terrified. Then she told me not to go to Capalis. That was it.”
Darishan nodded and seemed about to speak. Instead he merely smiled and walked away.
Putting thoughts of Darishan from his mind, Shabag moved to the tent entrance. The camp was quiet. Slowly he removed the glove from his left hand. The skin itched, red open sores covering the surface as they had done since adolescence. There were herbal ointments and emollients that could ease them, but nothing had ever healed the diseased skin, nor fully removed the other sores that stretched across his back and chest, thighs and calves.
Slowly he peeled back the right-hand glove. The skin here was clean and smooth. This was the hand she had held.
He had offered Kabuchek sixty thousand gold pieces for her, but the merchant had politely refused. When the battle is over, thought Shabag, I shall have her taken from him.
Just as he was about to turn into the tent Shabag saw a line of soldiers marching slowly down towards the camp, their armour gleaming in the moonlight. They were moving in columns of twos, with an officer at the head; the man looked familiar, but he was wearing a plumed helm with a thick nasal guard that bisected his face. Shabag rubbed at his tired eyes to focus more clearly on the man; it was not the face but the walk that aroused his interest. One of Darishan’s officers, he wondered? Where have I seen him before?
Pah, what difference does it make, he thought suddenly, pulling shut the tent-flap. He had just blown out the first of the two lanterns when a scream rent the air. Then another. Shabag ran to the entrance, tearing aside the flap.
Warriors were running through his camp, cutting and killing. Someone had picked up a burning brand and had thrown it against a line of tents. Flames rippled across the bone-dry cloth, the wind carrying the fire to other tents.
At the centre of the fighting Shabag saw a huge warrior dressed in black, brandishing a double-headed axe. Three men ran at him, and he killed them in moments. Then Shabag saw the officer - and remembrance rose like a lightning blast from the halls of his memory.
Gorben’s soldiers surrounded Shabag’s tent. It had been set at the centre of the camp, with thirty paces of clear ground around it to allow the Satrap a degree of privacy. Now it was ringed by armed men.
Shabag was bewildered by the speed at which the enemy had struck, but surely, he reasoned, it would avail them nothing. Twenty-five thousand men were camped around the besieged harbour city. How many of the enemy were here? Two hundred? Three hundred? What could they possibly hope to achieve, save to slay Shabag himself? And how would that serve them, for they would die in the act?
Nonplussed, he stood - a still, silent spectator as the battle raged and the fires spread. He could not tear his eyes from the grim, blood-smeared axeman, who killed with such deadly efficiency, such a minimum of effort. When a horn sounded, a high shrill series of notes that flowed above the sounds of combat, Shabag was startled. The trumpeter was sounding the truce signal and the soldiers fell back, momentarily bewildered. Shabag wanted to shout at his men: “Fight on! Fight on!” But he could not speak. Fear paralysed him. The silent circle of soldiers around him stood ready, their blades shining in the moonlight. He felt that were he to even move they would fall upon him like hounds upon a stag. His mouth was dry, his hands trembling.
Two men rolled a barrel into view, up-ending it and testing the top. Then the enemy officer stepped forward and climbed on to the barrel, facing out towards the massed ranks of Shabag’s men. The Satrap felt bile rise in his throat.
The officer threw back his cloak. Armour of gold shone upon his breast and he removed his helm.
“You know me,” he bellowed, his voice rich and resonant, compelling. “I am Gorben, the son of the God King, the heir of the God King. In my veins runs the blood of Pashtar Sen, and Cyrios the Lord of Battles, and Meshan Sen, who walked the Bridge of Death. I am Gorben!” The name boomed out, and the men stood silently, spellbound. Even Shabag felt the goose-flesh rising on his diseased skin.
Druss eased back into the circle and stared out at the massed ranks of the enemy. There was a kind of divine madness about the scene which he found himself enjoying immensely. He had been angry when Gorben himself had appeared at the harbour to take command of the troops, and doubly so when the Emperor casually informed him there would be a change of plan.
“What’s wrong with the plan we have?” asked Druss.
Gorben chuckled, and, taking Druss’s arm, led him out of earshot of the waiting men. “Nothing is wrong with it, axeman - save for the objective. You seek to destroy the towers. Admirable. But it is not the towers that will determine success or failure in this siege; it is the men. So tonight we do not seek to hamper them, we seek to defeat them.”
Druss chuckled. “Two hundred against twenty-five thousand?”
“No. One against one.” He had outlined his strategy and Druss had listened in awed silence. The plan was audacious and fraught with peril. Druss loved it.
The first phase had been completed. Shabag was surrounded and the enemy were listening to Gorben speak. But now came the testing time. Success and glory or failure and death? Druss did not know, but he sensed that the strategy was now teetering on a razor’s edge. One wrong word from Gorben and the horde would descend upon them.
“I am Gorben!” roared the Emperor again. “And every man of you has been led into treachery by this… this miserable wretch here behind me.” He waved his hand contemptuously in the direction of Shabag. “Look at him! Standing like a frightened rabbit. Is this the man you would set upon the throne? It will not be easy for him, you know. He will have to ascend the Royal steps. How will he accomplish this with his lips fastened to a Naashanite arse?”
Nervous laughter rose from the massed ranks. “Aye, it is an amusing thought,” agreed Gorben, “or it would be were it not so tragic. Look at him! How can warriors follow such a creature? He was lifted to high position by my father; he was trusted; and he betrayed the man who had helped him, who loved him like a son. Not content with causing the death of my father, he has also done everything within his power to wreak havoc upon Ventria. Our cities burn. Our people are enslaved. And for why? So that this quivering rodent can pretend to be a king. So that he can creep on all fours to lie at the feet of a Naashanite goat-breeder.”
Gorben gazed out over the ranks. “Where are the Naashanites?” he called. A roar went up from the rear. “Ah yes,” he said, “ever at the back!” The Naashanties began to shout, but their calls were submerged beneath the laughter of Shabag’s Ventrians. Gorben raised his hands for silence. “No!” he bellowed. “Let them have their say. It
