“At the barracks, waiting for the food. We will test it on Ventrian prisoners.”
“You think Gorben may have poisoned it?”
Michanek shrugged. “I don’t know… perhaps. Go on, take them through.”
Shurpac clambered back to his seat, lifted a whip and lightly cracked it over the heads of the four mules. They lurched forward into the traces and the wagon rolled on. Michanek strolled out through the gates and counted the wagons. There were fifty, all filled with flour and dried fruit, oats, cereal, flour and maize. Gorben had promised two hundred. Will you keep your word? wondered Michanek.
As if in answer a lone horseman rode from the enemy camp. The horse was a white stallion of some seventeen hands, a handsome beast built for power and speed. It charged towards Michanek, who held his ground with arms crossed against his chest. At the last moment the rider dragged on the reins. The horse reared, and the rider leapt down. Michanek bowed as he recognised the Ventrian Emperor.
“How is Bodasen?” asked Michanek.
“Alive. I thank you for sparing the last thrust. He means much to me.”
“He’s a good man.”
“So are you,” said Gorben. “Too good to die here for a monarch who has deserted you.”
Michanek laughed. “When I made my oath of allegiance, I do not recall it having a clause that would allow me to break it. You have such clauses in your own oath of fealty?”
Gorben smiled. “No. My people pledge to support me to the death.”
Michanek spread his arms. “Well then, my Lord, what else would you expect this poor Naashanite to do?”
Gorben’s smile faded and he stepped in close. “I had hoped you would surrender, Michanek. I do not seek your death - I owe you a life. You must see now that even with these supplies, you cannot hold out much longer. Why must I send in my Immortals to see you all cut to pieces? Why not merely march out in good order and return home? You may pass unmolested; you have my word.”
“That would be contrary to my orders, my Lord.”
“Might I ask what they are?”
“To hold until ordered otherwise.”
“Your Lord is in full flight. I have captured his baggage train, including his three wives and his daughters. Even now one of his messengers is in my tent, negotiating for their safe return. But he asks nothing for you, his most loyal soldier. Do you not find that galling?”
“Of course,” agreed Michanek, “but it alters nothing.”
Gorben shook his head and turned to his stallion. Taking hold of rein and pommel, he vaulted to the horse’s back. “You are a fine man, Michanek. I wish you could have served me.”
“And you, sir, are a gifted general. It has been a pleasure to thwart you for so long. Give my regards to Bodasen - and if you wish to stake it all on another duel, I will meet whoever you send.”
“If my champion was here I would hold you to that,” said Gorben, with a wide grin. “I would like to see how you would fare against Druss and his axe. Farewell, Michanek. May the gods grant you a splendid afterlife.”
The Ventrian Emperor heeled the stallion into a run and galloped back to the camp.
Pahtai was sitting in the garden when the first vision came to her. She was watching a bee negotiate an entry into a purple bloom when suddenly she saw an image of the man with the axe - only he had no axe, and no beard. He was sitting upon a mountainside overlooking a small village with a half-built stockade wall. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared. She was troubled, but with the constant battles upon the walls of Resha, and her fears for Michanek’s safety, she brushed her worries away.
But the second vision was more powerful than the first. She saw a ship, and upon it a tall, thin man. A name filtered through the veils of her mind:
Kabuchek.
He had owned her once, long ago in the days when Pudri said she had a rare Talent, a gift for seeing the future and reading the past. The gift was gone now, and she did not regret it. Amid a terrible civil war it was, perhaps, a blessing not to know what perils the future had to offer.
She told Michanek of her visions and watched as the look of sorrow touched his handsome face. He had taken her into his arms, holding her tight, just as he had throughout her sickness. Michanek had risked catching the plague, yet in her fever dreams she drew great strength from his presence and his devotion. And she had survived, though all the surgeons predicted her death. True her heart was now weak, so they said, and any exertion tired her. But her strength was returning month by month.
The sun was bright above the garden, and Pahtai moved out to gather flowers with which to decorate the main rooms. In her arms she held a flat wicker basket in which was placed a sharp cutting knife. As the sun touched her face she tilted her head, enjoying the warmth upon her skin. In the distance a high-pitched scream suddenly sounded and her eyes turned towards the direction of the noise. Faintly she could hear the clash of-steel on steel, the shouts and cries of warriors in desperate combat.
Will it never end? she thought.
A shadow fell across her and she turned and saw that two men had entered the garden. They were thin, their clothes ragged and filthy.
“Give us food,” demanded one, moving in towards her.
“You must go to the ration centre,” she said, fighting down her fear.
“You don’t live on rations, do you, you Naashanite whore!” said the second man, stepping in close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap ale, and she saw his pale eyes glance towards her breasts. She was wearing a thin tunic of blue silk, and her legs were bare. The first man grabbed her arm, dragging her towards him. She thought of grabbing for the cutting knife, but in that instant found herself staring down at a narrow bed in a small room. Upon
