allow a group of men to sneak out from Capalis and set fires beneath the towers.”
“How many men has he asked for?”
“Two hundred. He says he’s already chosen them.”
“He has chosen them?”
Bodasen glanced down at the floor. “He is a very… popular man, Lord. He has fought every day and he knows many of the men well. They respect him.”
“Has he chosen any officers?”
“Only one… Lord.”
“Let me guess. You?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“And you are willing to lead this… insane venture?”
“I am, Lord.”
“I forbid it. But you can tell Druss that I agree, and that I will choose an officer to accompany him.”
Bodasen seemed about to protest, but he held his tongue, and bowed deeply. He backed to the door.
“General,” called Gorben.
“Yes, Lord?”
“I am well pleased with you,” said Gorben, not looking at the man. He walked out to the balcony and breathed the evening air. It was cool and flowing from the sea.
Shabag watched the setting sun turn the mountains to fire, the sky burning like the vaults of Hades, deep crimson, flaring orange. He shuddered. He had never liked sunsets. They spoke of endings, inconstancy - the death of a day.
The siege-towers stood in a grim line facing Capalis, monstrous giants promising victory. He gazed up at the first. Tomorrow they would be dragged to the walls, then the mouths of the giants would open, the attack ramps would drop to the ramparts like stiff tongues. He paused. How would one continue the analogy? He pictured the warriors climbing from the belly of the beast and hurling themselves on to the enemy. Then he chuckled. Like the breath of death, like a dragon’s fire? No, more like a demon disgorging acid. Yes, I like that, he thought.
The towers had been assembled from sections brought on huge wagons from Resha in the north. They had cost twenty thousand gold pieces, and Shabag was still angry that he alone had been expected to finance them. The Naashanite Emperor was a parsimonious man.
“We will have him tomorrow, sir?” said one of his aides. Shabag jerked his mind to the present and turned to his staff officers. The him was Gorben. Shabag licked his thin lips.
“I want him alive,” he said, keeping the hatred from his voice. How he loathed Gorben! How he despised both the man and his appalling conceit. A trick of fate had left him with a throne that was rightly Shabag’s. They shared the same ancestors, the kings of glory who had built an empire unrivalled in history. And Shabag’s grandfather had sat upon the throne. But he died in battle leaving only daughters surviving him. Thus had Gorben’s father ascended the golden steps and raised the ruby crown to his head.
And what happened then to the Empire? Stagnation. Instead of armies, conquest and glory, there were schools, fine roads and hospitals. And to what purpose? The weak were kept alive in order to breed more weaklings, peasants learned their letters and became obsessed with thoughts of betterment. Questions that should never have been voiced were debated openly in city squares: By what right do the noble families rule our lives? Are we not free men? By what right? By the right of blood, thought Shabag. By the right of steel and fire!
He thought back with relish to the day when he had surrounded the university at Resha with armed troops, after the students there had voiced their protests at the war. He had called out their leader, who came armed not with a sword, but with a scroll. It was an ancient work, written by Pashtar Sen, and the boy had read it aloud. What a fine voice he had. It was a well-written piece, full of thoughts of honour, and patriotism, and brotherhood. But then when Pashtar Sen had written it the serfs knew their places, the peasants lived in awe of their betters. The sentiments were outworn now.
He had allowed the boy to finish the work, for anything less would have been ill-mannered, and ill befitting a nobleman. Then he had gutted him like a fish. Oh, how the brave students ran then! Save that there was nowhere to run, and they had died in their hundreds, like maggots washed from a pus-filled sore. The Ventrian Empire was
